CVLT Nation Captures: KRALLICE,PYRRHON + More
Sometimes, you’ve just got to go to the show. Doesn’t matter how cozy your couch is, how stocked your fridge or how early your job interview is the next day. A gig is a gig is a gig and when you greet death he’s not going to ask you if you had enough naps or snacks or blew a career opportunity because you were too shaky too shave and your tinnitus is pretty much officially out of hand so half the conversation sounded like a broken radiator and so OF COURSE you talked too loud and swore too freely and fuck them if they don’t want to hire the real you.
Death will want to know if you took every opportunity you could to get off your ass and rage.
SO LET’S DO IT!
AEVITERNE roughly translates into “ETERNAL” (I think) though the phrase aeviternal seems much more common if theological in nature and pertains to the mid-point between time and eternity? The internet is a confounding treasure. AEVITERNE play death metal with a lockjawed ferocity that gives aspiring graphic designers wet dreams. This band grew out of GATH ŠMÂNÊ. Still inexorable.
All photos & Text by Charles Nickles
MORE DEATH! but this time with a bit of a LIHC bent. Heady and grueling and just a little bit jazz nerd. I think some of the dudes from Blame God are here fucking shit up in the pit. They’re considerate of other people’s persons though and I appreciate that. It’s way too early in the bill to get killed.
Holy FUCK, though! Pyrrhon. PYRRHON! I don’t think they insist on capitalizing the entirety of their name but they should because these dudes are on some serious taking tiger mountain by lunacy shit with the noise and the fuckfright and the cruelist anarchy. THIS is the metal I need. This is the bad scene. At first I was thinking Full of Hell, sunstroked in Sing Sing but now I’m thinking Racebannon in a knife fight with a grizzly except the grizzly’s hands are all knives and God is dead and your mom’s your sister.
Whoever thought I would look to Krallice for some peace and restitution but here we are and there they go off on their Odyssean death-first, black lung freakout. You know, I’m never really sure whether or not I like this band. Sometimes, they stink so hard of prog I want to light myself on fire and run out into the night screaming “NEIL PEART, DUDE! NEAL PEART!” Other times, they welcome me to the apex of a beatific madness with relentless ability to right the nightmare of being with melodious scorn.