Please please, come inside. Welcome to Magnetic Park. We've just finished drawing the pentagram in goat's blood on the floor and we're almost ready to conjure up the seventh level. What? Just a "door-to-door encyclopedia salesman," huh? Well, there'll be no need for encyclopedias where we're going, but I'm afraid you've already seen too much for us to simply let you leave... alive! OH, I'm kidding. Relax. You'll only have to stay until the ceremony is complete, at which point you'll hopefully be a true believer like the rest of us. Now please put this cloak on, say a prayer to the severed head, and prepare your body for the fluid of the infants.
Let me just introduce everyone, then. Those two around the black ring of fire, Greg Anderson and Stephen O'Malley, are the originators of this sacred music and ceremony you are about to experience, Sunn O)))'s White1. The individual resting on the mystical stool of the beheaded is Rex Ritter, formerly of such cults as Fontanelle and Jessamine, and to his right is Joe Preston, of Earth and The Melvins, who prepares the accompanying drum machines to our din of sin. The one awash in his own feces is Julian Cope. He'll be regaling us with one of his famous odes this evening, and hopefully making his exit shortly thereafter. Between you, me, and the skinned bunny rabbits, he sort of gives everyone here the creeps.
It has begun. Since you are new to the ceremony, I will walk you through the dark and deafening sounds your aura will soon be cleansed with. The music currently loosening your bowels is the obstinate bass feedback the group is known for in this community. It serves as the breaker upon which the guitar tremolos crash, giving the duo their distinctive and brooding sound. Julian arises now to begin his exercise in theatric word painting, "My Wall". It's really quite enjoyable to listen to, and even more fun to recite once one gets past the coquettish nature with which he refers to Anderson and O'Malley.
The key to deciphering Cope's abstract speech can be found in the line, "My wall, my wall, caught beneath the thrall of my wall," referring to both the weight of the song and his faux-epitaph-- "here be the wall of Johnny Guitar." Ready? Repeat after me, "Old mother-fucker, she was a cock-sucker." Isn't he a lyrical genius? And now begins the instrumental outpour. Be sure and pay attention to how the tonal washes of the electric strings continue to lull you into a false security while the occasional crashes harshly bring you back to the reality of your knocking knees.
Don't be frightened, that's only Runhild Gammelsaeter of Thorr's Hammer fame. She marks the beginning of "The Gates of Ballard" portion of the rite by rising from the throne of discarded headcheese. Her chant serves as the high-end compliment to the single rising tone of instrumentation. The strong bass kicks in, stalls, and eventually progresses into a rhythm outfitted by a programmed drum, courtesy of Ritter. This atmosphere is explored off and on for the remainder of the song, until it eventually gives way to "A Shaving of the Horn That Spared You".
This "Shaving of the Horn" track is meant to explore the more experimental yearnings of the dark Lord that oversees all such doom metal. It pulses at times like a Stockhausen-directed helicopter, with hissing and popping that's occasionally cut by angular guitar noises. The humming you hear is meant to provide an accented beauty to the harsh sounds and effects that O'Malley and Anderson usher forth from their instruments. The truly remarkable moment has not yet come upon us, though. Be patient, you will see.
AH! THE HUMMING HAS TRANSFORMED ITSELF INTO A GNARLED AND UGLY GROWL! ALL THINGS ONCE CONSIDERED STUNNING AND ATTRACTIVE ARE NOW PEPPER TO YOUR EYES UPON BEARING WITNESS TO THE POWER OF THE SATANIC DRONE!
HEY! Where you going? Don't leave yet! BUT YOU LEFT YOUR ALL YOUR CLOTHES AND PAPERS HERE! Yeah, I don't know what his deal was, guys. I guess some people just can't handle the brute power of music like this. What a pity...
