Song Of Zarathustra
The Birth Of Tragedy

THE REVIEW

On first listen, a thousand smoking bullets land on me. Assimilation is slow, but with each repeat more satisfying. The shells are now free, scattered between my two hemispheres. Am I in a Gothic cathedral? Stuck in the middle of a truck collision? Am I witnessing the massacre of a Gregorian choir? Why do I feel like I'm in the last chapter of "Steppenwolf" and there's Mozart wanting to stab me? No! I have no desire to find out who killed Laura Palmer!

Screamo rarely evokes, often it just twists the knife in your wound, with all the emotional power it possesses, but this album takes you Elsewhere, close your eyes and your imagination will thank you. Composed of tendons and bloodied muscles, escapes and reprises, dark and epic, damn poetic.

"The birth of tragedy" melts into a series of micro-masterpieces lasting about 2 minutes each, in rapid succession, like no rosary beads. From the Intro, paramilitary drums and a seductive female voice emerging from an increasingly crystalline dirty sound, the album gains more and more strength, to materialize, bare and rusty, until its Outro. We encounter the organ and decisive bass lines of "Mess of Zero", which could serve as the background to a sabbath. The furious drums and the unsettling piano accompaniment of "The evening beat", the epic grandeur, the relentless rhythm, and the butcher-like screams of "The birth of tragedy".
The most beautiful? That gem "With hands that blead", 0.96'' of compressed snare, where I discover that it is possible to replace guitar strings with wire, then played with a bison hair bow.

I hazard a comparison with Reversal Of Man's "Revolution Summer" and with certain melodic breaks of Tristan Tzara, at the moment I'm so blissful, that nothing better comes to mind. Mozart continues to want to stab me, and I'm rather struggling to manage my imagination and the need for an objective view of the album's composition. There are some negligible tracks, repetitive in rhythmic patterns and the approach to screaming, but overall everything blends, fuses like a metallic alloy, the black mass is over.

If my streams of consciousness made you think of a metal album, one that's a bit epic, or somewhat Swedish, I can't entirely blame you, but neither can I give you a shred of reason.

Would Nietzsche have liked it? Definitely.