Don't ask me to compile year-end lists. It's only June, and I'm already seeing "Best of 2014 So Far" bulletins take shape on metal blogs. Leave me out of it. I know what I dig, but I'm terrible at ranking favorites. Be that as it may, I designated Triptykon's Eparistera Daimones as my favorite album of 2010. I was an unschooled latecomer to the genius of Tom G. Warrior. That's not something I'm proud of (cut me some slack; Metallica was the most underground band trickling into my tympanum as a budding boy), but I have redeemed myself through neck-cracking Hellhammer campaigns. Toss in a compulsory Celtic Frost bender, and I bow before you today a goddamn fan of all things Warrior, especially Triptykon.
It's amazing that the Swiss bedlamite is making music this relevant at age fifty. I love the fact that he periodically checks the pulse of up-and-coming metal outfits, unlike other battle-scarred veterans who can only rattle off the names of their tour companions when pressed for modern minions. It's a bit disheartening to learn that putative metal "gods" don't love the genre enough to stay in the loop. But listen, Tom Araya, I won't be the crass ass who names specific names, Dave Mustaine. No, sir. Back to the disc at hand. If Celtic Frost was still a functioning entity, it would sound like Triptykon. Warrior enlisted Dark Fortress guitarist V. Santura to help flesh out sprawling blocks of drone doom.
Drone doom? Yep. Melana Chasmata picks up the pace on two tracks, but the demon's share of this long player is supine. It's fucking plodding. I love slow, heavy music, so this stuff is suited to my tastes. However, it's almost too laggard for its own good. That's why I'm forced to give Eparistera Daimones the slight edge over Melana Chasmata. It had more dynamics, and it knew when to kick into high gear. There are stretches during "Altar of Deceit" and "Black Snow" that could stand to be precipitated. That's my sole remonstration. I truly love all facets of these riff mountains. Take "Tree of Suffocating Souls," for instance. It's heavier than...than...fucking shit, it's brutal.
And then you have the merciless collapse at the end of "Breathing." Bitch lungsuck! It drills my gallbladder every time I hear it. Mother shit! If it started playing at a funeral that I happened to be attending, I would throttle the corpse until I saw pus escaping a few orifices. Suppuration, baby! Vamoose! There are mellow moments spritzed throughout Melana Chasmata, most of which are enveloped in sublime female vocals. "'Boleskine House" might fare well at radio if it didn't blow past seven minutes. Oh, who am I kidding? The masses can't handle Triptykon. Can you? Are you a bad dude? Seriously, your turntable will grow pubic hair if you drop the needle on this mongoloid.
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