Ophir – “Eiserne Ernte”

Written on

September 27, 2011

Neoclassical, martial industrial(ism) is the war-like force in which Ophir uses for artillery. Spawning from Germany this solo-sound-panzer reels into a city near you with some “bombastic,”as the sound is popularly referred to, crushing synthesizers. Sven Bussler is his name, and “krieg” is what he brings to the table, in 2005 came “Eiserne Ernte”, an album of 19 testaments to the human mind. The CD comes in beautiful printing and colour of somewhat of a post-war scenery. In it, a town with children, a monument, with dates and information on the back. Up to three tracks in it begin with some heavy crushing industrialism with some mellow keys in-between the second, following the third in which some German samples (can’t put my finger on as to where from) fills in the gaps. Then from 4-6 the dark ambience mixed with some noise influences kick in, taking the journey a bit deeper into the woods, if I do say so myself.

Samples follow through as well! Oh yes! And then from 7-9 they follow a more melodic pace in an almost symphonic manner, almost as a teasing voice trying to get you to lose your way as night approaches in the woods. It seems too late, doesn’t it? Well, just when you start getting creeped out, “Liberum” (track 10) falls through with an almost black mass ceremony terrorizing your vascular system and penetrating you from within, like a… Oh shall we say, pikestaff? Teehee! From 10 to 13, you are surrounded by the magus’ of blackness, I’m not exaggerating either, that’s the visual feel of it! Ironically, track 13 is called “Stahl Ritual”, go figure, and after they cut you up and slice your giblets and leave you for dead, you think it’s over, huh? PFFAAHAHAHA! You’re wrong. So very, fucking wrong. Track 14 is basically when the noise kicks in with samples of laughter; oh yes, they laugh as they walk away knowing tonight will be your last faithful breath. From 14 to 19, the series of noise comedy, as I like to call it, kicks in. Truly, the feeling of death itself, a slow and agonizing death for you my poor listener. *Tear drop* Tsk tsk, tis a shame… A final whale at track 19, the finale chapter of the Ar-Si-Za, series. You’re done, you’re gone, dead and buried. I exclaim, you’ve been EISERN ERNTE-ed! What a way to go out!

[Retired] Born in the Celtic Sea, on the table of a tea party in 1843, son of Sir Frankel Pikestaff the II, and Marian Hornette the French prostitute to England's prestigious royal family, The Pikestaffs.

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