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DREARINESS
My Mind Is Too Weak To Forget

Nostalgia Productions (2013)
Rating: 8/10

It must be said that there are certain sub-genres within the “heavy metal” scene that I can only experience in small doses. For one, some of the extreme gore metal can be a little too fast and vocally blurred to stick with for a while. Then there’s some of the modern death metal that just leaves me cold with its inability to create atmosphere due to its insistence on using almost “trendy” dynamics. And finally, there’s oppressive, or more to the point, depressive black metal.

I’ve always been a massive fan of black metal, particularly the first wave in the 80s, and then the early 90s with great bands such as Darkthrone – although some of the more symphonic stuff, again, left me rather grated.

However, somewhere beneath the black silt we do find the occasional peculiar act that, despite their terror-stricken sound, are somehow captivating. One such band is Dreariness, who don’t exactly live up to their name – if anything, their debut opus is a mixture of emotions – so don’t expect a tedious flat-line of an album.

Dreariness are an Italian band who for an hour leave me captivated, scared, and yet bewildered in their almost suicidal beauty; if that’s a term that makes sense? The trio formed in 2012, and can best be described as depressive black metal. But it’s not the usual corpse-painted faces or grating, regressive guitars and lack of bass… far from it. My Mind Is Too Weak To Forget acts more like a wistful yet grey-tinged soundtrack, blessed with some of the most traumatising vocals I’ve heard in a long while.

Sure, there are hordes of artists out there in the black metal forests – all with similar aims – to drag the soul into misery, and most of these acts tend to be one-man bands holed up in remote cabins, their only friends being the salivating wolves at the door. However, of all the acts practising similar grim summoning, Dreariness is one of my favourites at the moment.

In a sense, Dreariness are hard to describe as a musical entity. For the most part the music is quite mellow, often drenched in gothic eeriness, a peculiar, alien-stirred cauldron of ashen landscapes which are painted with relatively sombre guitars and mid-tempo drums, coupled with more melancholic passages.

However, the key ingredient of the opus is the vocals – if you wish to call them that. The wonderfully named Tenebra has the gristly guile of the most tortured of banshees, her drawn-out screams of anguish and pain sound like the last gurgled strains of a witch being hung, drawn and quartered.

While the album offers lyrics – although reading them may lead one to a life of solitary confinement – they exist on the record as harsh and at times disturbing shrieks of utter madness and longing. Behind Tenebra, Torpor’s drums are reasonably upbeat in comparison, while multi-instrumentalist Gris provides bass alongside those stirring guitars of grey and dejected keys.

My Mind Is Too Weak To Forget boasts eight tracks, all of which, from the opening ‘Reminiscence’ to the closing title track, are far from being head-banging material. Despite the melody of those sweeping soundscapes, vocally this is as nightmarish as it gets, evoking images of utter grief and turmoil.

A majority of the tracks clock in at six minutes or over, but if you’re quite (un)happy to be consumed by depressive music, then Dreariness are certainly for you. The only respite from those maniacal, bewitching cries comes when Tenebra resorts to almost tear-soaked exclamations – all the while the music drifts by in the background like some woeful, yet enchanting blur.

To say that Dreariness is an acquired taste is an understatement, but every now and then I can afford my ears the listening displeasure, although too much of this sort of stuff will no doubt have you clawing the walls.

Neil Arnold

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