black midi - Hellfire Review
Black midi are back with fine-tuned chaos in their latest album, “Hellfire”
There's always something. Something that twitches in the back of the minds of black midi, London's wildest experimental band since maybe of all history. Their sound is emphatic chaos. Their lyrics are illustrious illusions. And in their latest release, Hellfire, they set alight to all of the traditions that music has offered.
Composed of Geordie Greep (vocals, guitar), Cameron Picton (vocals, bass guitar, synths), and Morgan Simpson (drums), this main trio composes all of their songs together but are also often joined by Seth Evans (keyboards, synths) and Kaidi Akinnibi (saxophone). Throughout Hellfire, you can hear their musical expertise collide and crash in one of the year's most exciting releases.
Hellfire is as much an album as a curse placed upon an ancient tomb. Once you break open the seal, all hell is let loose. Call it experimental, prog, hell - call it jazz-fusion, but whatever box you expect black midi to fit in, they can assure in just one song how foolish that can be. The group experiments with several sounds throughout the album, from the western twangs of country influence in Still and Dangerous Liaisons, to the show tune ballads of The Race Is About To Begin and 27 Questions. When listening to this album, expect the unexpected.
What one should do when listening to Hellfire is to take it all in. This record is not meant to be shuffled, lest ye want to suffer the pain of a thousand cuts. The opening and title track, “Hellfire,” is precisely where you are meant to be. Greep opens up with a chaotic listing of the pains of life while thumping drums and a dreadful feeling piano bring the truth right in front of our eyes. It is all the fears we won't admit to, all the insecurities we toss aside. All are made aware and then tossed aside as we are welcomed to the main event.
“Sugar/Tzu” tells the tale of the world's biggest boxing match on February 31st, 2163, told from the perspective of a small freakshow kid. Sun Sugar in the red trunks, Sun Tzu in the blue. Akinnibi's saxophone shines in the opening section of this song but really impresses in the chaotic thrumming found throughout the track as the punches fly through the air. This song sets the pace for the rest of the album. Thrust into this world of scumbags, gamblers, and murderous kids, black midi shine the light on the ironies and debauchery of life.
The transition into “Eat Men Eat” snaps like a whip. With fast flamenco strumming, this song describes the life of miners overwatched by a drunken, neglectful captain. There are parts of this song that sound like peaceful glides across an empty prairie, while others sound like the incoming thunder of raiders from across the valley. Throughout the lyrics, we learn of the captain poisoning his men. They turn on him and run for their lives as the captain screams out his vengeance upon them in a truly epic and terrifying outro.
Listen! There is a carnival-like whimsy found in “Welcome To Hell.” Descriptions of the luxurious delights offered in nighttime town are overlaid atop chugging guitar and horns. But soon to be heard is the forceful conscription and dishonorable discharge of Private Tristan Bongo. Trumpets and dread bring in the false realities of the lives of soldiers. The superior admits his sins but thinks nothing of them, almost impressed as the chaotic chords reach climax after climax.
“Still” takes on country-like western twangs that ride like a galloping horse along the track. The lyrics beg of a lover as the strings pour out the sounds of desperation, just for the guitar and piano to bring hope bounding back in. Frustrated with his incompetence, the speaker seems to lash out in frustration. A gentle guitar comes back in slowly and paints a picture of an arena. Perhaps they turn their back on the one they thought they loved. The track seems to let go, either way, drifting out with ambient piano and chirping birds, solemn and finished.
With a few pastiches painted into the listener's mind, static and madness take up the airwaves on “Half Time” before being tuned into 66.6 Hellfire with Radio Rahim. He calls out for a song like no other and The Race Is About To Begin Kicks Off.
Perhaps the most theatrical song on the album, “The Race Is About To Begin,” reintroduces Tristan Bongo, who seems to be in the race, as well as Sun Tzu watching on in the stands. Several other dastardly folks are named, and the sense of a sort of evil gathering of the cruelest and vile are here to watch. Greep spills out the atrocities of indecent sports betters, insecure sportscasters, and the greedy audience only interested in the spoils of victory. This song is reminiscent of Karn Evil Nine in the sense of its theatre. Madmen ramblings, perfectly measured drums, guitar, and piano bounce throughout the track in a whooping existential fear fest. Discordant background strings and horns echo feelings of realizing too little late. Everything is turning. This is the only place where nonsense is sensical.
“Dangerous Liaisons” resumes the country-like sounds and weaves another tale, this of a farmhand tricked by the devil in disguise. Musically, this song defies all conventions. Loosely weaving between show tunes, jazz, and maybe even a little bossa nova, the song whirls around the head in a confusing yet satisfying medley of sounds. And within all of the disarray, we hear the man has been convinced to kill for the devil. Realizing his regret and shame, the devil presents himself one last time and seemingly drags the farmhand to hell in a thunderous and terrifying outro.
“The Defense” teeters on the edge of more western tunes and burlesque cabaret sounds. Theatrical to the point of vomiting, the listener is overwashed with guilt and shame with the realities of sex work. The men are all begging for it; the women feel worth enough to sell themselves for it. The show is grand, and the music is bombastic, but it is still a hellish picture.
“27 Questions” is the final tale of the album and is the most foreboding of all the tracks. A gross place filled with gross people who wait eagerly to watch a man they never knew die in front of them. The pianos crash, and the guitar blends in like a creeping shadow. The drums crash and keep a stomping pace as the withered Mister Frost climbs from his coffin in a twisted dance. He begs his audiences to listen to his questions in a theatrical romp of existential questions dreamt by an insecure, impotent, and disgusting creature. Just as evil, foolish, and sinful as everyone trapped in black midi’s Hellfire. Before bidding us all goodbye, a terrifying crashing climax of pounding, doomful bass, and manic static close the curtains on a most insane melodrama.
Hellfire is a masterwork of confusion and creation. A cold world that affects everyone. In it, the sinners are heroes, and the saints are snakes. black midi have taken their talents as musicians and lyricists to a new level that begs us to question what music is supposed to be. This album is not so much post-punk as it is post-normality. Black midi have taken Hellfire and proven that nothing is sacred. There is no other, and there may never be again. But today, we have black midi.