There is a party going down in the Norwegian woods. There is a massive bonfire and hundreds of long-haired figures, stumbling around it, charging at each other and howling at the moon. The golden light of the flame reflecting off their leather jackets. Beer slacking their throats in preparation for the next bellow. It seems like a good time, but something isn't right. The longer the party rages the more animalistic the revelers become, and the hotter and taller the flame grows. And now there is a shadow in the flame. The stain in the fire has a vaguely human form, but with horns and other malformations that confound your senses. And now it is staring at you and drawing you into its fold. Terrifying for sure. But undeniably fun as well. And that's Splid, the new album from Norway's Kvelertak, at a distance. A bacchanal of fiends. A ball for Baphomet. A party to herald the shroud of a world-devouring doom.
Kvelertak exploded onto the metal scene at the end of the '00s with a Kurt Ballou produced steamrolling monster-mash of vicious hardcore punk, and raucous southern and psychedelic rock. Bloggers at the time didn't know what to do with it. Kvelertak had run a railroad spike through their skull from ear to ear, and their brains had deflated around its harsh sonic intrusion. It wasn't until the band's third album, 2016's Nattesferd, that folks started to get on Kvelertak’s level. The band never changed their style, they've always been the only dudes in their lane, but they've gotten better and more comfortable in that style over time, and their influences have only become more apparent as a result. What I think surprises some folks is how much Kvelertak pulls from bands like The Hellacopters and Turbonegro, and how much darker and more savage they make these already heavy and feral sounds. The confidence the band demonstrates in their songwriting and execution continues to be impressive, especially their ability to retain their essential character and acumen even while transitioning to a new frontman, Ivar Nikolaisen, following the amiable exit of their original howler Erlend Hjelvik in 2018. And Nikolaisen is more than up to the challenge of matching Hjelvik's bark and prowling purr.
Kvelertak's sound, like their album art, is chimeric. It is beast of many beasts, with clear delineations between constituent parts, yet, each forming an integral part of its monstrous whole. Nattesferd offered a glimpse of the band's evolving interest in '70s hard rock, but "Crack of Doom" is the culmination of that fixation. A svelte chrome-coated killing machine that the particular selection pressures of the band's rehearsal room have conspired to incubate and then unleash upon a world which is now theirs to conquer and consume. There are many points on Splid, but especially on "Crack of Doom," where Kvelertak reach their talons through the muscle fibers of metals past, fleshy ribbons parting before them like stage curtains before a rendition of Carmen. Extending their crinkled, hairy claws, winding back through time to the point where the acid rock and hazy R'nB of the NWOBM mutated into the arena rock of Motley Crue and W.A.S.P. And in finding this mythic point of transition, they grasp the heart of the movement mercilessly within their gnarled fist, and rip it out like a bad tooth. The way Thin Lizzy leads tumble over each other like pig entrails dumped into a meat grinder is to be savored with perverse delight, as they make a slurry of sentient meat that bubbles and churns with new life, reified with a sense of purpose and malice. The voice of Mastodon's Tony Sanders’ erupts this foul brew with throat-lacerating force. With its barbed hooks, black-ice skid rhythms, and deathless energy, it's an excellent introduction to the rest of the album and sets the listener up for the knock-down of the remaining tracks that the album has in store for them.
The sounds of heavy metals past are clearly unavoidable on the album as is the genre's dogged commitment to painting a portrait of the human-animal as an ill-tempered, troglodyte whose survival has historically hinged on little else then its delusions, willfulness, and stubbornness. The themes of thick brained creatures seizing the day, one bloody, eye-gouging brawl at a time, permeate the air around the Splid, as it should on the best classic metal albums, like sweat evaporating off the skin like a damp milky mist in the cool night air. The reptilian, double back grooves of "Bratebrann" twist and strike like a lost member of the tribe of Screaming for Vengeance. Judas Priest's sleepless, wondering sense of coldblooded resolve ala Entry Point is also manifested on tracks like "Fanden Ta Dette Hull!," and ala Hell Bent for Leather on "Stevnemote Med Satan," with its white lightning leads, puncturing the earth as they berth and distributing their spiritual energy into the ground, as if to raise the ghost of Phil Lynott like a guitar-wielding ghoul, to summon more fire from the heavens with the shriek of his six-stringed mjölnir.
In its backward gaze, Kvelertak has not overlooked their own past. This is a band that has yet to lose the forceful push of hardcore punk that injected their early albums with such vicious supernatural energy. "Discord" explodes with a cluster of combustible, interwound chord progressions that spiral and adhere together like the fuse of a barrel of TNT, just waiting to level the slope of a mountain pass, while "Uglas Hegemoni" takes a more straightforward Kinks-esque mode to punk while retaining the band's devastating approach to hook-smithery and bloody-fisted beats, borrowing the latter from Discharge and the former from groups who claim the same path as The Hives. Black metal has always been the least essential part of the group's sound, and Splid doesn't need any of that genre's bleak and bitter power to give it any more weight or maintain its intensity, but prudence and restraint are not where Kvelertak excel, so the album closes out with "Ved Bredden Av Nihil," a sun blackening swarm of endlessly descending Enslaved-esque tremolos and weaving, chilling Dissection inspired grooves that begin with an acoustic intro, scalped from the crown of "Where Dead Angels Lie." Splid is a serpent with many heads, each with its own potent venom, each as deadly as the last.
One of the more singular departures for the band on Splid is "Tevling." The sauntering intro has an early '80s new wave vibe while the clean singing that overlaps with it calls back to Don Henley in its more forlorn and bitter moments. The caress of this soft open is maintained throughout the remainder of the track, even after receiving a spike of Imperial State Electric-esque chords and towering, brutalist beats. Hooks that land this much concussive force but keep you coming back for more should be impossible, and yet this is every hook, in every bar, demonstrating Kvelertak's mastery of the pandemonium and hot black magic we call rock ‘n roll.
When listening to Splid, it's hard to not think of the band as at the top of their game. With four near-perfect albums under their belts, it seems unthinkable that they could bring their heavy, sky-cracking party anthems to another level without causing the universe to buckle under the might of their performance, but Splid already feels like it gets us to the end of the world, and in peering over the side and into the abyss, the only way forward may be through. I'm declaring now that I am willing to take this leap of faith with the band wherever they may lead. Splid should cement Kvelertak's reputation at the leader of the punk/metal pack. A dynasty born of a devil's flame and fueled by beer and bloodlust.
See also
Mick is always writing about something he's heard. Possibly even something you'd like. You can read his stuff over at I Thought I Heard a Sound Blog.
