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NAMTARU
Cult Of Ancient Deities

Awakening / Futhark (2025)
Rating: 8/10

You can just tell by the look and the album title that this is going to be one of those blasphemous and belching black-death albums. The debut full-length from Italy’s Namtaru is one of those releases that conjure visions of black spiralling columns of smoke spouting from some primordial and satanically constructed fortress surrounded by a boiling moat of festering oil derived from the melted bones of those who have dared wade its festering depths.

So, now I’ve got the waffling out of the way let’s concentrate on the cacophony this unholy beast spews out. “Hear the call that comes from so far away,” bellows commander Kejvin Rexha alongside blackened chimes that shudder the spine on ‘Call From The Depths’. As I expected, Cult Of Ancient Deities is very much high on its own unholy drug, ‘Cold : Dead : Waste’ begins with a chilly doominess before the ice takes effect. A bluster of drums and a spine of blackened, freezing dissonance are somewhat contrasted by the guttural vocals, but such expressions are of the utmost evil.

There’s some serious hell hammering throughout this album but nowhere more aggressive than on ‘Cold : Dead : Waste’. The combo of Alessio Faccoli (guitar and effects), Robert Kolodziejczyk (bass), Lord Blastphemer (drums) and the previously mentioned Kejvin Rexha (vocals and guitar) construct slick, pitch black walls of misanthropy, raging like some sniping storm.

‘Great Old Ones’ follows suit with its despicable tirade where the drums exist as permafrost clatters. By the time I reached finale of the title track I felt as if I’d been berated by Satan himself. The dollops of spite Namtaru serve up is the musical equivalent of having barbed wire inserted into one ear then pulled through the brain into the next. Sure, the Lovecraftian themes are old hat but when you feel the icy embrace of ‘Dagon’ there’s no escaping the circle of thorns. ‘Dagon’ builds with suspense before the reverting back to the type; howling winds and decrepit, gnarly fingers raking the spine. The vocals reverberate through chasms, caverns and catacombs in equal measure as the guitar chords snake and weave their black magic.

Each track sneers with a mocking arrogance. ‘Weeping Angels’ entices then buries the listener in a hail of barbaric scowling, yet there is an edging towards a steadiness here, the sound finding a crevice of almost mid-tempo fluidity before the axe work smirks in derision and races into the blackness. ‘Endless Self Devourment’ is similarly designed, chugging with hateful intent before the pits open and teem with conniving leads. ‘Insane Litanies’ doesn’t even have time to think about suspense, it’s straight to the throat wickedness, foaming with every fibre of its being until those fiery pits of Hades turn to black sheets of ice.

Neil Arnold

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