Somehow, Haust has evaded my notice for decades. Despite being an influence on one of the bar-none, bottom-dollar, greatest rock bands of all time, Kvelertak, they also split cadre and share their craft with a legion of nasty yet devilishly vital acts that make a habit of peering at me through the veils of digital obscurity that reefs the fridge of my waking life- acts like Okkultokrati, NAG, and The Good the Bad and The Zugly. How I discovered the Norwegian group and encountered and learned to love their most recent LP Negative Music is still a mystery, even to myself. I believe it involved the instructions of a maze scrawled with a burning quill on lamb skin parchment, gifted to me by a pale woman, half naked and on horseback, upon whose head rested crowned a halo of black flames... or I stumbled upon them while surfing Bandcamp at around 3 am after downing a 16 oz of coldbrew coffee at/or around midnight- one these scenarios is bound to be more disturbing/intriguing to you as a reader. I'm willing to let you assume whatever keeps you most engaged. As you might expect, the album begins with a declaration of the band's longevity despite inertia and spans of hiatus, kicking things off with tar-blooded, labor pains slither of "Let it Die," the pharyngeal arches of which later develop into rows of razor-sharp fangs and a set of gore shedding tusks on the ripping flay of "Dead Ringer." Singer Vebjørn sounds credibly vile and loathsome throughout, colluding in blighted fellowship and blending in time with the campy villainy of the foul runic-inspired black'n'roll that the rest of the band whips up like a frost giant on an akevitt-fueled bender. The gothic pivot of "Turn to Stone" is faultlessly petrifying, and "The Burning" feels like a futile attempt to escape a flame-engulfed opera-house after its misshaped subterranean resident set it a blaze in a fatal fit of passion, while "The Devil at My Heels" has the climactic frenzy of being chased down by a phantasmal beast that has leapt from a gapping wound in your psyche, and manifesting through the portal of your bathroom mirror, to now clip at your fleeing ankles like a parodic, piranha toothed roomba. It's called Negative Music, and it feels right in all the wrong sorts of ways.
