“We are wolves,” state Ulver and let’s go with that for now and contemplate their position in the grand scheme of things along with the music on this their 16th studio album and new book “Wolves Evolve The Story of Ulver” (which is not subject to this review). There is no denying they have evolved and that the band’s journey since 1993 has seen them musically shapeshift through their career. They were doing so right from the start moving with fluidity from naturistic folk tales to raw black metal, then from fabulous soaring Blake inspired operatic richness to film soundtrack work taking in everything from apt lycanthropic themes to rich night-time noir etched soundscapes. All albums untouchable in construct and unquestionably essential for anyone with a passing interest in both extreme and atmospheric music. These Norse oddballs led through thick and thin under the auspices of Kristoffer Rygg gained a loyal following but also cast off as many fans as they did band members as their journey progressed. Constantly re-inventing themselves and taking on folkloric balladry through to Sabbathian worship, the albums kept coming but with them so too did the fact that the progress saw a staleness with the constant shift in genre metamorphosis. For me the rot was starting to set in and no matter how much I personally wanted to defend Ulver everything led to the fact that once the band who had stated they were never playing live, actually decided to do so, the resulting drabness and tedium of such an event was a dire disappointment for anyone who had loyally followed them down said path. That probably didn’t matter much to the group themselves, who were worshipped by a new breed of very hip cubs who still garner everything the band touch with nothing but devout adoration bordering on genius.
Skipping ahead through a few humdrum albums to last highly respected Julius Caeser opus there is no telling fans that the band had perhaps assassinated even themselves with this lesson in mediocre electronica. It may well have been valid and forward thinking had it been laid down by Depeche Mode in the mid-80’s but for a band whose career had started so strongly it struck as more a case of egotistic, nostalgia worship and a work looking back rather than showing any relevant progression.
First look at Flowers Are Evil, one has to tackle the Baudelairian poeticism of that title and the narrative hyperbole of a band channelling their inner Coil, “fleeing a burning Rome,” and entering a “sacred grove, near Bomarzo in Lazio, Italy, [which] reveals the nightmare vision of Vicino Orsini, a sixteenth century nobleman.” You can go with that if so inclined, or look at it with the pretension it deserves as essentially it is highbrow subject matter dressing up an album of simplistic and wistful, dewy-eyed pop music.
The contemplative vocals and subtle electronics of ‘One Last Dance’ have a world-weary and drab flavour about them. Sure, it’s poetic and has a nice melody, again stuck very much in the retro years of the 80’s, the balladry not a million miles from a deadbeat Love Is A Battlefield. Did anyone ever really expect comparisons between Ulver and Pat Benatar? Well it’s here and more is to follow. Europop beats like the bastard offspring of Falco’s Rock Me Amadeus are an unwelcome step back in time on Russian Doll. At least the video is interesting and catches attention as modern dance interpretation but it stems from an era imbibed by The Kids From Fame rather than Gasper Noe’s Climax. Also, who can truly forget Altar Of Plagues ‘God Alone’ video and wish we were hearing music as innovative as that was? Hinting at synthwave ‘Machine Guns and Peacock Feathers’ has a funky bass line that could have escaped from a Robert Plant or Bill Laswell number or even a song by Was Not Was. It’s certainly more disco than punk and one cannot help thinking the wolves have shed their coats and become simple-minded sheep grazing on grass, content with their lot, far from the predators of old. Ironically as they still insist it is ‘The Hour Of The Wolf’ and true to form it is as if all the demons that plague creative artists are coming home to roost and gloat. Apocalypse 1993 (throwing Waco into the conundrum) is at least quirky, the angular beats moving from a futurist musical canvas into a song full of soulful listening pleasures. With them however vocally it is incredibly difficult not to draw comparisons to a song written and performed by George Michael. Not belittling the late and great artist in the slightest but the similarities once in your head are difficult to shift as the album plods on.
Talk Talk are mentioned in the blurb, again no bad thing in reference to “second shattering single” Little Boy and latter era Depeche Mode is left over from the last album as the band seemingly plunder ‘Personal Jesus’ in melody tailing off the song like it has nowhere left to go. ‘Nostalgia’ has a moody reflective vibe of mature age-old stars such as Joe Jackson and Gerry Raffety, its guitar plucking AOR directed at a generation too young to have heard it first time around, left over in a 99p bucket of tapes in Woolworths or Boots circa 1978. What certainly seems a lot longer than its 38-minute running time the last story ‘A Thousand Cuts’ delivers the last wound, it’s bland and colourless music leaving me wondering just who the hell this album is meant to appeal to apart from the players themselves?
One thing is certain here and although they are not a current option, this is not music for a lively gig but one to play at a post-millennial dinner party for nauseating people to chunter away through. Let’s just hope they don’t get the cocaine out as the conversations will no doubt be as pretentious as this damn album.
(3/10 Pete Woods)
03/09/2020 at 11:22 am
I had absolutely no desire to listen to the album, but thanks for the hearty chuckle your review gave me sir.