There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that had not Death In June come along way back in the '80s, then today's martial/neo-folk scene would never have existed, spawning as it has numerous similar-sounding acts since that time; the same could probably be said of Boyd Rice in the 'industrial' scene, both as himself and NON. Plowing much the same furrow then it was perhaps inevitable that these two would eventually collaborate and indeed this they did back in 1996 along with John Murphy and others, recording as Scorpion Wind—and back then this album was released with the title Heaven Sent. Now, 12 years later, NERUS, the American division of the New European Recordings label, has seen fit to re-issue a remastered and renamed version of the album.
Here is 13 songs of heroism, war, the decay of civilization, grief and sorrow, and the death of heroes and gods—in fact, if one were to be unkind, the sole and only pre-occupations of the genre as a whole and not just of Death in June and Boyd Rice in particular. The difference, though, between this and a million copycat albums that have had their birth in the last nigh-on three decades since the emergence of Death In June, is that this is a document soaked in melancholy and a deep sense of the past, of a harking back to a time when things were very different and perhaps much more straightforward, when men's hearts were strong and true, and their limbs and sinews were of iron and steel. In some respects this is a rose-tinted vision (and version) of the past, but one which is nevertheless heartfelt and strongly delineated—and in that sense the conviction elucidated is genuine and is keenly felt.
All these attributes are broadcast through songs built up and sculpted out of strummed guitar backed with martial percussion, stirring strings and soaring brass, and a vocal delivery evoking the war-weary hero, returned once more to the land of his fathers and finding it irrevocably changed in his absence, bringing with it a sense of loss perhaps greater and deeper than that inflicted by the physical wounds and death of strife and warfare. It is not hard to imagine these as just more polished versions of songs sung around campfires on the night prior to engaging the enemy, or the battle-hymns of marching armies. Moreover, a peculiarity of this album is that its atmosphere seems to be firmly rooted in notions of old Europa; I had visions of massed ranks of uniformed soldiers on the roads of France and Belgium, or the roads leading to Rome, soldiers fighting on nothing more than a vision of freedom and a sense of country and destiny.
I could, of course (and I suspect that this might be the case), may be way off course in my assessment here and they could be having us all on. Witness, for instance, the cover of this album: a woodcut of a devil bending over, looking between his legs, and farting prolifically. Inside, there are more clues maybe: photos of Douglas P and Rice clutching koalas (the album was recorded in Australia), but certainly this isn't the species of behavior I would associate with an album of this kind. It is almost as if they are asking us, after listening to the songs, whether we out here think they're being serious or not. This is just one of the things I like about DIJ's music—that uncertainty regarding just how seriously they take what they're singing about, and whether indeed there is a deeper message behind it all, or that these two have a hugely mischievous sense of humor.
If there is to be any criticism at all to be levelled at this it is a relatively minor one, but one which some may find to be its main weakness; the songs do appear to be locked into a particular formula that spans the entire 13 songs, consisting of Rice's spoken word vocals set against the musical backing, meaning the whole only ends up sounding fairly samey. This is one of the reasons why I have such a love-hate relationship with the genre as a whole. There are times when its stirring echoes of times, philosophies, and wars gone by match my mood perfectly; conversely, that very same aesthetic and stylistic presentation irks me no end. This particular album will almost inevitably be subject to the vagaries of my moods no doubt, as others of this genre have been, but for the moment the winds of fortune blow in its favor; for now, indeed, this is spinning in the deck constantly.
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