Russian
blackended sludge band Crust know a thing or two about heroism. They'd have to
in order to reach deep enough into the dragon's gullet to pull out the fire
that they exhibit on ...and
a Dirge Becomes an Anthem. The
album has an arch that feels reminiscent of the monomyth of the ages, the
redemption of the soul. Only one steeped in a kettle of blood and desperation,
lined with rotting flesh. Grounded, relatable, and therefore terrifying, it is
reminiscent of Nicolas Winding Refn's Valhalla Rising, where the call to
adventure is actually an invitation to oblivion. Coaxing, leading, and then
dragging you to reunification with the eternal. Only someone made of the
sternest meddle could face such a fate. Crust's debut invites you to ride with
it into the night, knowing that you will never be seen in the flesh on this
plane again.
The journey begins as the curtain is drawn on the
cyclonic stomp of "Approaching Grave," a portal into a land of decay
where the ground is blackened with rot and spoil. We see the image of a king as
he sits in decadent repose, awaiting his flesh to become a colony of warms and
teeming insects. A vision of death that has no promise of renewal, only a long,
anguished decline. The inciting action then strikes, in the form of a wind that
throws open the chamber doors of the palace, carrying aloft a nauseatingly
sweet siren's call, beckoning you to leave the comforts of the king's living
tomb, the acrid din of Lord Mantis in the air, the spell of Skeletonwitch
goading you to your mount. You leave the living rot of the kingdom and travel
through mountains and valleys, greeted by lush meadows to the bending guitar
chords of "Beneath the Cold Clay." Beauty assails your senses,
distracting you from the heaps of bones that line the trail and streams you
cross, until you reach the roads terminus, a thatch hut that reaches into a
nest of roots at the base of a great tree. This is the ego-stripping threshold,
and as you enter your are greeted by the slaughterhouse hymn of "Clad in
Flesh." As you pass further under the tree mutilating grooves and covetous
clawing chords reach up from the floor of the tunnel and strip your bones of
the burden of their coverings and replace them with a new flesh, unblemished
and resistant to age.
Bolstered your sheath of new skin and its imperviousness
to the drain of time, you travel for a thousand years until you come to the
mouth of a great beast's den. You know that it is your destiny to confront the
monster within and so you descend the mountain of treasure and skulls to the
creature's resting place and plunge your sword into its side. A sky parting
pummel arises from the beats guts as it rouses from its sleep. The vibrations
of the grim thunder of its interior traveling through your sword, leaping up
your arm bones, through your shoulder and neck, and into your skull, filling
the cavities of your head with the whipping trounce and Neurosis-esque chthonic
howl of a thousand angry spirits. You turn in a moment of panic to look to the
mouth of the den and wager your chances of escape only to be met with the
beast's eye as it looms over you. A moment passes and then you are smote by its
jaws.
Surprisingly, this is not the end to your journey. A
slow, resonate, coil winds through the fabric of your soul made of a
waterlogged guitar line and its movements summon you back to life. As you enter
"Graveland" you find yourself lifted skywards toward the surface of a
frozen pond by the swelling pressure of a tempest trapping groove. You feel the
force below you grow more solid to the point where it is like a marble floor.
You can see a graveyard on the distant shore and make plans to swim to it, but
before you can, the tension below you bursts and becomes a whirlpool, savaging
you as you clamber for one more breath of air before you are sept under. Your
will and strength are not enough to overcome the force of the funnel that
wishes to consume you and you tumble into its cold, spraying maw.
Again you find yourself floating, through a place that is
neither light nor dark, nor hot nor cold. You know that this is the "Space
Sabbath," a distilled place of magic beyond human perception. In this
place, you realize that your body has momentum and you allow it to carry you. Eventually,
your feet brush up against something solid below you, and you begin to exercise
your limbs in a trot. After an eternity of wandering, the navel of a star opens
before you, and you pass through to find the kingdom you had left behind
centuries ago. It is now overgrown and reclaimed by nature. Everyone is dead.
And now there is only peace. You sit and contemplate the ruins and the passage
of the sun and the moon until the sky collapses into the earth and the sands of
time grow still.
Get a copy of ...and a Dirge Becomes an Anthem here.
