BRASS D'HONNEUR REVIEW
The scum that crawls upon the earth, masquerading in their robes and parading their crosses and stars behind facetious smiles, look upon everyone else as but passages of meat. We may expand the mind to rebuke their narrow way of thinking and ascend beyond their doctrines. But then there are others, artists in their own right, whose philosophy is naught of the mind but of the body. For them, salvation lies within the hands that clutch oil and fire, with which their synagogues and monasteries are rendered within the art as a conflagration of flame. In turn, the artist becomes anointed in sulfur.
“Hate Speech” by Bras d’Honneur can be looked upon as art represented in its purest, most volatile state, wherein there exist no metaphorical undertones through which to decipher its speech. For it is like myrrh used to consecrate a holy tabernacle, while Bras d’Honneur instead becomes a Molotov cocktail that deconsecrates in the same breath. Resonating in a similar nature to bands such as Hate Forest, VON, and even the sonic nature of Revenge, Bras d’Honneur becomes the equivalent of a boot caving in the skull, where teeth clash against the pavement.
When the love that dwells within the abode of one’s heart equals the intensity of hate that boils within the arteries of man, the line becomes dissolved, wherein hate and love become synonymous in their transmission, for passion is displayed in hate, and through hate, an act of exultation is derived. When these walls that differentiate the two opposing forces dissolve, the mind becomes inebriated by their rushing sensation, for that which was shaded by morality now devours its confinement. Its voracious hunger becomes a melody in essence as it writhes and convulses, like that of the guitar, wherein the riffs rupture with a foreboding demeanor. Every chord constructed becomes the essence of hate etched into sound, for when the mind becomes intoxicated through tyranny, that which is created mimics what is teeming beneath the surface, yearning to be released.
A militant aura diffuses itself into the atmosphere through the strings, every riff sounding mechanical in nature, but with its machination comes a physicality through its weight. The guitar structure undergoes a repetitive motion through which every chord sinks into the soundscape, burrowing itself with a buzz-saw-like resonance, its metallic candor thick in tone and serrated. The opening of “Trench Knife” and sections of “Scum of the Earth” testify to the aforementioned, as the strings themselves transform into ammunition, further becoming the backdrop for the vocals in a stark, ambient sense.
Throughout the traversal of the guitars, the senses may perceive them as rather crude, for there exist no frivolous intricacies. However, this arrives not as a negative. Rather, the album utilizes this perpetual nature to its merit, for one can liken it to the nerves becoming pregnant with anger, the arteries throbbing and swelling gradually through pulsation. So too do the guitars craft their resonance, for their stomping motion acts as the momentum for both the album and, in tandem, the mind that inhales their vehemence.
Though the album’s riffing inhabits a structural and rigid motion, there exist certain points wherein the guitars undulate and change form, such as on the track “Disemboweled,” adding unpredictability to the atmosphere while also allowing the linear patterns to breathe. Verily, though the guitars may seem to bleed into each other, I do believe, in hindsight, that this brings forth the most captivating aspect of the album, for the production renders the sound in a primitive manner, cavernous in its reverb, yet blunt in its confrontational aura.
This, in turn, merges with the senses, for at times it feels like a weapon being forged with malicious intent, like that of a slab of metal being meticulously sharpened so that its edge may taste the flesh of another, with pressure and hate injected through each motion as it is carved.
When the nerves of hatred become swollen, and when the only color that the eyes see becomes red, what is felt from the flesh of the temples to the heart’s inferno seeks to be liberated through the hands. For it is like the bludgeoning cadence of the drums, wherein each beat feels like skin stretched thinly across knuckles, as bones and facial muscles collapse beneath its blow. For through the destruction of another, its virulence, transmuted into a primitive beat, beckons the soul to exert catharsis in its most feral state.
Barbarism is transformed into percussion through the bludgeoning assault, for the rhythmic tempo never manages to breathe. To another, this may arrive as a concern, as one may assume that the elements are not given a chance to be exposed, but it is quite the contrary. The drumming itself matches the full force and violent nature of the guitars. In turn, the senses become ravaged, as though the air that permeates the atmosphere transforms into concrete against the body.
In a similar cadence to that of Blasphemy and even parts of Archgoat, the drumming carries the same intensity, wherein it is stripped of meaningless intricacies, expelling a raw transmission of energy as each beat caves its impression into the atmosphere, deeper and deeper. “Eaten Alive by the Pigs” and “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing” are tracks that showcase this untethered energy through the production, as the nonstop barrage echoes with every crash, rendering the drums in a frenetic tone as their reverberation expands, surrounding the guitars as well as magnifying the vocals.
The word “attack” is usually thrown about when bringing to life the rhythmic motions of music. However, the album does not merely delineate violence through sound. Instead, its confrontational spirit becomes translated into every beat that is fired from the drums.
In the Book of John, it is said, “And the Father himself, which hath sent me, hath borne witness of me. Ye have neither heard his voice at any time, nor seen his shape.” Bras d’Honneur instead burrows its way into the consciousness, corroding the scales of malice and piousness, wherein the tongue becomes heavy with malediction. For this is the voice that is heard, and unto others, there is no need for a burning bush that burns not, for what is heard is felt in equal proportion, its shape as vile and obscene as the rancour expelled from its voice.
Bellowing in contemptuous hate come the vocals, resonating in a baleful shape as the production bestows upon them a truculent spirit, as though the very body that spits these words is cloaked behind a balaclava, while the hands become adorned with the cold metal of brass knuckles. Spite becomes the essence that flows through the vocals, unbridled and pure, for it is through the production that they are rendered in a feral state.
Beneath the dissonance of the guitars, the vocals erupt in a bark-like manner, for the torrential riffing, coupled with the primal resonance of the vocals, crafts a caustic demeanor throughout the album. “Crown of Nails” and “Judas Cradle” are tracks that exemplify this, for even though the vocals exhibit a scabrous energy in both tone and aura, the crux of their power comes forth in their blighting and excessive tangibility. Furthermore, the production accentuates the vocal patterns, making a singular voice appear as though it were a horde merged into one cohesive voice, as speech is, in turn, transformed into a fusillade.
“Peace be upon him,” the excrement spoken from feculent mouths, wherein bile moistens their words so that they may be digested. Bras d’Honneur instead becomes the force of sound that drowns their meaningless rhetoric in pig’s blood, as it hurls and shatters the crescent moon and star against the Kaaba and those who prostrate themselves before it. For this is where the art of violence is awakened, and violence becomes art in itself.
9/10
