High atop the Mountains of Madness, just south of the Plateau of Leng, lies The Howling Wind.  Somewhere in the dark, amid the bleak and the cold.  Guitar tone like daggers of ice, drums like an avalanche.  This is the sound of molten magma slowly seeping out of a volcano in the middle of Antarctica.  Or perhaps a billowing black smoker at the darkest, most freezing depths of the ocean, where no human gaze can penetrate.

No, this is a blasphemous blizzard of filthy occult energy, the frozen corpse of black metal stuffed with dope, crammed into a blast chiller and then violently yanked out, pissed on, and set ablaze.

Shredded to ribbons by supernatural ice storms while high on psychedelics.  Trapped in the middle of frigid fucking nowhere and forced to resort to cannibalism, while the distorted sludge of thirty-five year old Black Sabbath songs drowns out your sense of conscience and smashes your moral compass to bits.

Frosted finger and toenails, oblations to the gods of the north, Loki, Lucifer and The Great Old Ones, sacrifice to ice giants boarding the death ship Naglfar; next stop Ragnarok.  Broken bodies impaled on stalactites of black ice, blood and snow coalescing in a red hot slush.

Crude pentagrams drawn in white powder.  Steam rising from fresh kills amid the barren wastes, leaving trails in cold, remorseless air.

Into the Cryosphere.

(Author’s Note: this review was written completely stream of consciousness while listening to the album on headphones)


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