Sunn O)))
Flight of the Behemoth

With "Flight of the Behemoth", the second official full-length by Sunn O))), the greatness of the formula that made Anderson and O'Malley famous is revealed in all its sulfurous splendor, while at the same time, the void that supports the foundations of the majestic cathedral of sounds they erected becomes apparent.

Playing drone-ambient in the Sunn O))) style is not something that can be done indefinitely: such an approach, if taken in its most orthodox sense, begins and ends within the space of an album. Something that precisely happened with the paradigmatic "00 Void" (or, to be more precise, long before: with "Earth 2" by Earth, the real initiators of the genre).

From this moment on, the "artistic" path of Sunn O))) becomes a long and exasperating variation on a dominant theme: akin to a carnival wagon capable of hosting the contributions of the most disparate artists, the creature of the two perverted sonic masturbators takes on the shape and movements of a mammoth and cruel leech intent on greedily sucking the artistic talent of others, absorbing it, transfiguring it, annexing it to itself.

Don't misunderstand me: it's not my intention to say that the operation, though conducted perhaps a bit cunningly, doesn't bear good fruit. As a good admirer of Sunn O))), I am here to argue that the play is indeed worth the candle: our heroes, evidently because the talent is there, are and will be capable of crafting valuable works in the years to come, each increasingly different from the other. Not such an obvious thing, I'd say, considering the type of music we are discussing.

"Flight of the Behemoth", dated 2002, thus delivers Sunn O))) in brilliant form, in their most compact and annihilating version. And don't be afraid if I tell you it is the most terrible manifestation that the Sunn O))) spirit has ever incarnated: rechristened for the occasion Mystik Kliff and MK Ultra Blizzard, Anderson and O'Malley serve us on a lead platter fifty minutes of those you don't easily forget.

Album that could mark the evolution of a musical style? I don't know, what is certain is that the fusion between the droning ultra-doom of SunnO))) and the extreme-avant-noise of Merzbow (this is the ace up the sleeve that the two foxes unveil today) is a recipe that finds no equal in the history of music. Already conceiving it is something mad: putting it into action is diabolical. But let's proceed in order.

"Mocking Solemnity" and "Death Becomes You", fused together, make up the 20 minutes of mandatory Sabbathian exercises for a Sunn O))) album: volumes at the max, guitars facing the amplifiers, and riffs galore. The improvisation, the repetition, the disturbing trails of feedback, the usual iron mace massage for our neurons.

Far more interesting, instead, is the pairing composed of "O)))Bow 1" and "O)))Bow 2", which, as announced, sees the intervention of Akita Masami (aka Merzbow), champion of the most painful harsh-noise: "Keep the tapes and do whatever the hell you want with them," seems to have been the fundamental instruction that Anderson and O'Malley (evidently already artistically finished - if they ever started...) gave Masami upon delivery. And the mad Japanese manipulator certainly doesn't need to be asked: the following 20 minutes are the worst thing that could ever happen to your ears. The guitar vortices of our heroes are thus turned like octopuses, sped up, slowed down, manipulated using every sort of electronic devilry: screeching metals, whistles, twisted sheets, crooked phrases of detuned piano, a deafening fight between a chainsaw, an anvil, and a welder. Ears to be flushed down the toilet.

With the next track, Anderson and O'Malley once again take the lead, sharing with us, as if it weren't enough, another ten minutes of uncompromising ultra-doom: it's the phenomenal "FWTBT: I dream of Lars Ulrich being thrown the bus window instead of my master Mystikall Kliff Burton" (brilliant title!!!).

Just three words to describe this experience: bottomless-abyss.

A piece that represents the quintessence of doom, and that alone justifies the purchase of the album: guitars weighing tons, tolling of funeral bells, and, hear hear, crushed by low frequencies, even the distant beating of a drum that desolately marks the sonic apocalypse of this exhausting descent into the Inferno.

Completing the picture: an ultra-guttural grunt that would not be out of place in the filthiest and most putrescent Brutal Death album. The shadows that gather over us, the putrefied voice of the sadist sentencing our impending end.

The morsel is indigestible, but let's look into each other's eyes, folks: the mental jerking about whether they are screwing with us belongs to another planet, perhaps another era, certainly another life. Pressing the play button on our player after inserting "Flight of the Behemoth", is equivalent to finding ourselves in the middle of the roadway and raising our middle finger against an angry truck driven by Satan himself: the damage is done, all that's left is to make the sign of the cross (north-south-west-east) and perish. Amen.