These eight tracks are the diary of a year of work steeped in honing craft, self-discovery, and grief. With these words Blank Mass, aka Benjamin John Power summarized his studio album titled Animated violence mild, that saw the light on the 16th of August this year, two years later the ground-breaking World eater, that had already consecrated him like one of the most innovative masterminds out there. Eight tracks that were recorded in a studio outside of Edinburgh which could be immediately classed as heavy striking heritage of Unesco.
This undulating project clarifies its Easter egg from its eloquent cover: a blood-dripping apple that conjures up the Book of Genesis forbidden fruit, a concept herby stating how poisonous these dark times ended up being, with humanity slavering over nothing but money-driven desires and merciless ambitions, without any scrupulous.
To portrait all this in music the member of the drone band Fuck Buttons swims across some cyberpunk pure wonder, that clearly has no intention to buck the audience’s spirit up. The record morphs with ferocity and thunderous beats, a territory in which Blank Mass unashamedly excels. And if the voice-only Intro seems to butter up what it’s next to come, Death drop immediately pitches up in a melodic topos smeared with astonishment, where its lexicon is as sharp as needed to grapple with the author’s emotional tsunami.
But as the perception undergoes its representation in music, we quickly find ourselves in a vigorous tour-de-force through the rippling waters of human beings’ rawest emotions: the abrasive Wings of Hate is a weighty sandstorm of layers and pulses. Nothing is rose-tinted, the baleful look of remorseless capitalism is reflected on tracks like No Dice, the nightcore-fueled Hus Money and the bewitching Love is a parasite.
But the pathway is not sold to perennial, submissive negativity: the enlightening House vs House expels hope, turning out to be a liberating tune on a metaphysical, utterly transcendent level. Creature/west Fuqua is heart-lifting, the melody is that faultless that easily embodies perfection.
The atmosphere itself echoes Blak Mass’s versatile career: His misty bubble wrap songs tag along Moby’s early years of insanely electronic libertinage as much as they stir up his previous experience with ethereal landscapes made in Sigur Ros and Jon Hopkins.
The result of such collective panic attack is a timeless masterpiece that is amber for any music lover, hands down, an album that exudes resin to cure everyday frustration as a social exorcism.
And how fitting it is that the creator of all that named itself Blank Mass, a fascinating concept that finds its interesting roots in the Italian author Luigi Pirandello’s essay about transforming identity called Warning on the Scruples of the Imagination. What we really are, says the writer, is just an inadequate metaphor of ourselves, something mysterious that even we ourselves fail to understand beyond a certain point.
Well, we don’t know if our hero feels this very same way about himself, after all he even gathered Ennio Morricone‘s consensus, approval and motivation, but what is crystal clear here is that with this strident album we discovered that the Apocalypse got infiltrated by a Genius and ladies and gentleman his name is Benjamin John Power.