Mournful Congregation – The Book Of Kings (20 Buck Spin Records)
Of all the sub-sub-genres that have splintered off from rock and roll music over the decades, few have names that are as self-explanatory as that of funeral doom. As one might expect based on the name, the genre's practitioners generally imbue doom metal's standard glacial pace with a dolorous melodic sense and a bleak atmosphere, largely abstaining from the more immediate, visceral punch of metal's more up-tempo variants in favor of something that, at its best, is more contemplative than many of its sub-genre cousins. One could reasonably question whether the style's dedication to one mood is single-minded and cathartic or obsessive and saturnine, but as with most styles, the breadth of an artist's ability is sometimes determined by the strictness of the aesthetic confines under which they are able to work. Among funeral doom's practitioners, few seem more adequately suited than Mournful Congregation, an Australian band that has been releasing albums steadily since 1994, and whose very appellation conjures the sorts of images of large-scale grief and lamentation upon which their genre is based.
It's due to this near-exact fit that the contents of the band's most recent effort could hardly be considered a surprise. There's little that Mournful Congregation does on The Book Of Kings that they and their ilk haven't done before, though the band is certainly more competent than many of their contemporaries. All the facets of their sound are accounted for – the dour, melodious bent; the drawn-out (“long-winded” for the less charitably-minded, “epic” for those a little more inclined to give the band the benefit of the doubt) compositions, none of which are shorter than twelve minutes; the acoustic passages and keyboard textures – and all are well-groomed and genre-reverent with not a single note out of place.
There is some nod to the band's attempt to move beyond what could easily be seen as the more one-dimensional facets of the style in which they play. Judging by the title of the album and its succession of song titles, there seems to be some overarching theme to the proceedings, one that progresses upwards away from the grasps of the most abstract concepts of despair towards something more triumphant. “The Catechism Of Depression” kicks things off, suggesting bleakness as a religious rite, an existential concern as vast as the minds that could conceive it. “The Waterless Streams” doesn't suggest much of a shift in mood, but brings emptiness to a more readily conceivable level, with a very concrete metaphor suggesting a desperation that, if not insurmountable, is at least comprehensible. “The Bitter Veils Of Solemnity” balances two sides of a similar emotional coin, with the implicit suggestion that even considering such affective conditions is to place them one step closer to being overcome.
However, the title track, which closes the album, suggests something of a more regal concern; possibly providing some conceptual closure, possibly offering the suggestion that the band is capable of something not wholly morose (just mostly so), and definitely acting as a solid entry into the sort of Romantic imagery and atmosphere to which metal has been beholden since the start (that's capital-R Romantic, mind you, I wouldn't necessarily put this record on in advance of any but the most lugubrious amorous experiences). The final thirteen minutes or so of this song works especially well towards providing the album with a strong conclusion, the harmonized lead guitars present throughout the record reaching more steadily upwards to something resembling a crescendo – albeit one in which the tempo and the mood remain more or less static. Capped off with a coda of eerie keyboards and hushed, guttural vocals, the album ends on a note that, while not appreciably far afield of the rest of the material, emphasizes the band's ability to meld their strengths into a powerful and cohesive whole.
For listeners less acquainted with this sort of band, this year has seen the release of several albums that are more compelling and willing to take risks (the most recent Loss full-length is an excellent example) than The Book Of Kings. This isn't to say that the album is at all bad. For those enamored of this style of music, this is the cross-genre analog to a recording of an old blues musician playing some well-worn standards on a front porch – which is to say that it's nothing new or terribly exciting, but is written and performed better than the majority of other artists who might attempt similar work. The Book Of Kings manages to bring several decades of experience to bear in the creation of something that reinvents no wheels, but acts as a solid and faithful entry into its genre's canon.