Clicks, Lies and Black Metal

On November 16th, 2016, the online metal tabloid known as Metalsucks published their “manifesto” in which they very publicly announced “We will not tolerate racism, misogyny or any form of bigotry or hate speech” (because apparently it took them ten years of running a website, not to mention a good chunk of their adult lives to figure out these things are shitty).

Urgehal – Aeons in Sodom (Season of Mist, 2016)

With the untimely passing of guitarist/vocalist/mastermind Trondr Nefas in 2012, it seemed unlikely that Norwegian black metal stalwarts Urgehal would ever be heard from again.  The surviving members of the band had other ideas however, and at long last we have a fitting epitaph for the band as well as a heartfelt tribute to their fallen frontman in the form of Aeons in Sodom, Urgehal’s seventh and final(?) full length.

Taake – Noregs Vaapen (Candlelight, 2011)

The scene: A small auditorium, somewhere on the East Coast.  A “black metal symposium” event has brought the self-styled  indie intelligentsia out in droves, packing the auditorium nearly to capacity.  A scrawny, effeminate man with long hair approaches the podium.  The man clears his throat and begins reading from his “manifesto,” proclaiming black metal as dead and stating that his own band is the savior of the genre.  Suddenly, the double doors at the back of the auditorium fly open.  A corpse-painted figure strides into the room from out of the shadows, cold winter air swirling about him.  The figure is Hoest, multi-instrumentalist/mastermind of Norwegian black metallers Taake.  Before anyone in the room can react, Hoest is on stage, stalking the scrawny man.  Hoest grabs the man by the hair, pulls a large knife out of his belt and slits the man’s throat without so much as a pause.  Blood spurts and pours everywhere, covering the podium, forming a massive plasma-slick on the stage.  Another man, this one a so-called journalist that’s made a career out of dabbling in heavy metal for the amusement of the indie crowd, rushes on stage to the aid of his friend.  As he kneels over the convulsing body, Hoest unsheathes a spiked club that was strapped to his back, bringing it down on the journalist’s head in one fluid motion, splitting his skull nearly in half.  The crowd is in shock, unsure whether this is actually happening or merely part of the show.  Without a word, Hoest jumps off stage and walks out the back of the auditorium from whence he came, taking care to shut the double doors behind him.  He takes a padlock and chains from his belt, effectively shackling the doors together, trapping the audience inside.  He then kicks over a large drum of gasoline, allowing it to seep through the cracks underneath the auditorium doors.  Hoest lights a match, watching it flicker for a second before tossing it into the pool of petrol.  The screams of those trapped inside lick at the frigid night sky along with the rising flames.