Wolves In The Throne Room

Pity the day poor, dear black metal reaches the 1000 mark of record labels who’ve tried to do something with it. Pentagram-festooned albums have been pouring out of the sky ever since Venom singer Cronos proved to the world that even a knob who pretends to worship Satan can get studio time (and maybe more, dude, nudge nudge nudge) with a painfully hot babe like Kate Bush. For years, though, demons from all over the world have toiled in their cellars like little goat-horned Anton Newcombes, releasing album after album, getting record deals, losing record deals, washing off their inverted-crucifix face-paintings before reporting for duty at Walmart stores, and flitting around the great major label spotlight like moths to a bug zapper.

Despite being boycotted and mocked by the punk world at large, Celtic Frost and whatnot were considered metal’s haute couture during their heyday in the late 80s, creating an international none-too-secret society of tape-trading kiddies who didn’t feel worthy unless they were able to get their hands on the new Goatlord demo. Post offices found themselves swamped with bubble-pack mailers from as far away as Poland, all with “666” written on them in black magic marker. For a while it seemed as though Lucifer was finally in a position to take over this dump of a planet after all. All those singers in King Diamond makeup, all the four-chord hamster-wheel progressions, all the mud-beast vocals, all the surreal carnage.

But, as happened with Herbie the Dentist Elf in the classic cinematic triumph “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” times become tough. Fearing torch-carrying reprisals from the wives of selectmen, all-ages punk promoters wouldn’t allow them into the rented coffee shop basements all the myriad Samhain-clones called home. New ideas among the black metallers were rarer than a Bush crony nipping a world-class disaster in the bud. And the best material was coming in from Norway, of all the godforsaken hell-holes on earth.

Enter Sunn0))). Yes, that’s how it’s spelled – like the old amplifier. From out of nowhere, these utter, utter kookpots not only took black metal in a slower, more ambient direction, but despots of hipness like Village Voice and Pitchfork came along for the ride, showering them with cleverly worded praise (since post-Brian Jonestown Massacre indie is in such a laughable state, this should not come as a giant surprise to anyone). Like Sunn0))), our friends Wolves in the Throne Room offer appallingly long songs comprised of slow, jangly 2-chord riffs and tortured vocals recorded with the reverb floored. Unlike Sunn0))), though, Wolves occasionally showcase the Loreena McKennitt-like space-chick vocals of someone named Jamie, who, it appears, is posed nude in the CD insert. This is a musical watershed, man – if Rancid Decay is a tyrannosaurus, Wolves in the Throne Room is Mothra.

Outraged ranting, indie label release news and spaghetti sauce recipes are always welcome. Email ericsaeger@mindspring.com