"We are the middle children of history ... We don't have a great war in our generation, or a great depression, but we do, we have a great war of the spirit. We have a great revolution against the culture. The great depression is our lives. We have a spiritual depression."
/Chuck Palahniuk - Fight Club/
Another Slow Burn Records
release we put in the player. The Portuguese guys formed this band in 2007, then around 2008 they had already slashed the ether with an own MCD. Last year also their debut saw the light of the day. The sound is professional, as well as the externalities are, since the formation came out like this
, however I got only the single disc, so perhaps I rather omit talking about the details that would emerge related to Catacombe
. Instead of that, I invite the reader to join a great trip; maybe he might be able to fall/get lost in and sink into this weird and enthralling mission. The genre of post-rock has always been beautiful because of that mystical bitterness which derives from the depths and mirror of the soul. It's exactly the thing that places the power into your hands to fall and get lost into nothingness. True enough, the
fall may be slow and the final land might be like that of an autumn leaf; a zigzag way that simplifies to a spiral, from the branch, down onto the blanket of fallen leaves. From those repetitious and improving melodies which are able to make you forget the demons of the past in a grey morning, getting lost and embracing the marvellous melancholy, since it is yours, personally - your own misery and our own penitance, to our selves only. Everybody's heart is filled with paradox decisions which accompany every catharsis in our lives, being ingrained as preys of evolution and memories. This genre actually lays stress upon these characteristics and emphasize them; this big whole that is structured by complexity, this joyful lamentation and personal contemplations kept within. And while this more than 50 minutes kept on turning, it made me feel something like: so much might have kept our Portuguese artists in frustration that they had passed their pain over and set it out, hidden in the form of melancholic melodies, bottled in flown-away vials of gray bitterness; and while it slowly is being consumed, intoxicated in the slow decay of tranquillity and clarity, it becomes a perspective subsidence and flying on the soft wings of tender melodies, along with hope, with the sickening taste of love, with the weird touch of spring, with completion, into a mutual point in the sky; just to disintegrate today and wake up again the following day as to live through again our faith in everydays & the average conventions of endless work, wailing, expectations and compliance. This entirety looks like a cursed love, which lurks in everyone somewhere deep within, ineradicably and restlessly. Why and for what? Just to perish on the peaks of our memories & turn into fading pictures, or to feel the gentle & calm vibration of a sighing, wet skin. Settling down & nailing into our skin's transitional canvas, we hold the brush in our hand and grasp its shining blade; to slash something new out of our own selves, yourself, yourselves & ourselves. Is it possible to erase? Why? For whom? And if it makes sense at last, when we finally manage to live the destructively sweet taste of rebuilding through, lest present rise to be wasted. This sad autumnal music raises the terms of beauty and value, but we don't care anymore, because it's so nice and it's still not been covered by the filth and lights of this restless world's capitalist ant farm. This is something like, when you keep on hitting the wall until it's covered in blood, then when the pain forced you to your kneels yet, you fall into another realm; it's the strange and high box of oblivion and self-torture. From psychologial pressure it leads to physical reality. It's the intricate misery of our souls' depths, with a contemplation that fills some inherent gap. Wait, no! Perhaps it's not even contemplation, but simply a dashing and respectful outpouring of our own tortured selves, above all to ourselves. 'Kinetic
' is all about that; from the vaults of catacombs, filled with buried truths, which may get to the surface but they remain as a chaotic mixture of personal happenings and fates, self-pity for the future or key to the passing that comes true and dive, dive, flying and split... a landing catharsis!
Beauty and pleasure have thousand faces, in every person's case it appears & speaks in a different mask from the mass, in a different way it takes somebody to the path of loneliness. Thereafter, practicing power and self-control we return where the spring buds of glee & happiness throws new obstacles in our way, repeatedly. This music may be sympathetic to those who are capable to appreciate segments like Magyar Posse
or The Evpatoria Report
, I think. Here and there even Pelican
's or iSiS
's early dignity might be felt. With these lines I wish good night or eventually, good morning, to the new mills of the corruptible & implementable intellect's spheres...
/English translation by Vorst