Skyclad
Prince of the Poverty Line

This is a discography divided into movements, that of Skyclad. Periods of time during which the English band has repeatedly tried to embellish their musical proposal, using small adjustments and various experiments to expand their sound. In recent years, things haven't been going so well for them: the departure of Martin Walkyier, founder and pioneer of the British group, has deprived the members of a concrete source of inspiration, so the albums that followed are merely passable examples of folk metal deprived of the punch and creative flair of their early works.

A dive into the past is therefore necessary to understand the extraordinary expressive power of this band which (let's remember) is the pioneer of a movement that today involves thousands of bands worldwide; because if Skyclad hadn't existed, perhaps Finntroll would never have emerged from the Finnish forests, or their compatriots Korpiklaani would never have sung about drunkenness and shamanic rituals in Scandinavian villages. And if albums like Burnt Offering for the Bone Idol and Jonah's Ark represent the first meeting points between paganism and popular folklore, this Prince of the Poverty Line narrates, with the crudeness typical of its predecessors, the social discomfort of the lower classes, it stands on their side, urging them to a dignified revolt. On this note, the opener Civil War Dance becomes the manifesto of the album itself, the ideal setting for the hysterical singing of Walkyier, who, however, begins with the anthological whispered phrase "Shock the System, Shock the System" now written down in the memory book of every self-respecting long-haired person. The piece is violent and complex, barely kept in check by the violin phrases that seem to want to express their longing for freedom, without ever invading the true nature of the piece. This is to say that the folk inserts are there, but they never manage to dominate the metallic vehemence unleashed by the English formation.

The revolt of the poor against the injustices of power, however, needs a motive, which is imprinted in the verses that describe the urban decay of Cardboard City, through a digestible classic heavy metal adorned with pleasant keyboard work in the background. It starts jumping with Sins of Emission, a nervous proletarian dance where the guitar and violin chase each other in a gallop, interrupted by the heavy thuds of the drumming while Valkyier shouts the refrain with all his soul. The song of the oppressed people is momentarily set aside by the initial seconds of Land of the Rising Slum, a concoction of "tribal" flavored percussion that resurrects the polytheistic mood of the previous albums, before the electric parts introduce yet another furious tongue-twister from Martin who in the refrain (we dare you to stand still!) almost seems to see him skipping in a pagan dance with evil spirits. In short, one of those pieces that the guys from the aforementioned Finntroll and Korpiklaani, will certainly have learned by heart like a psalm in honor of Odin. The piece quiets with the voices of the musicians repeating its title, until an acoustic arpeggio, supported by the decadent pathos of the violin, transports us to a corner of a wooden house, in front of an open window, where fields stretch out from which the smell and purity of the earth filter, while the damned souls retreat into the Underworld. Martin, no longer dominated by dark forces, improvises a graceless clean singing that introduces One Piece Puzzle, a piece suspended between a ballad and mid-tempo that skillfully closes the first part of the album.

We continue jumping with A Bellyfull of Emptiness, thanks to the driving rhythm parts and ethnic arrangements, once again overshadowed by the electric wall. At this point, two transition episodes for us: A Dog in the Manger, which retrieves (less effectively) the atmosphere and structure of the opener, and the “thrasher” Gammon Seed which partly revisits the material of the debut. Unusual instead is the "doom suite" with the euphonious title Womb of the Worm, that opens with the tragic acoustic effects of a battlefield, and then unfolds in a dark and ominous mood, which in the refrain forges its most enveloping intensity, especially for the lilting expressiveness of the vocals. Finally arrives the last furious nursery rhyme The Truth Famine, where social discomfort returns, however individualized within the walls of a domestic environment: another effective way to denounce the frustrating decay of the "lower" English society. A piece where the folk atmosphere finally creates a place of honor over the rest of the instruments, also laying the foundations for what will be (in the opinion of the writer), the absolute masterpiece of Skyclad, that is A Silent Whales of Lunar Sea from which a less malicious and more thoughtful approach will emerge, clearly influenced by the “seventies” prog.

Prince of the Poverty Line (branded 1994), is the fourth chapter of a discography that closes the band's rawest and most sincere period. It also remains an illustrious example of a compositional method, now firmly imprinted in the glorious evolutionary chronology of metal.

I dedicate this review to Giasson: omnipresent companion of my metallic adventures within the site.

Federico "Dragonstar" Passarella