Voices of Omens, the previous LP by Arkansas doom troupe Rwake, opened with a foreboding, 82-second mandolin meditation, its thin notes hanging like premonitions before the strangled samples and serrated guitars of "The Finality" cut in. Rest, the band's latest, also begins with a prelude of prettiness. Here, an acoustic guitar line circles around itself with a slide guitar and a keyboard drone distantly echoing the melody. As with most everything on Rest, Rwake makes this relatively placid introduction-- nearly as much a heavy metal trope as the apocalypse and goblins-- a bit weirder and wilder than expected. As the drone swells, female vocals intertwine with the guitars, casting a spell that seems to summon the band's scorn. When it finally arrives, it's relentless and exhilarating, the sort of inclusive "doom" that moves with the same unpredictable force of the Body's 2010 opus, All the Waters of the Earth Turn to Blood. If that sounds like high praise, it is: Rest is the best album of Rwake's 14-year career, further proof that doom does exist beyond Neurosis.
Although Rwake have been making music for more than a decade, Rest comes turbocharged by an obsession with ideas and influences different from those you might generally expect from a younger band. The album incorporates flute, MIDI, marimba, mandolin, stacked sine-wave drones, and loads of acoustic and electric guitars, all expertly captured by go-to metal guy Sanford Parker. After that eerie introduction, for instance, a viscous riff expectedly cascades in turgid waves. That lasts only for about 20 seconds, though, at which point a sizzling lead cuts through, like an Allman perched atop an army. Actually, within the first two minutes of "It Was Beautiful But Now It's Sour", moments of Teutonic thrash, Pentecostal glossolalia, and power-electronics din have their spotlight share. The song lasts nearly 12 minutes, and it never starts to scrimp on the surprises. The same goes for the 16-minute "The Culling", a sidewinding number that builds from the kind of electro-acoustic drift Agalloch favor into a pummeling rage with twin guitar leads, risky vocal manipulation, and a restless rhythm section that consistently pushes the band into unforeseen directions. And, in spite of the frequent doom tag, "An Invisible Thread" races through speed metal, black metal, and hardcore-like blasts before-- after more than four minutes-- settling into a malevolent, down-tempo throb more consistent with the niche. This slower section not only offers four of the album's most compelling minutes (Rwake seem most practiced and comfortable at this pace), but also gives them the chance to offer a sort of mission statement-- a vision of artistic renewal in a world plagued by fakers. "When all the others give and fucking take/ Users suck the life to fucking live," Rwake's B. and C.T. shout together in scorn. "Imitate life but never recreate."
After all, Rest is very much made with a bleak worldview, built lyrically on references to being pulled into the sun, singing songs of sorrow, and having a sick stomach. But there's a core of resilience here that seems to be anchored to an idea of exploration and conquest-- survivors fighting their way through a tunnel, working against evil forces that hide in the shadows. It's an appropriate theme for Rwake, a band that seems to hold nothing sacred within its purview of what is and what is not heavy metal. Sure, they use a half-dozen of the techniques you'll anticipate from a brutal Southern doom band, from samples about death and the cosmos to calm passages meant to offer relief from and juxtaposition to the record's generally vengeful maul. But for these 53 minutes, they also offer a barrage of the unexpected, relighting doom from the strangest corners.
