Psychos do not explode when the sun hits them.
I don't give a fuck how crazy they are.
- Seth Gecko
12 August 2013
04 August 2013
ARKHON INFAUSTUS - Orthodoxyn
Where to begin with this album?
The guitars. The fucking guitars!
They sound ill. They're sick. And not like they be illin or that's fuckin sick, dude.
No, not like that.
These vile guitars need medication. And plenty of rest. Antibiotics and blood work and further tests. Specialists, maybe. Thick and heavy, but clear, this is certainly the cleanest production to date for the band, allowing the riffs to shine. Riffs that are ridden with decay and pestilence. Curious voicing and disturbingly off-kilter melodies... Fucking ugly, disgusting, rotten and just-plain-wrong-and-that's-why-they're-fucking-perfect! harmonies...
There seems to be something off, and it ruins everything beautifully. Listen through this album too many times and you will start to sense the filth which rots at its foul core. Putrid hymns born of heroin and cigarettes. Cocaine and street fights. Expensive alcohol and cheap whores. All in the name of Satan. Hymns of worship and science. Ritual and research. Philosophy and manifestation. All in the name of Satan. And it feels very genuine. You believe that these guys are running amok out there! You believe that they believe, and therein lies the power.
It's quite something to think about, really: through tangible means, Arkhon Infaustus has conveyed the intangible with a startling degree of depth and definition. Artistic vision inspired by a doctrine of debauchery and fanaticism, and rendered with infernal skill. Here is the junkie, lounging in the gutter and laughing through a haze of smack and broken teeth, dried blood on his chin and shirt and knuckles. Here is the deviant, lying naked and unconscious on the sticky floor of some poorly lighted room reeking of Absinthe and vomit, blood crusting around the edges of recently opened wounds and infected needle marks. Here are the galleries and studios and coffeehouses of Paris, all smashed windows and battered doors and trembling, bruised proprietors. Hear now the screams and curses and prayers of sadistic decadence and violent supplication, the profane utterances of an ultra-modern coven of witches and occult adepts. Hear now the madness and mysticism. Logic and Logos. Blood and bone and blasphemy. Hear the sound of Apocalypse as it approaches, growing ever closer and ever louder. The wails of the dying. The satisfied grunts of exertion emitted by murderers as they go about their work. This is the sound of Satan, conjured with religious devotion and frequency manipulation. The sound of the universe collapsing. Of dark matter. Putrefaction. There is destructive genius here, tempered with diabolical intuition.
It may be that the four heretic shadows that recorded this twisted masterpiece were not so much creators as they were conduits. It may be that these are the voices of those who were ancient when this world was still young, speaking through the worthless, ravaged bodies of four delirious devotees, praising death and decrying hope: Gouge out your eyes, so that you might see! You will not be saved. Live with abandon, for all that lives, dies. Love death as the weak ones love life. As the only true salvation. Eternity does not exist for such as you; seek it not! Crave destruction. Pray for devastation.
Is this the wisdom of the Void, spoken through Arkhon Infaustus? Or the ravings of lunatic charlatans bent on defiling you according to their own iniquitous designs? Does it really matter at this late hour? I think not. The damage is done. Listen, and listen again. And again. And still more. Absorb this album. Listen until you understand. Until you are corrupted. Degraded. Until you are bloodied and scarred. Listen until you are no more than an empty vessel, fit for nothing, save to carry the message of Orthodox Sin!
No, not like that.
These vile guitars need medication. And plenty of rest. Antibiotics and blood work and further tests. Specialists, maybe. Thick and heavy, but clear, this is certainly the cleanest production to date for the band, allowing the riffs to shine. Riffs that are ridden with decay and pestilence. Curious voicing and disturbingly off-kilter melodies... Fucking ugly, disgusting, rotten and just-plain-wrong-and-that's-why-they're-fucking-perfect! harmonies...
There seems to be something off, and it ruins everything beautifully. Listen through this album too many times and you will start to sense the filth which rots at its foul core. Putrid hymns born of heroin and cigarettes. Cocaine and street fights. Expensive alcohol and cheap whores. All in the name of Satan. Hymns of worship and science. Ritual and research. Philosophy and manifestation. All in the name of Satan. And it feels very genuine. You believe that these guys are running amok out there! You believe that they believe, and therein lies the power.
It's quite something to think about, really: through tangible means, Arkhon Infaustus has conveyed the intangible with a startling degree of depth and definition. Artistic vision inspired by a doctrine of debauchery and fanaticism, and rendered with infernal skill. Here is the junkie, lounging in the gutter and laughing through a haze of smack and broken teeth, dried blood on his chin and shirt and knuckles. Here is the deviant, lying naked and unconscious on the sticky floor of some poorly lighted room reeking of Absinthe and vomit, blood crusting around the edges of recently opened wounds and infected needle marks. Here are the galleries and studios and coffeehouses of Paris, all smashed windows and battered doors and trembling, bruised proprietors. Hear now the screams and curses and prayers of sadistic decadence and violent supplication, the profane utterances of an ultra-modern coven of witches and occult adepts. Hear now the madness and mysticism. Logic and Logos. Blood and bone and blasphemy. Hear the sound of Apocalypse as it approaches, growing ever closer and ever louder. The wails of the dying. The satisfied grunts of exertion emitted by murderers as they go about their work. This is the sound of Satan, conjured with religious devotion and frequency manipulation. The sound of the universe collapsing. Of dark matter. Putrefaction. There is destructive genius here, tempered with diabolical intuition.
It may be that the four heretic shadows that recorded this twisted masterpiece were not so much creators as they were conduits. It may be that these are the voices of those who were ancient when this world was still young, speaking through the worthless, ravaged bodies of four delirious devotees, praising death and decrying hope: Gouge out your eyes, so that you might see! You will not be saved. Live with abandon, for all that lives, dies. Love death as the weak ones love life. As the only true salvation. Eternity does not exist for such as you; seek it not! Crave destruction. Pray for devastation.
Is this the wisdom of the Void, spoken through Arkhon Infaustus? Or the ravings of lunatic charlatans bent on defiling you according to their own iniquitous designs? Does it really matter at this late hour? I think not. The damage is done. Listen, and listen again. And again. And still more. Absorb this album. Listen until you understand. Until you are corrupted. Degraded. Until you are bloodied and scarred. Listen until you are no more than an empty vessel, fit for nothing, save to carry the message of Orthodox Sin!
ARKHON INFAUSTUS
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