Sunday, March 7, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
At Fever Lodge is the sound of troglodytic machinery in the viscera of factories; emaciated pipes in a heimal construction, buzzing and sibilating within the nerves of ghosts. The feedback operates in a sentient fashion, aware of it's meanderings and destinations within the myringa. It focuses on steady pulses while affixing to the bloodstream. You cannot extricate the frequencies on this album. You cannot extricate the howling pulsations of the aching apparatus. Somewhere, deep down, you're stuck in a viscous fluid. You're stuck in a pool of wires and oil. You're wading in a spectrum of iridescents.
When I listened to this album I listened with headphones. I couldn't decide what would be a better experience: listen loudly on headphones or loudly in a closed-in area, preferably a 6' x 6' box. I chose the former due to the desire to experience these songs as internally as possible.
I desiderated the experience...and oh boy...I certainly received...
When you read a title such as, At Fever Lodge, you immediately encounter a specific emotion. The same would apply to album art, the smell of food, or certain sounds lurking in the dark. A lodge by definition is typically stated as being "a small, makeshift of crude shelter or habitation; a house used as a temporary residence, as in the hunting season; a summer cottage; the Indians who live in such a dwelling or a family or unit of North American Indians."
Now, let us look at the definition of fever: "an abnormal condition of the body, characterized by undue rise in temperature, quickening of the pulse, and disturbance of various body functions; intense nervous excitement; the number of degrees of such a temperature above the normal."
Now, let's put them together:
Fever Lodge (n.) - A recluse shelter or habitation containing human characteristics and bodily functions similar to a normal functioning nervous system.
Needs work I'd say, but maybe it's not far off from an actual reality. This 'lodge' exists and it has a pulse. I can't help but attribute this idea to that of the Ghost story or 'Haunted House' story. Some films and books include "The Changeling, Burnt Offerings, The Haunting of Hill House, The Amityville Horror, House on Haunted Hill, and "The Shining" to name a few. One of my personal favorites, The Amityville Horror, is actually a pretty darn good film and one to utilize for this comparison. Sure, all the ghosts and creepies are nowhere to be seen visually, but they are most definitely in the recesses of our minds breathing on the little hairs on our backs. The Amityville Horror presents us with the idea that the house ITSELF is haunted (not a new concept mind you) and ready to possess anyone or anything that walks through the front doors. I can't help but say the same thing about Vitrazh's At Fever Lodge. Once you walk through the doors of this feverish cottage you're instantly sealing your fate - 'It' now has you forever.
Much like the Lutz family in The Amityville Horror the listener walks into this lodge and spends a good hour inside of it. While inside a metamorphosis occurs and the body begins to evolve into something more Lovecraftian and Cronenberg-esque than that of the Lutz's (which is more sinister than anything else). The skin mutates, cells dissolve and re-form elsewhere, the brain stem thickens and germinates and those pipes, mentioned earlier in the review, start to creep out from your bones. You are starting to sweat, the beads you witness falling from your head takes on the fluidity of iridescent oil; wires sneak out of your urethra in search of electrical outlets while your ocular organs deliquesce into what resembles the sizzled whites of an egg. You're now feverish and grounded. The swells of that sentient feedback have you forever. You are no longer you. You cannot extricate the howling pulsations of the aching apparatus. Somewhere, deep down, you're stuck in a viscous fluid. You're stuck in a pool of wires and oil. You're wading in a spectrum of iridescents. You are the troglodytic machinery in the viscera of the lodge. Your pipes are buzzing and sibilating within the nerves of ghosts and molded wood.
You are now The Thing Without A Name.
And as the camera pulls itself away from this ghastly scene and reverses through the rot iron gates and up into the treetops we're left with a single view that was crudely draw on rotting wood:
"You are now leaving Fever Lodge. Please, come again soon."
Vitrazh - At Fever Lodge