The second release by David Mako away from his doom metal bands and into his doom folk guise. Now as I sit here writing the sun is out, its warm and….
Yeah, not exactly sunny music this. So, pull the curtains, open the fridge door and pretend its winter….
‘The Iron Peak’ opens in sedate mood, a blueprint for what follows. Bass, plucked guitar, a whisper of backing keyboards and the rise of truly soulful vocals. They rise, they cry, the edges crackling with emotion. The refrains swells and the misery of the lament settles in. It is bleak, this iron peak, but a river of melancholic melody descends from it like a slow river. ‘Dead Sister’ follows, a kind of banjo or mandolin sound added in. The pace is still slow, still steeped in regret but that voice can lead you anywhere. Even without a noticeable accent there is something Eastern European to this, a sense of outlook and of the weight of the world. This, when the keyboards grow, is a true moment of beauty in misery that wraps itself around your chest and gently squeezes.
We get the odd short musical bridge between songs but the funereal procession never abates. ‘No Arrival’ has the hope crushed from it with a gentle strum of guitar and a wrestled vocal where the feelings bubble over.
‘Expelling Of The Crafty Ape’, ‘Harom Arva’, ‘Eyes In The Fire’; imagine a whispered mix of traces of Dead Can Dance at their darkest, a strange memory of Clan Of Xymox in the melody somehow, the unfiltered emotion exhibited by Diamanda Galas or, perhaps, Scott Kelly or Steve Von Till. Perhaps the unvaried tempo might gnaw at some but this, for me, is music for contemplation in the small hours, the time when memories and ghosts come to call. The murmuring darkness of ‘Dreams From The Rot’ invokes them and my eyes simply stare into the long, cold, dark distance. The final touch of the title track, the picked and strummed banjo, the voice, the sound of ruins staring back out of the half light.
You can imagine this music live in so many settings, which is part of its appeal. A folk festival opening a black metal festival, a gathering of doom heads; it would hold the crowds rapt, still, isolated in their own burgeoning emotions.
Again, despite myself, I find myself in love with this. It is hard to listen to, and there are times I will have to stay away but The Devil’s Trade is a rare and very human thing of true, bleak, hopeless beauty.
(9/10 Gizmo)
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