Tristitia
Crucidiction

Chimes of bells, a Gregorian chant that disperses in the reverberations of the narrow halls of a convent, monks rushing in a slow procession. Then, a shovel of guitar on our ears, and a pure voice that, in contrast, rises and escapes from the low frequencies. The doors of the Afterworld swing open, the music of Tristitia is a refreshing walk among the crosses, in cemeteries covered by a white blanket of snow in winter; among the graves warmed by the mild spring sun, among the dry autumn leaves. Graves covered in ivy, scorched by the fiery August sun, stone statues dotted with moss and soaked by the morning dew.

"Crucidiction" does not belong to this world, it's from a forgotten era, it seizes the Eternal, the end of every temporal existence. The drums are the vain passage of centuries, a slow procession towards Nothingness. The static nature of the overlapping feedback is the thread on which our existence hangs, the fragility of the Life's cord that can be severed at any moment. However, there will be no need to shoot oneself at the end of these distressing minutes. Tristitia knows how to play, they balance the heaviness of their doom with elegance, which, however, is not the romantic elegance of My Dying Bride.

Not attributable to any big names of the gothic/doom scene of the nineties, Tristitia, after a rather unripe debut, delivered in 1996 their masterpiece, destined to remain so forever. A work that cannot age because it was born decrepit. Or condemned to immortality. A compact work, cleaned of all past smudges and dispersions. A path that proceeds orderly towards the good doom of the past, the one that exasperates you, the less flirtatious one, the one that directly targets the guts.

The fact is that Tristitia has imagination, and that's why, at the end of the listening, you don't shoot yourself, but instead, you want more. Doom is a genre with infinite potentialities, and Luis B. Galvez knows it. Galvez is a virtuoso of the six strings, and purists of the genre might accuse him of affectation, but in reality, it's a pleasure to be led by him through murky arpeggios, slow-motion rhythms, never-ending solos. The guitar obsessions of Paradise Lost are an obvious point of reference, but the discussion goes beyond, in the meticulous care of sounds, in the crystal-clear interweavings, in the layering of decadent melodic lines, which follow elaborate and unpredictable structures, at times limping, sporadically interrupted by acoustic suggestions and piano phrases. The exquisite class that transcends genres and provides emotions in the form of notes.

And then there's Thomas Karlsson who is a tenor, a tenor who, however, has the vice of suddenly turning into a devil, rapidly converting the majestic warbles from a dark priest into a drooling scream of a possessed old woman. He grabs doom by the neck and strangles it until its eyes pop out of their sockets and its mouth spews out depressing and slowed-down black metal.

Tristitia is Swedish, and you can feel it. You can feel it in that solemn setting inherited from the Swedish doom gods Candlemass. You can feel it in the production, moderately raw, careful, at times crystal clear, where every instrument stands out from the others. You can finally feel it in that perfect balance between reason and feeling, where reason is the quality of those who know how to play, communicate emotions through the grammar of music and not impress with easy end-of-millennium sensationalism; and the feeling is that of those who do not see technique as an end in itself, but as a means to move, distract, alienate, generate visions.

But it is not the decadent spleen of a young Werther, it is not the anguish of an aspiring suicide. It is rather the immensity of Death, the one Tristitia talks to us about, the transience of things. Inquisition moods, fiery harangues of hunched and squinting monks pointing an accusing finger at you, the crushing weight of Faith, of God, of Doctrine. As it was written in big letters on the walls of medieval villages: memento mori.

Browse the elegant inner booklet, scroll through the photos while the music flows within you, cross after cross after cross, a long procession of crosses that remind us of the miserable story and the inevitable Fate of the Earthly Man, devoured by worms, then only ashes and finally dust.