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"Death". Броско, лаконично и... честно. Ведь именно Смерть во всех ее обличьях так или иначе является самой частой и желанной гостьей в лирике испанцев, центральной фигурой их личного культа. И среди всех обличий, в которых Хель посещает наш мир, Teitanblood предпочитают, конечно же, смерть насильственную. Совершенно замечательно - если массовую. А значит - война. Недаром применительно к произведениям этих человеконенавистников так часто применяют пусть несколько искусственный, но невообразимо точно описывающий суть происходящего, как в текстах, так и непосредственно в музыке, термин war metal. Ведь там - громыхающие залпы изо всех орудий, беспощадный свинец, льющийся прямо на обнаженную кожу. Стена звука, возведенная посредством баса и ритм-гитары, за ней скоростные, дьявольски методичные ударные в роли осадных орудий, поверх - ржавая глотка вокалиста и периодически подменяющая его соло-гитара, захлебывающаяся в ярости, сотрясаемая спазмами и бьющаяся в агонии. В редкие моменты затишья на поле битвы слух будоражат шумы совсем уж потустороннего происхождения, изредка переходящие в нечто вроде отпевальной молитвы. В целом происходящее напоминает картины, создаваемые французами из Aosoth или Deathspell Omega, но с совершенно особыми оттенками, благодаря которым, единожды услышав Teitanblood, вы уже ни с кем их не спутаете.
Возможно, главный из таких нюансов заключается в солидном влиянии работ, классических для олдскульного дэта, с поправкой на практически немыслимую на последних интенсивность музыки и техническое мастерство исполнителей. Так или иначе, настолько удушливый, первобытный мрак можно было встретить только там. В люти же своей, сверхъестественной ярости команда вообще, кажется, не знает равных. Там, где иные могут поравняться в озлобленности, испанцы берут свое монументальностью и размахом.
Помимо того, немало ценных идей по насилию над мелодией и гармонией основатель проекта притащил и из "родной" для себя пыточной камеры Proclamation. Благо, хоть оригинальный ник Reverend of Goetic Rituals, Commander of 72 Evil Spirits заменил аббревиатурой "NSK" - для подобного рода материала словоблудие на грани гротеска ни к чему, командиру в самом пекле военных действий достаточно и короткого позывного.
"Death" - пример музыки с совершенно опустошительным эффектом. Словно поле боя после основательной бомбардировки. Жаль, сюда не будешь часто возвращаться за новыми впечатлениями - первое и по сути единственное оказалось также исчерпывающим...
И уж слишком явно чувствуется аромат дикой смеси пыли, свинца и благоухающей железом крови на зубах.
Напоследок занимательный факт - молитвы в "Silence of the Great Martyrs" творятся не на какой-нибудь там замусоленной латыни, а на русском языке. И от заунывных басовитых напевов православного попа почему-то становится особенно неуютно. |
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Death! where is your sting? All hope abandon ye who enter here.
For a fire was kindled by His discipline, a fire was risen by their faith. The wisdom of the Lord in every act of separation engulfing the harvests and tearing the mountains down.
Altar of grotesque Tetramorph, hovering over the carrion incest. Mutilation and sodomy: split as one, salvation and punishment together as none.
Was this love on par with the one of Amon? Maybe the daughters of Lot?
Verily, verily I say unto you: the wicked will spit out the riches they swallowed. No dust will be left for Him to burn. Their iniquity will turn sour in their stomach.
Cold seeds projected in poisoned corpses shall give birth to sinful dirt in the name of God, through the mouth of a whore… with angel’s wings to witness His wrath from the land of no return, awaiting like a vision into those eternal flames.
Death, where is your sting? Hades, where is your victory?
Anteinfierno! Anteinfierno! Anteinfierno! Anteinfierno! Anteinfierno!
With the sluggish violence of silent words, sermons of salt will come from above, double-edged tongues sharper than the sword, infesting untouched womb of the unspoken Mystery.
Vision granted of utter darkness by fervent heat, baptized in drought through the catacombs of life, all nerves and minds thus dissolve.
Sewn mouths now speaking of disfigured truths. Sleeping throats of the Antichrist.
Filled with the gift of salvation, imago reverts to larva as a dog returns to its vomit and the Lord returns to his feast.
Benevolent are the wounds of a friend, wounds washed in caustic urine and blackened prophecies.
Precious is the sight of the Lord is the death of His faithful servants, choked by a thousand serpents and bloodier means.
Shed! repugnance from sin, faith from the shield, words from the swords, safety from His blood.
Reap! sterile seeds, yawning scars, scattered limbs, the light from the above is eaten.
Burning prayers now smothering under the Lord. Under his name and our God.
Writhe! all laws in red convulsing depths, all seeing waters, all harvested horrors.
Chasten! the damned to bless, the chosen to curse, the leprous to disrobe, the ultimate sacrifice.
Sleeping throats of the Antichrist.
In gratitude for the redeeming wounds, the Son returns to the parental seed for He is hungry, and we give him to eat, for He is thirsty and we give him to drink.
Purify! as the jaws of bestial Earth stab your ribs. Sanctify! with your lungs burning of sulphur in the fiery lake.
Open graves have feared and trembled, carved effigies have melted under the waters. High praises sputtered from the between gnashed teeth, exalting Heavenly rigour from the excrement of God.
And darkness was all, and all was darkness… and the corrupt blood poured from the bottomless skies.
From the hungry eyes that lust after the beyond to the nose blinded by the stench of despair, from the snout avid of disintegration’s smoke to the vengeful mouth of cleansing fire introduced to reason.
Serve the Lord, with fear, and rejoice with trembling, for He is coming and will judge those who have set him at nought.
Abortions of thought creep like maggots, shattering the putrid atmosphere. Carrion sown to spirit with rusty needles.
The obscenities of an army of bruises. The pulse of a million scars. The sorrow of the sacrificed. The blood of the Lamb. Love for God has waked cold, their lights have gone out.
The land is ready to be emptied, and utterly spoiled. The judgment has been pronounced: he has destroyed them, he has delivered them to the slaughter, and rust is eating the edge of the blade. Like the Most High above the Stars of God, exalting His throne. Ascended above the heights of the clouds and sat upon the Mount of Congregation.
And thou shalt eat the fruit of thine own body, the flesh of thy sons and of thy daughters.
Thy corpse shall be meat unto the fowls of the air, and unto the beasts of the earth, and no man shall fray them away.
Crown of deathlike splendour and soul devourer. Temple of Serpent’s tongue our mouths shall be… and sword in our hands to inflict vengeance.
Prepared are for thee the instruments of death.
My hands are the shrines of creation. My skin is the vest of the messiah. My blood is the ink of the holy sword. My shadow is the twin gate. My altar dwells in thee.
The cruel Lord is near… is near to all… to all who have called upon Him… who have called upon Him in truth!
He is the One Above! His word is filled with blood, and His name is One Below.
Sathanas! Let Him come and let this world pass away.
Crown of deathlike splendour and soul devourer. Temple of the Serpent’s tongue our mouths shall be… and sword in our hands to inflict vengeance.
Prepared are for thee the instruments of Death.
Plagues of forgiveness.
We have risen and stand up right! To execute punishment on the peoples. Cursed be that laxeth His work and keeps his sword from bloodshed.
If anyone is holy, let him join; if anyone is not, let him repent. As it was in the beginning is now, and ever shall be, world without end.
Silence! every possible variety of figure and configuration.
Silence! the air is full of you, the earth and the sea, and the lowest subterranean depths.
Silence your multiple heads! Silence the deafening hiss of serpents covering the murmur of the dead.
See the Accused - ably has he built his reality, schemes his planet graveyard. Solar systems of dust, disease, falseness, and blood. Ably Heresy as his own black image enthroned. For he has become the tomb of his sons ~ the grave of time.
As mankind sheds skin to wear the night and naked horror, and the voice of the black earth echoes from within their hearts: now night lives in their souls in the bright summer day, and laughter is strained by terror, voices hoarse with false prayer.
Quemadmodum et sperma nonnulli forum emittunt et vermes quondam spermate procreate.
The secret of their life is this: The root of their tree is bitter, its branches are death, its shadow, hatred.
A trap is in its leaves, its blossom is bad ointment. Its fruit is death, desire is its seed, and it blossoms in darkness.
The dwelling place of those who taste of it is the underworld, and darkness this resting place, for this is what has been told.
Fueled by temporary lives the eternal death grows from before the birth of time to reach beyond the end of it.
Quemadmodum et sperma nonnulli forum emittunt et vermes quondam spermate procreant.
Like insects their souls flutter, swarms of beetles and flies drawn by storm winds into the very depths of their creator. Tzimtzum reversed in the flash of the blade.
Worlds crumbled and skies collapsed, stars wiped out, guardians released.
And when the strength of the Plague had consumed all provisions and the wretched God needed more food, this grieving malady began to tear his limbs and rip (?) them apart with his own teeth and by consuming his own body, fed himself void again.
And on the final day the graves were opened and none rose therefrom.
Our virtue comes from the hairy lairs of Sodom. And our grace from the moist dens of Gomorrah. The joy of the godless lasts but a moment, the mirth of the wicked is forever.
The boiling of our veins… with vile mercury, with spit and poison of cobras, glorifies our impenitent sins. Our jealous hearts are too lazy to be opened. To our joy, we are a backwards generation.
For we are corrupt and certainly his children.
Calamities shall be reaped and wasting famine against us, consuming pestilence and deadly plague; glistening waves of ravenous lice, black tidal currents crawling over us; running insects curdled in blood, the blades that will make us childless.
One sting for each sin, each carries the sin of the other. One sting for each sin, mankind’s sins recorded on single skin… and you will wear mine too. A new altar is built for my new gods: Icons of blood, and a new cross from the arms of Christ.
In our homes terror will reign, our life will be severed in half seven times over, as our sins deserve, our afflictions will be multiplied. The Lord’s wrath stands amongst us like a mute raging monument, existence will be meaningless, the will be no future for us.
No rains in heaven to wash out our sins, no hells below to purify our unclean flesh. No curses enough to bless the wicked!
Don’t be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body.
Come! My cursed ones, possess you the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world…
Come! My blessed ones into everlasting fire, which was prepared for the Devil and His angels, and praise the Lord.
Such is the fate for the judged… burning in damnation fires!
All the temples of the known religions fell like sand, and vapour filled the air, for the seas were burned away…
And lava spilled forth equally across the surface of land, and mountains were engulfed into the red scorching depths beneath.
But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters, and all liars - they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.
Reaching ever higher, the flames sing as thunder and the black world is lit up by our burning desires.