Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Burzum - Burzum

Along with the members of Darkthrone, Ol' Count Grizzled-Cock of Norway's one geek musical farce, Burzum, was among the "elite" of Norway to start posing in the mirror after hours of putting on makeup, leather and spikes thus initiating the world into the era of "true" Norwegian Black Metal.

Being from New England and having grown up in the 80's/90's, I knew of plenty of creepy weirdos who, upon backpaddling within the confines of a case of Milwaukee's Best coupled with the apparently brain altering concoction of Ozzy Osbourne, Slayer and Iron Maiden, would proceed to ritualistically gut kitty cats and unsuspecting pigeons in one of the various local cemeteries dotted along the landscape of the area I grew up in. It wasn't uncommon to see inverted crosses and pentagrams haphazardly spray painted over tombstones along with the disemboweled remains of some poor creature that made the mistake of being in close proximity to the presence of these "Satanic" dweebs.

By the time the whole Norwegian church burning trend hit the airwaves I couldn't help but feel as if this was a bit of a familiar theme. Teen angst and peer pressure unquestionably fueled by metal music and the need to fit in and secure an image for ones self. I never once bought into the hype that this was all part of an A) "elite"   order of Satanic bandidos, or B) the ingeniously devised machinations of gathering of anti-Christian revolutionaries swollen to the brim with nationalist pride. No. This reeked of the severely erroneous actions halfassedly played out by a group of wannabes, flexing their scrawny arms amidst the oft cloudy representation of the teenage mind. Unfortunately for a few, and not unlike the denizens within the so called 'Manson Family', these "kids" would commit crimes justified by the delusions of young and not yet fully developed minds and as a result, become heroes in the eyes of other youthful outcasts across the globe.

No one will ever truly know the reasons why Cap'n Varg bopped on over to 'Your-mom's-anus' house and proceeded to perforate him with his very own, Rambo survival knife. But you can bet your pimple ridden arse that he capitalized on it and bled it dry for what it was worth. Of course, in order to truly make an "evil" impression on the minds of the impressionable you have to act as nonchalantly as inhumanly possible about it all which only lends even more false cred to the incorporated mass of egotism otherwise known as a steaming pile o' bullsit. This one being of a rather impressive size.

As ol' Cap'n Varg'll tell ya, music was always secondary to his criminal preoccupations and boy oh boy does it show here on Burzum's debut LP. What a bottomless well of  feces and venereal tainted semen. Back when good taste was somewhat prevalent, this album would've been flushed back down the toilet from whence it came, quickly after attempting to emerge from out of the sewers, "Ghoulie" style.

I actually quite enjoy Old Funeral, the band that ol' Cap'n Varg used to play with, and the difference between that band and Burzum is night and fucking day, but we all know of course that once Obituary decided to allow themselves to be photographed wearing sweatpants and EMF hats, the microchip implanted in the brains of the Norwegian youth short circuited thus giving way to a bunch wannabe vikings babbling on about what is "true" and "necro" and "kvlt", etc. Sometime in 1991 is when the grim reapers gay twin passed through Norway and "touched" the souls of all therein, thus began the rampant homosexual orgy that is more commonly referred to as black metal, or as the Norwegians call it, "blick" metal.

Among the higher, more important figures of this era was the fabled Count Grizzled-Cock aka ol' Cap'n Varg and he carried with him all the vigor and intent of a transsexual dopefiend desperate and sick from withdrawal. Of course, the vocals on this album are the penultimate rendition of a screaming bitch being gang raped by a veritable caravan of mongoloid speed freaks and I have to wonder from what painful crevice does one venture unto in order to cull such inspiration.

The level (or lack of) guitar skill is more curious than laughable as you can somewhat detect a semblance of :know how" deeply embedded within the fog of superficial "kvltishness", but any attempt at decoding this reverse complexity only manages to force  me to succumb to a seemingly 'scanner' induced fever of which I am afraid to further proceed lest my head detonates.

I could only have wished that the super mutant rapist gangbangers had furiously clubbed ol' Cap'n Varg after their wanton exploitation of his pale flesh, thus ending his misery and mine. But this was not to be, as Varg frantically recorded a decades worth of material in a short span of time as if he had foreseen his future behind bars, or perhaps he was chasing the dragon that was introduced to him during his defilement by the band of  transsexual super mutants. I wonder what the world would have been like if the knife was in the hands of 'Your-mom's-anus' instead of Cap'n Varg's. Ahh... but to dream.

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