A.O.C Black Metal from the Coteaux de L’Enfer

A.O.C Black Metal from the Coteaux de L’Enfer

(i.e. from the vineyards of Hell)

‘I have read in my books whilst preparing to be a nurse, because I want to be a nurse, that one classes drugs by their effect on the mind, notably the Phantastica (hallucinogens such as Cannabis indica, LSD…) and Inebriantia (inebriants such as alcohol, volatile solvents…). The first produce illusions and journeys, the second excitement then tiredness. And that made me think, because I want to think, that there are two sorts of Black Metal. A modern dissonant Black Metal, overproduced, brutal and stateless stimulating nerves and the intellect in the manner of an inebriant; in other words: the frozen noise of a computer specialist dabbling with Hebrew Sciences living in Paris, that is called ‘Orthodox/Religious/Anti-Cosmic Black Metal’ (or ‘War Metal’ when they didn’t get a National Diploma), knowing that one like the other is nothing more than nuggets of shit from ex-Death (and even Grindcore) Metallers, that have spun their sound into BM because it’s the style in fashion at the moment, and whom we need to make understand, stubbornly: Black Metal does not resemble you, my dear land whales, so this is not a reason to make a Black Metal that resembles you: because it is not. And I forgot, above all it is ugly. Must we need to speak in farts, to make you understand that Black Metal is an old vintage that slowly enchants the mind, a landscape, a ballad of olden days, a journey back in time? It is a noble intoxication that consumes you like a glass of Gevrey-Chambertin, not a Budweiser that you chug and vomit like US Death Metal.

The Last Race after Monkeys & Toads:

War Metal

The French War Metal head/belly

We’re from a Phantastica genre, from the Romantic and Fantastique sphere of BM, in the literary sense of these terms. Black Metal like Dream & Response, an oneiric step backwards. Mine has the face of a ruin because I want an old sound, dirty and earthy, an obscene fruit weathered through a very intentional poor production – the dirt, better yet, the rot, is this not the effect of the passage of time? Folkfuck Folie does not sound ‘more metal’, no, it sounds like rusty metal, its guitars are scrappy, dirty and corroded, barbed wire seasoned with tetanus, it was recorded ONLY with overdrive on a tape recorder from 1979, the same way used by the punks in the 80s. I know our riffs are thrashy or heavy/epic, and my solos à la Judas Priest are retro and outdated. I know our thinking is regressive, parabolic, magical and psychotic. Yes, when I eat my lady she tells me: ‘You are so close to your ancestors!’, and it’s so clearly a rewinding of time that opens up our ultra old-fashioned ‘Concerto pour cloportes (concerto for woodlice)’. Always our noble ideology is that of the Old Regime, and when my songs are not written in a dead language – Latin, Old French or the Languedocian Occitan of L’Atrabilaire – my poetry is metrically rhymed and archaically formal.

A raw and melodic BM, melancholic and nostalgic, this ‘melody [that] delights so openly in lawfulness and has such an antipathy for everything that is still becoming, still unformed and arbitrary, that it sounds like an echo of the old order in Europe and like a seduction to go back to that’ (Nietzsche, ‘On Music’ in The Gay Science), coming out of the blue from a very impressionist fog: a nebulous-swampy production style, never clinical, the essence is in the impression, this sound with fuzzy features like those of memories. The idea of Beauty, Nobility and Grandeur, leaps to mind when BM offers flashes of regions and times past, mental ancestral heritage, genetic memory. Because what faces at least stay pure in our cavalier heads? Only those of your ancient lands, O! Old Europe! Invulnerable and virginal, not yet mutilated by the obscene talons of the Last of Men [see Nietzsche’s ‘Last Man’]. BM is a music with integrity (from the Latin stem integer, meaning intact) – which helps us to remain intact among a dying world, amidst a decomposing people, unworthy of its Blood. Its scars and its stench, its smell of a millenary corpse, are there only to show that it is as old as the times it emanates. As a regional religion it gives us a sense of continuity in time and permanence in a place, as writes Jean Lafond in the preface to L’Astrée. A pure A.O.C. product (A.O.C. = Controlled Designation of Origin), a cheese that is white (without artificial colouring) and gamey in taste (without preservatives), that exudes the place in which it was made. With it, the past or history of a place, out of reach, returns here. ‘Art is connected to necromancy. Magie is the anagram of an image. Art is a metamorphosis. It gives life and voice to the inanimate’ wrote Jacqueline Cerquiglini. Images, lives and voices of our obscure national History, as of our local legends, BM delivers us from this century by resurrecting the Past.

And hate, terror, disorder, will arise as soon as it evokes the future, or the current world…

Through it is expressed more nausea than love, and filth rather than beauty.

Famine, Diary of PN, in the magazine La mesnie Herlequin #1, forthcoming.

Translation : Martin, Monica and L’Atrabilaire.

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