I have decided that the tempo of the apocalypse will be either blazingly fast, or set to the speed of black molasses. Anoedipal is just oozing and oozing this second kind of discomfort. This industrial strength doom is more industrial strength elitist black metal on hashish; tag it doom, in any one of its forms, and you would be classifying this as at least a little bit forgiving. This is not. This is just bleak beyond bleak.
For those of you already familiar with P.H.O.B.O.S., Anoedipal doesn't do much to separate itself from 2005's equally uncomfortable Tectonics, except further the temperature drop. I usually equate melody with a sense of warmth, and where there may have been a sort of flirting with melody on Tectonics (hardly), there is even less here, which means pretty much nil, making this colder than many things cold. But if this is an introduction of sorts, then imagine if you will a large machine (without conscience, as machines often are), preferably something sent back from Skynet, destined to plant each cog of every one of its wheels firmly into your skull. Turning toward, touching, pushing in, attaching, pulling away, and taking pieces of you with it, one minute at a time, and slowly, slow enough to hear your outer crunchy shell crack and give way to the soft. This happens repeatedly for the better part of an hour through an almost (very very slight) Voivodian take on audio-masochism, but more so just tastes like 1989, like a Godflesh Streetcleaner 1989, at the bottom of a bottle of Nyquil.
This brooding collection of thick dissonance (authored by both guitar and synth), primitive electronic drum sounds, and spiteful venomous spewing blends into itself at a disturbingly slow-rolling pace (not quite as disturbing as movement at the speed of a funeral, but concerning nonetheless), and will challenge your patience over the course of its colorlessness. From a musical standpoint, you must be able to thoroughly enjoy hypnotism in order to fully appreciate this. I had the pleasure of giving Anoedipal its first spin while driving in horrible weather conditions, the kind where you see many ambulances, crashed cars, and bodies strewn across streets and sidewalks, and it enhanced the listening experience tenfold. But you don't even have to appreciate droning compositions or cadavers at hand to find yourself involved. Frederic Sacri's (this guy is the soul in this solo outfit) acidic delivery is reason enough. He forcefully regurgitates the English language and attacks its syllables with a sacrilegious tongue. Seriously poisonous.
As far as attention spans go, give it all or give it nothing. Grab your headphones and a box of bandages and let's roll.
- Sacha Horn
/ dec. 2008 (7,5/10)