And the story goes...
Somewhere in late 1991/early '92, seemingly ALL of Norway collectively decided that death metal was uncool now because someone saw a picture of Obituary in Metal Maniacs wearing sweatpants and Bermuda shorts. At that point they also decided to emulate the musical as well as physical traits of 80's death/thrash bands such as Bathory, Hellhammer/Celtic Frost, early Slayer, Possessed and so on, in answer to Obituary's treasonous dress code. I'm not sure where the part that 'any and all musical talent be utterly kicked to the curb and disposed of' came into play, but the Norwegians took to the endeavor with all the gusto of a tranny in a hot dog eating contest. Let us also never forget that it was at this point that almost every band in the world jumped on Norway's cock as a result. This is NOT to say that Norway was a lighthouse beaming with originality. What Norway essentially did was rip off the elders of the 80's and in turn accuse anyone else of doing so of being a copy cat of the Norwegian "style" of copy catting. Yet, originality was not the only thing the Norwegians lacked. They were also devoid of a goodly deal of talent in those days as well save for a three fingered handful of bands. Of course in the ensuing years, any band that began to develop any sort of technical proficiency (as is usually the case after years of practicing) or attempted to outgrow the inbred trappings of the almighty Norwegian Black Metal scene, were in turn accused of "selling out" or just plain "being untrue".
From amidst the wide eyed confusion of teen angst and obligations wrought from the furnace of peer pressure came the Lord of all Things True himself, Sir Hank of Amarillo aka Fenriz. I actually extract great amounts of evil joy when I watch or read interviews from this cartoonishly charismatic fellow as I have never seen anyone write and rewrite the book of How to be a Black Metal Hipster Yet Come Across as Being Otherwise as much as the popularly adored Mr. Amarillo. Never before has the world encountered such a champion of contradictions as they would with each absolutely worthless utterance from this man's throat. The fact that Darkthrone has played it rather safe in terms of remaining confined to the shadows as opposed to coming out full blast ala Satyricon or Gorgoroth, playing festivals and shows and embarking, viking style, on world tours, etc, has only furthered the notion in peoples minds that they are dealing with some black master of magicks steeped in arcane ideology and as a result, the pinnacle being of underground cool and cred. Barf.
Nevertheless, it was to be that when Sir Lord Hank of Amarillo spoke, the masses unwaveringly listened and obliged his every whim. And when Sir Hank decided that 'A Blaze in the Northern Sky' did not sound "necro" (aka like shit) enough he decided to once again crawl back into the lofty confines of his mind and see what his asshole might produce and lo and behold, the world was graced with an even stinkier, smellier poo than before. Ladies and gentlemen... I give you... Under a Funeral Moon!
Whereas 'A Blaze...' has actually grown on me a little throughout the years (though I'll never truly forgive Darkthrone for the treasonous act of abandoning their death metal sound for the flavor of the day) as there are actual rhythmic fluctuations to be heard as well as an admittedly "evil" vibe that permeates the air within that release, its two successors are nothing but glorified pieces of fly ridden shit that give the musical term 'noise' a negative rep. Listening to two inbred mongoloids from the backwoods of Virginia with Tourette's violently buttfuck each other in room filled with priceless china would sound infinitely better than having to endure any one full track off of this or it's equally mundane twin, 'Transilvanian Hunger'. The fact that not only people actually like this album but that it is considered to be a (barf) 'masterpiece' is a staggering inclination of of just how far up the evolutionary ladder we have to go to reach the top.
|Unholy fucking black metal. Sir Lord Hank of Amarillo in all of his true necro glory at far right|
I keep telling myself that most people like this album because it's merely the cool, ahem, "necro" thing to do. The riffs on this "album" suck roomfulls of AIDS patients dicks with an unmatched fervor and a glee most hideous to behold. I'm not kidding either. You can actually picture the enthusiastic and undaunted retardation on the band's faces as they mindlessly bang away track after track. Kind of like giving a child a sheet of acid and a box of crayons. I am convinced that when someone drones on about the "genius" of this album, they are naught but some robot slathered in human flesh whose battery is only moments away from expiration. Of course the big kindergarten swipe at anyone who actually has the gall to not buy into this albums extraterrestrial hype is to claim in an indignant tone, that they don't "understand" this album. As if The Lord Fenriz himself had whispered it's divine secrets into their ears and left your puny and unworthy ass in the dark screaming "why hath thou forsaken me???!!"
Well fuck all that. I don't want to understand it. I am content in knowing that if you find this album to be a work of musical genius then you are part of the sheep that this band and countless others of their ilk complain about, including themselves. The only thing astounding and astonishing about this album is that the band managed to force out a pile of shit this big without the aid of surgery and a years worth of Band Aids.