by osmosis

As codified as the punk, country and reggae genres are, metal seems to be as concerned with musical repetition as with its otherworldly outward persona. Music, of course, is just a business and while there are artists that languish in the medium who attempt to create something new, it seems as if one’s shtick needs to be stronger than whatever new recording is being released.

My aim here isn’t to lambast Sun O))), its newest release via Southern Lord or the way in which they’ve been embraced by the indie community – that would be pointless. But wondering why anyone would purchase this music is as valid a conundrum as any.

Since about 2000, the duo of Stephen O'Malley and Greg Anderson have tried to create a series of dense, simplistic and repetitive musical settings for some dark ramblings to be verbally expressed. It seems as if the ambience – and costumes, don’t forget the cloaks – trumps the notes set to tape, though. Of course, fans might decry that statement and cite some philosophical or technical underpinnings that would seem to validate the music, but if music needs that much explanation, it might not be worth delving into.

But the band achieves what it sets out to do. As the rolling waves of power chords punctuate the various production flourishes of chorale singers and guest players on Monoliths & Dimensions it’s all too evident that the mood sought out, has been reached.

Every note, played or spoken, summons some vivid image of macabre forces congregating in a wooden lair to plot a dastardly act – the witches from Shakespeare's Scottish play maybe. But to differentiate between tracks here becomes not only pointless, but almost impossible.

The series of leaden chords ringing out from any track on Monoliths & Dimensions sounds indecipherable from the previous song. To criticize uniformity when it’s so clearly what’s being reached for might be futile. So, at least Sun O))) drone out some predetermined, unified musical statement. Considering the critical reception that these folks have received, though, there should probably be a bit more here than some seismic derivations on a chord. Even with the inclusion of Eyvind Kang and jazz luminary Julian Priester, the drones, at best, don’t come off sounding anything close to remarkable. And at worst, amidst the scowling delivery of those downer lyrics, the entire affair comes off as a cut rate B-movie soundtrack from the ‘70s.