From now on we're mostly writing about artists who adopt some level of anonymity. Hoods, like Batushka and Swallow the Sun. Masks, like Imperial Triumphant. Makeup, like Dimmu Borgir and Kiss. Or artists who change their names all the time. Or artists who are not widely known. Or artists who don't care if anyone knows them. Come to think of it, we've always mostly written about artists who have some level of anonymity.
The Polish black-metal band Batushka are an extreme case. Not only do they wear Halloween-monk hoods and robes, but they display their band name and personal stage names in Cyrillic and don't transcribe them when they tour. Plus, more than one "Batushka" featuring an original member exists, each band purveying the distinctive concept of music based on Eastern Orthodox hymns via a churchy visual presentation. It's unclear which Batushka was represented tonight, except that the entity owns a website that touts itself as "official," includes the Metal Blade logo (the group has an album on that label), shows tour dates and offers no personnel info. Certainly the lineup does not include the band's founder. Well, we'd just have to see.
Candles -- just a few votives at first. Spooky moans echo on the P.A. for a looonnng time to set the mood. Two monks drift out and light a couple of candelabra. Church incense billows out in sweet, stifling clouds as more monks take their places with instruments, and three or four microphones are reserved just for vocalists. Oh, there's music, too? The usual black-metal thunder & shriek takes a specific turn with simple, sad melodies strummed by 8-string (it's said) guitar and sung by unison male choral voices, which all blur together with reasonable strength. The power of the Holy Spirit and the DWP fails in the second song, so the monks have to meditate until it's restored, at which point they resume thrusting skulls at the audience, spraying holy water, and parading gilt ikons & crosses. The tempos hang around the middle-slow range. Near the end, fires are lit in basins under two small crucifixes. Some guys in the crowd hoist a girl and spin her slowly around splayed as she giggles.
It's a good show. Uniformly black-clad audience members alternate between moshing and salaaming, unaccustomed to worshiping the Northern Lord but willing to give salvation a whirl for the sake of metal. As to the performers, no priest would take Batushka's schtick for anything but presumption at best, blasphemy at worst. Which is pretty much what Martin Luther said about the Pope, but these Poles' motives are harder to guess than Leo X's.
Second-billed Swallow the Sun are a long-running Finnish progressive-rock band with good guitar tones. They've been described as melodic doom metal, but strip off their hoods and speed them up a few clicks, and they could be Genesis. For the sloggy first two-thirds of their set, StS are all accents, drummer Juuso Raatikainen doing his damnedest to avoid a groove as guitarist Markus Jamsen carves pretty guitar figures and singer Mikko Kotamaki alternates between woofing and fainting. The swaying women in the crowd appear to enjoy gazing upon these slender Nordics; their shuffling dates seem puzzled. But the Swallows break into 6/8 flight, and then transform into soft-rock Pink Floyd, and everyone agrees that's an improvement. Overall: improbable success.
Opening with doublekick and bass loud enough to make you lose your load, St. Louis' Stormruler sticks the black-metal basics right where they belong. A skinny li'l witch with the skinniest li'l guitar you've ever seen, Jason Asberry parts his lank black locks and shrieks for sheer damnation, and damned if he doesn't drag you right along. Partner Jesse Schobel on drums supplies the horsepower, and do we recognize one of the axmen from Swallow the Sun on lead guitar and hair twirl? Looks like Jason helping StS with between-set amp changeovers, too -- love that road camaraderie. Intensity; variety; pace; and Asberry ends the set by packing in a tight medley. Devil horns demanded and deserved.