Apokalypsis

The end of the world. It's kind of a big deal, at least in most societies. In the City of Angels, apocalyptic folk succubus Chelsea Wolfe is thinking about it a lot, and her thoughts have given birth to a sonic Ragnarok. Her voice lurks somewhere between Beth Gibbons and a gothic PJ Harvey, and she knows how to use it; fragments of submerged screams appearing here and there in tracks underneath bittersweet crooning, and the beautiful can turn ugly in a second. The black metal growls of 'Primal/Carnal' guard this black gate like a hell hound: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. With that, we're ushered into the rolling, hectic rhythms of 'Mer'. The lightly-brushed drums shimmy tensely down the body, creating an atmosphere of hushed violence, a beast waiting to spring. 'Tracks (Tall Bodies)' is a sorrowful and simplistic ballad, a few well-placed bluesy guitar notes, a plodding beat and Wolfe's beautiful vocals. This is the distilled essence of all those bands who play at The Bronze while Buffy's feeling sad. 'Demons', then, is the catharsis, a churning tribal punk thrasher with Wolfe wailing down a sewer tunnel. My neighbor knocked on my door while I was listening to it and told me to turn it down because 'it sounds like a graveyard'. I'm sure Wolfe would take that as a compliment.

The ethereal opening strains of 'Movie Screen' scrape their way into a dirty, dirgelike groove with an off-kilter feel, like being drunk at some sinister, backwater fair, where you can buy a whore as easily as cotton candy. It's a downard spiral into an unsure future, sinewaves collapsing in on each other as Wolfe howls. The flow and ebb of intensity and emotion that Apokalypsis presents is metered out perfectly, never letting the loudly brutal overtake the subtle dread. The sweeping throb of 'Moses' is a perfect example of that aesthetic, the lo-fi recording lending otherwise beautiful arrangements a rumbling disquiet that explodes into fragments of hazy light upon the chorus.

As this is a review for mass consumption, there's certain procedures to be observed. People generally like a review that describes the music as it happens, in order. When I talk about this album to my friends, however, the first thing I will mention is 'Pale On Pale'. The penultimate seven-minute burner is Apokalypsis' darkest glory, a song for which the word 'epic' was invented. As the drums pound and the grime-covered guitar swaggers in like a murderous pimp, Wolfe lays down a soul-searing vocal suitable for the blackest mass. The ambient, watery textures of 'To The Forest Towards The Sea' sooth the harried mind as much as they exploit it: once more subtle dread is draped over the brutal. Wolfe, even at her quietest, is never safe. All the more reason, then, that she is to be placed among the highest of the experimentalists of our time. Of the myriad of goth-tinged, heavy-vibe songs and records being produced lately, Apokalypsis stands out as not only an album of well-executed dread and doom, but also one of immense beauty and real musical talent. This star shines darkly.