I have no doubt that castigation awaits for such heresy, but In Solitude have now moved so far beyond a definition as simplistic as ‘metal’ as not to be definable as ‘metal’ at all. Indeed, if in Solitude have spiritual and musical forebears it is in the psychedelic rage and nihilistic despair of The Doors and the hi-octane indie of Strangelove, the singer of which (one Patrick Duff) Pelle bears more than a passing resemblance to in intonation and tone.
Quite what In Solitude have become is entirely open to debate, and possibly will be debated viciously over internet forums for years to come, so for the sake of this review let’s just call them unique and have done, for while we could trace In Solitudes dry, atmospheric sound back to Joy Division via The Cure and My Dying Bride, such comparisons scarcely do the band justice. Atmospheric is definitely a key word here – you don’t so much listen to In solitude songs as live them, Pele’s voice always guiding you through the darkness, but never without the threat of leaving you there should you attempt to influence your surroundings in any way. Opening track ‘he comes’ with its beautiful acoustic guitars and tribal beat has a strangely western feel amidst its dusty elements, as if the man with no name could come striding out from the haze at any moment, and when Pele does appear in a mess of reverb, his voice both rich and haunting, you can picture him alone and black-clad, emerging out of a swirling mirage as you draw ever nearer to his pallid figure. The song reaches a climax and suddenly your hurled, confused and wailing, into the furious maelstrom of ‘Death knows where’, a post-punk, pre-metal (whatever you want to call it) blast of chugging guitars that are given all the more power by Pelle standing tall above the furore delivering his lyrics like a preacher giving the sermon. It’s attention-demanding, powerful music that sounds utterly unlike anything else likely to be released this year, and it carries with it a palpable sense of excitement. Once again recalling the darker end of the indie scene circa 1994, ‘A buried sun’ is a lengthy assault that sees Pelle channelling Nick Cave over a doom-laden backdrop that veers between a carefully picked verse and a chorus awash in monumental power chords. Once again bouncing into Cure territory is the twisted pop guitars and driving beat of ‘pallid hands’, a song that takes the aforementioned act’s unfailing gift for producing melodies of exquisite darkness and adds metallic flourishes, making for a fascinating and often unnerving listen. ‘Lavender’ is a huge track, opening with massive slabs of guitar before taking off in an unexpectedly western direction, once again drawing a line between the pale-skinned torment of gothic rock, an unhinged preacher played by Nick Cave and the dusty atmosphere of Sergio Leone’s grandest work. As always Pelle stands at the heart of the track, his brilliantly realised vocal delivered with so much power that it is impossible to tear yourself away from his voice. Like a snake charmer, he weaves before the listener, demanding your complete and rapt attention, as the music surges around both you and he, blocking out irrelevant externalities and leaving you locked in his gaze, unable to leave until the CD draws to a close.
The title track, already readily available to download, is anomalous with its near-stoner riff and sanguine bass line. It provides a taste of the album, but works so much better within the embrace of the record than it does shorn of context,, although there is something undeniably exciting about its demonic disco beat and post-punk delivery recalling the Clash’s much maligned ‘Sandanista’ crossbred with joy Division. ‘horse in the ground’ opens with a brutal bass refrain before the narrow-focused soundscape pulls back to reveal the whole band galloping in unison. It’s a breathtakingly fast piece of music that surges forward with froth-mouthed urgency and delivers the listener, exhilarated and exhausted, to the album’s final track ‘Inmost Nigredo’, a track that simmers with the sultry passion of late-night jazz, the guitars winding with a sensuous touch around the listener only to suddenly burst forth in Black Sabbath-aping fashion, tearing the listener from their brief reverie and leaving them staring into a blackened abyss that they hitherto had failed to even notice, let alone contemplate.
In Solitude are a force unto themselves. Musically their lineage would seem to be far more closely linked to the post punk revolution of the early eighties than the brutal surge of metal, although there are elements of doom which rise to the surface form time to time to lend the music additional weight. The key here is Pelle’s excellent, even awe-inspiring performance, which leaves you mesmerised. The album is one which grows upon you, lingering long in the mind after it has finished, and you’ll find yourself almost subconsciously returning to its blackened pastures, so magical is the spell of the music. In solitude defy categorisation and rationalisation. Theirs is a world where music is made to satisfy the demons at the centre of their own souls, and we, as listeners, should consider ourselves privileged to be along for the ride. If you like intelligent, intense music that has a power and energy that is tantamount to a spiritual experience then ‘Sister’ is an essential purchase. Untamed, uncontrollable and unmissable, ‘Sister’ is In Solitude’s most powerful statement yet.
