When Ambition Chills the Listener: The Paradox of Profane Burial’s Desolate Echoes of Turmoil
There’s something almost comically masochistic about listening to Norwegian black metal in the sweltering heat of a Southern summer. Yet here I am, sweating through my shirt, willingly surrendering to the frostbitten chaos of Profane Burial’s latest opus. Maybe it’s the irony that appeals—the sonic equivalent of pouring a bucket of ice water over your head to escape a fever. Or maybe it’s the allure of a band daring to cram so many ideas into one album that it becomes a Rorschach test for how we define ‘progressive’ in metal today.
The Allure of Excess
Let’s get this straight: Profane Burial isn’t just ambitious—they’re dangerously ambitious. Composed of veterans from Borknagar and Funeral, their pedigree screams credibility, and their technical chops are undeniable. But here’s the rub—Desolate Echoes of Turmoil feels less like a carefully composed album and more like a brain dump of every riff, every orchestral swell, every vocal snarl they’ve ever deemed ‘cool.’ And that’s both its greatest strength and fatal flaw. Personally, I think there’s something admirable about artists who swing for the fences, even when they strike out. But when every track becomes a whiplash-inducing collision of blast beats and piano interludes, you have to ask: Is this innovation, or just musical ADHD?
Symphonic Dissonance: A House Divided
What makes this album particularly fascinating is how it weaponizes contrast. One moment you’re nodding along to a grimy black metal riff; the next, you’re jolted into a piano solo that sounds like it belongs in a 19th-century opera house. Take ‘Channeling Epiphany,’ where a guttural triplet rhythm abruptly gives way to synthetic strings. It’s like watching a horror movie where the killer stops mid-chase to play Chopin. From my perspective, this isn’t just eclecticism—it’s a deliberate provocation. But here’s the problem: these shifts rarely feel earned. They’re not bridges; they’re walls. The symphonic elements don’t integrate; they interrupt. It’s the auditory equivalent of wearing a parka in a sauna—bold, but ultimately self-sabotaging.
The Highs and Lows of Experimentation
Now, let’s dissect the tracks that work. ‘Prognostic Augural Obsolescence’ delivers a hypnotic, serpentine riff that slithers under your skin, while ‘Triumph of Dreadful Aftermath’ nails harmonized melodies that evoke Emperor’s imperial phase. But even these highlights can’t escape the album’s identity crisis. The penultimate track, ‘Horror Code, Pt 2,’ hints at what could have been—a rare moment where choirs and tremolo picking coexist without friction. A detail I find especially interesting is how this track’s melancholic atmosphere feels genuinely earned, not forced. It suggests that Profane Burial’s issue isn’t a lack of talent, but a lack of editorial discipline. They’re like a painter who refuses to dilute their palette, only to realize too late that neon green and blood red don’t ‘pop’ together—they just clash.
The Bigger Picture: Is This the Future of Black Metal?
If you take a step back and think about it, Desolate Echoes of Turmoil reflects a broader tension in extreme metal. The genre’s obsession with ‘progressive’ credentials often conflates complexity with quality. But what many people don’t realize is that innovation without cohesion is just noise. Bands like Dimmu Borgir mastered the art of grandiose theatrics without sacrificing flow; Profane Burial, for all their skill, haven’t. This raises a deeper question: Are we conflating ambition with artistic maturity? The album’s 6/10 rating isn’t a dismissal—it’s a challenge. It says, ‘You’ve got the vision. Now learn to edit yourself.’
Final Verdict: Worth the Whiplash?
In my opinion, Desolate Echoes of Turmoil is a fascinating failure. It’s the kind of album that’ll polarize fans, inspire hot takes, and maybe even birth a subgenre (‘chaotic symphonic schizophrenia,’ anyone?). For every jaw-dropping solo or jaw-snapping tempo shift, there’s a jarring transition that pulls you out of the spell. But isn’t that the price of ambition? As a listener, I’m torn between admiration and exhaustion. If you’re craving an easy listen, avoid this like a sunburn. But if you want to hear a band teetering on the edge of genius and chaos, fire up ‘Triumph of Dreadful Aftermath’ and embrace the vertigo. Just don’t blame me when you end up with frostbite in July.
