Explaining the Theologian to the non-believer (“has it gone into a loop?” was one innocent enquiry) is nigh-on impossible. As much as it seems proscriptive to delineate anything into the ‘either you get it or you don’t’ category, the industrial-tinged, blackened soundscapes offered here are unlikely to be popular with those whose rigidly enforced views about the formation of music allow little room for the manoeuvrings of the avant-garde. Yet, despite the ubiquitous darkness of the sleeve with its translucent bodies and chilling literary quotes, the music presented here is possibly the most accessible work the Theologian have ever undertaken, although that is not to say it is an easy ride.
An eight track exploration of the psyche, constructed from looped drones, industrial beats and distorted voices, the primary feeling upon introducing this disc into your world is that of discomfort, a gnawing, cold sense of unanticipated dangers lurking in every corner and the growing notion that nothing is going to be alright ever again. For music to have such psychological ramifications is hardly a new notion – indeed studies have been conducted on exactly this principle – but for it to be so rigidly displayed within the province of a home recording is unexpected indeed. The opening drone of ‘abandon all hope’ is sufficient in depth and malevolent will to succeed entirely within its aim of removing any sense of optimism from your grasp, as distorted vocals rasp out from beneath a scree of metallic distortion, supported only by the devil’s heartbeat and a synth backdrop that is so utterly atonal that your mind begins to play tricks, looking for melody and salvation where none, in truth, exist. It’s strange then, that despite its length and the harrowing nature of its contents, that it passes with surprising alacrity.
After such an opening (it stretches for some fourteen minutes), ‘starvation is a legitimate weapon of war’ is almost a relief, despite its troubling theme harking back to the frozen horrors of the Russian front, with its icy, echoing synths throbbing a distant pulse through a glassy veneer that makes one gasp with the cold. It’s but a short interlude on the way to warmer climes of ‘my body is made of ash… I live as ash’, a track which delivers a multi-layered drone that builds upon a simple premise to a climax that swelters under a blazing intensity. It is a cold sort of ecstasy that dwells at the heart of these tracks, as if pleasure itself must needs be painful, and as ‘we can’t all be victims’ simmers into view on the back of a pummelling bass line that makes you question the integrity of your speakers, you start to appreciate the dark joys of what the Theologian is endeavouring to create. The thunderous percussive assault here – as close to conventional structure as you are liable to find – is the equivalent of being caught inside a steel drum being beaten from all sides, and too much time exposed to such nausea-inducing noise would surely beckon insanity if it wasn’t arguable that you have already achieved that state via the previous tracks.
Rising out of a mire of distorted electronics, ‘I don’t exist’ reworks the Terminator theme for the post-Aphex Twin generation, all thudding bass and nihilistic fervour. It sounds futuristic, damaged in its travel back to our time, and it grows increasingly distorted as the track progresses, swathes of synth threatening to envelop the listener as the tribal beat thuds in time to your heart – there is beauty here, but only if you master the courage to seek it out, and for many the layers of filth that obscure the track’s inner light will be prohibitive indeed. ‘Bed of maggots’, despite its provocative title, utilises a nagging synth line to represent the rippling movements of the titular creatures rather than the filth and horror that such an image should evoke. With a buzzing undercurrent that recalls a dark swarm of flies, the emphasis is on life and movement, even as that life may be feeding upon the flesh of the dead. It is an intriguing inversion of what the listener expects from the track, but the excursion down through dense layers of drone is a sinister one that grows ever more harrowing. The thudding ‘chasms of my heart’ is the techno music played in hell and filtered through the dancing sulphuric flames and myriad screams of souls in torment. It rages and stutters, echoing around the cavernous walls of the listener’s imagination. The grand conclusion is the calamitous ‘every road leads to abandonment’, a song that takes the bleak industrial ‘reptile’ from ‘the downward spiral’ and draws it to its logical conclusion – the soundtrack the perfect fusion of organic drones that capture the sound and skittering energy of a swarm of insects and industrial machinery, stamping out unseen metallic consumer items amidst a cavernous space filled with pistons and the scent of lubricating oil. It is utterly horrific, devastatingly compelling and completely unique.
The Theologian is a project that delves deep into the human psyche and consistently uncovers the unexpected. The song titles are a metaphorical guide to the disturbing contents you will find inside and the album focuses on texture and atmosphere in a way that Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross have recently endeavoured to do on the soundtrack for ‘the girl with the dragon tattoo’. It is a dark experience, although inevitably with ambient music of this nature you bring your own experiences with you and it is this that will determine how eerie you find the trip to be – The theologian is a catalyst to the imagination, but it is open-ended enough not to prescribe the journey that you will take. As noted previously this is not music that will find favour with a large following, but for those who are hypnotised by free-form drone and ambient excursions then ‘the chasms of my heart’ will prove to be a special release indeed. The Theologian has carved a dark treasure in this record, an artistic achievement that hides its charms beneath a cloak of sinister misanthropy and nihilism, but persevere and the rewards are significant.
