Dagon - In Desolationem Per Nefandum
July 18 2008 at 04:36:39 AM  Ah, the unsmiling Tsarevna. Sontag said that boredom was just the reverse side of fascination. That it depended on one’s placement in regard to a situation: whether one was on the outside or the inside. She also said “one leads to the other.” It doesn’t sound that smart. It’s a simple statement. It’s a neat statement. The profound is usually both, which is why I’ve never believed in anyone that wasn’t able to shed the argot and semicolons and just get down and dirty for a bit—myself included. No one really engages that “shit” anymore anyway. Reviews read—at least formally—i-fuckin-dentical. One-sheet as flashlight: opening up the unknown. Where they from? Who they played wid? What they sound like? Whisked to Wikipedia, deciphering the band’s moniker with its Tolkienean or pan-theological import. Start googling all that Latin, kiddo. You’ve got to make sense of the title, lyrics, the cryptic heralds embossed upon the cover art. Then talk about the music. You’ve got a jump on the avg. Joe. There’s a whole working vocab: “blasting,” “buzzing,” “mesmerizing,” “screeching,” “haunting,” “droning,” “raw,” “grim,” “harsh,” etc. Use ‘em all. There really aren’t that many. Mention something about Mayhem and Burzum or Darkthrone and Dissection or Bathory and Celtic Frost. Maybe mention USBM and how it’s so motherfucking WEIRD that someone can sit alone in their apartment in sunny Los Angeles and record “grimly haunting Black Metal,” sans snow and murders and church burnings. Maybe these folks are still “feeling the fascination.” Maybe. Sure, I was inside before I was out. Black Metal WAS fucking fascinating. Some of it still very much IS. There are reasons. It’s simple. It’s often neat. Not many surprises. The most interesting and provocative Black Metal bands offer meager embellishments of Black Metal’s (few) tropes. Sometimes the emotional and instrumental flair couples and creates something good. Sometimes it comes together and makes something great. Something profound. Dagon’s In Desolationem Per Nefandum isn’t profound; it isn’t great, either. But it is quite good. “Shkhavati Inverted: Ensnaring Paths to Bliss and Misery,” “By Ye Rights of Word and Wilcraft,” and “Vestiments of Servitude and Devotion” are all really great songs. Excellent transliterations of Darkthrone’s “Graven Takeheimens Saler;” often even lower-fidelity whiffs of Ofermod’s “Chained to Redemption.” The songs are great no matter what tradition(s) they find favor with. They are great regardless of hermetic meddle, or alignment to Thoth. They are also great independently of the band’s moniker, or the Dog-Latin title, or how ever many “scribes” shall ascribe “harsh” or “buzzing” and/or “blasting” to Dagon’s music. These songs are great because they make me feel something. Something ineffable, and, man, that’s the plan. That’s the goal. But, the feeling: it’s troublesome. Is there any import? Any meaning to the “feeling?” I got it when I first heard Hellhammer. I got it when I first saw Slayer. It’s a feeling of (faux) power. A silly and fleeting impulse of MAJESTY. The Savage Sword’s Weltanschauung: furs ‘n’ ale, wenches ‘n’ tattered clothing, steeds, weapons of iron—of steel, Invincibility, Potency. That kind of shit. There’s a reason why every head worth his salt had a Frank Frazetta poster on the wall. Shelves of Robert Howard paperbacks. Incense covering the skank. Skull rings on five-fingered Mary. Invoking the “feeling.” It’s a fucking cop out. The feeling. It’s “private.” I’ve heard others talk about it. Shit, it’s no different than Wittgenstein wringing his hands over how others can “tell” when he’s in “pain” if it’s a wholly private experience. Some of the attributes aren’t private. I’ll pump my fist. I’ll headbang or scream something intolerably stupid, “Fuck yeah!” I’ll give the horns. Sometimes I’ll do this in the car. During the commute. No shit. I’ve done it at shows. Done it on Saturday afternoons after a few brews. It’s an INNER experience with hilariously infantile OUTER manifestations. Wittgenstein: There is no fucking way to align the actual vocabulary used to describe the sensations associated with pain that I—and others—experience. So I’ll carry a little box and I’ll be the only one that can see its contents. Even if I get Stewart Voegtlin to agree that we’ll both call whatever’s in our little boxes ‘shit’ there’s still no way to erect a non-linguistic similarity between my box and Voegtlin’s. Pain works the same way. It can ONLY be associated with “dispositions:” PAIN IS WHAT MAKES ME MOAN. In short, private language is NONSENSE. It’s bullshit. It doesn’t mean anything to folks: see that dude “Joe” that commented on the Ascend review (LHP 016). So, the feeling. Dagon’s putting it out there. It’s “here.” You’re just gonna have to trust me. And you can call the contents of my little box whatever you fucking want. [Stewart Voegtlin] Comments (0)
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