Long before its release, III: Beneath Trident’s Tomb became a punchline for both heavy metal and indie rock fans. Less than a year after news of his split with Kim Gordon (and the concomitant break-up of Sonic Youth) surfaced, Thurston Moore joined Twilight, an amorphous pan-American supergroup that had previously collected metalhead lifers such as Leviathan’s Wrest, Nachtmystium’s Blake Judd, and Krieg’s irascible leader Neill Jameson. Xasthur’s Malefic and Isis’ Aaron Turner had recorded with Twilight, too. Moore wasn’t a stranger to black metal, of course—he’d written about it in Arthur, professed his rather nascent love for its hate to Decibel, and had generally been part of the caustic form’s larger cultural uptick. His own vision of noise and volume had an undeniable impact on the evolution of heaviness during the last two decades, evidenced simply by his admission into the band itself. Still, it was hard not to feel a little embarrassed for the 55-year-old, in the same way you might grin but worry when a newly single parent admits they’ve squandered a chunk of retirement change on a candy-apple sports car. An indie rock icon prepared for his corpsepaint makeover.
Moore’s personal crisis wasn’t Twilight’s only moment of ignominy, either: In 2011, Jef Whitehead, or Wrest, had been charged with sexual assault and he was eventually convicted of aggravated domestic battery and sentenced to two years of probation. Though Judd doesn’t play on Beneath Trident’s Tomb, he did appear in band photos with Moore after he broke the news of the guitarist’s inclusion. In the past year, he’s been accused of ripping off fans and bandmates, arrested for theft, and ultimately revealed that he was retreating the scene with hopes of beating his substance-abuse problems. What’s more, when the group finally announced its long-delayed third album, it added a seemingly inevitable asterisk: III: Beneath Trident’s Tomb would be Twilight’s final album, because, effective immediately, the band was finished. If it was drama and excitement Moore sought, he had doubtlessly found it.
This tale of turmoil could go two ways for Beneath Trident’s Tomb, of course. It might provide an obstacle for Twilight to overcome, adding a core of tension and urgency to their process. Twilight could create its own pre-emptive Behind the Music and counter with their most wrenching album to date. Or the fuss could simply become the ballyhoo before the album’s eventual bust. Really, these six songs offer a little of both: The collective scrapes through a mess of black metal and sludge, industrial accents and noise countercurrents, post-punk switchbacks and atmospheric interludes. The music itself can be delightfully dense, with Moore and the Atlas Moth vocalist/guitarist Stavros Giannopoulos providing layer upon layer of leading riffs and antagonistic din. Moore plays the part of noise addendum perfectly, adding thin layers of dissonance and quick flashes of power when needed. Chicago producer Sanford Parker again adds electronic disarray, retrenching the album’s pronounced industrial direction.
Given the band’s new mass of guitars, they’re able to ratchet volume and intensity constantly. On “Seek No Shelter Fevered Ones”, for instance, they add an additional damaged layer of vocals or sub-surface shot of feedback at seemingly every turnaround. That same strength-in-numbers strategy works for the album’s best song, “Oh Wretched Son”. Twilight pinball from ghoulish lurch to bass-led sludge, from claustrophobic black metal to hardcore upheaval in a matter of minutes. They render each part with the precision of a veteran squad and the energy of five players enthusiastically building a collective musical map. They’re questioning in real-time what this version of Twilight is, and they’re answering rather loudly.
But that is the exception to Tomb’s blasé rule. Most of these songs suffer from a lack of motion or a mere inability to edit the excess away from that motion. Opener “Lungs” certainly sounds mean, but it lashes at the same theme at the same tempo for most of its four-minute runtime. It’s hard not to stare at the track time in anticipation of any change. As though acknowledging the tedium, Twilight does speed up for a short-lived coda, but even that feels like an afterthought, a footnote of excitement meant to mask general ennui. “Swarming Funereal Mass” is a tormented mid-tempo march, its doleful plod accented by drum machines and desperate vocals. There’s a riveting break toward the middle, where a gale of guitar noise overruns everything and seems to send even the band into shivers. But they soon drift into the same rote clip, extending one idea unnecessarily. That’s even true of the otherwise powerful “Seek No Shelter for the Fevered Ones”. At nine minutes, it’s impossibly bloated, a track whose placid introduction, steady buildup, and squall-infested midsection could have been condensed into a harrowing four minutes. As is, though, you’ll get too accustomed to the attack to be scared by it; Twilight’s apparent need to turn every little thought into very grand statements fosters a kind of sensory acclimation, where you become so used to the maneuvers they fail to leave any lasting effect.
Taken collectively, Twilight’s three finished albums feel like a decision still waiting to be made: What did this band hope to accomplish musically, other than to corral a handful of scene celebrities into a room every few years? Was their heart with the primal roar of their self-titled debut, a blunderbuss of invective and torment? Or was their head with Monument to Time End, a sophisticated sophomore album that seemed to take the talents of its members and apply them to more audacious structures than ever before? Given some refinement, that approach could have made Twilight incredible, a supergroup worth the noise that surrounds them. More than anything, Beneath Trident’s Tomb seems like an attempt to avoid any such stepwise intentionality, choosing instead to let a few aging dudes throw a fit in a recording studio behind a small set of underdeveloped songs. Beneath Trident’s Tomb shows flashes of brilliance. But those limited sparks add up to a disappointing final bow from a band whose sordid reputation and fable-like storyline will likely outlast the music it made.
Correction: an earlier version of this review misstated that Jef Whitehead was convicted of sexual assault; he was initially charged with sexual assault and ultimately convicted of aggravated domestic battery.
