
Summoning, dehumanization, and rebirth. So progresses the latest album from Germany's Dark Fortress (not to be confused with the other German black metal band also named Dark Fortress: that group disbanded years ago). Eidolon is a tale simmering in the occult, a soundtrack to ritual upon ritual whose culmination is the propulsion of a man through the threshold of a magical mirror, out of the confines of his human body, and beyond the boundaries of this universe. The subject is entranced by rites that call upon unearthly beings who usher him past the mirror gateway where his flesh is unmade and he begins a new astral existence, leaving only his reflection upon the earth. Or so says Morean, the vocalist and lyricist of Eidolon. Why discuss any of this? Because, honestly, knowing it improves the listening experience. Musically, the album needs an injection of excitement and the back-story actually seems to provide some.
The nine songs (three for each chapter) that make up Eidolon are almost disappointingly straightforward in structure. The guitars chug along at a modest pace, conserving their energy for an occasional solo bit or strange lead arrangement. The drums keep up but never seem to get their moment in the spotlight, while Morean rasps out a uniquely menacing low snarl. And about once per track, the band pull out something to break up the monotony: a solo, shrieks, a blast beat, or keyboards. All this amounts to basic low-frills black metal with a hint of strangeness bubbling deep in the cauldron. One exception is the excellent track "No Longer Human." It is the pinnacle of the band's style: powerful and driving without being too fast, while laden with a cryptic melancholy. Most of the other tracks fail to realize this potential.
So how does knowing a story about a magic mirror and astral projection affect any of this? Your mileage may vary, but for me, at least, it gives the album a meaning. Just knowing that Eidolon is structured around this story can change the perception of it. The strange guitar leads become infused with otherworldly melodies. The low snarls take on a hint of the sinister or the depraved. When Tom G. Fischer of Celtic Frost howls "come with me!" on "Baphomet," it is more chilling. Or it is for me, anyhow. Though not everything about this album can be saved by imagining mirrors and rituals, pairing the correct image with the sounds can go a long way.
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Cameron Higby-Naquin