arabrot

[arabrot]

Norwegian Gothic lyrics

Carnival Of Love

Oh, the bloodhounds spoor me down

They track the smell

The false breath on my mouth

They sense a corrupted past

Everything I’ve done

Everything I’ve pondered upon

Will be tracked down

And ripped to bits

The animal knows, the animal sense, the feeble animal in me, I have tried to hide for years,

It will be chased down

It will be chased down

And torn apart, left in sticky pools of blood.

The hounds don’t mind the chase, they want the catch

Oh, your guilty conscience, your ill will motivations, your sentimental anger, it will all go down,

So bring it down

Bring it down

The hounds don’t go for love, they go for your soul

The hounds don’t mind the chase, they mind the catch

This is the blast

The eternal close

The spiral

The final somersault

This is the end

This is the end

You can start laughing

You can start laughing

Rendered to a gory pulp by the bite of fate

Oh, for the carnival of love

The Rule Of Silence

Come ye worthy

You are a miracle

Your Φήμη talk

Your Φήμη talk

I observe the rising

I observe the serpent

Around the waist

Around the naked waist

Caveat, person

You’ll stumble and fall

Upon the sword

Upon the sword

Upon a cross you fester

Pinned deep

Deep in the ground

Oh, I abide by the rule of silence

Come ye worthy

Your swords are like feathers

It holds a tight grip

You hold a tight grip

I observe the rising

I observe dagger

Observe the sacred, secret

Sacred heart

Caveat, person

Your great white mare rears

As they smith old symbols to new brands

I bend those who love me

I bend you to love me

To will

Oh, I abide by the rule of silence

Feel It On

Chainsaw engines roar

The smoke lay thick

Over the timber

A noise silence the buzz

The crazed wood pop

And it crashes to the ground

Leaving a poignant whirlwind

Of a defining emotion

Feel it on

Feel it on

The omens to come

One out of a thousand

Solitary boles

Left on dirty ground

Like heads nailed to the prow

A head would fit each bole

As a part of a sinister pop art display

It’s a defining charade

Feel it on

Feel it on

The omens to come

The Lie

What I told was a lie

I guess I am pathological

The lies told are self-inflicted wounds

I’ve been corrupted for so long

Even the truth is altered

And moulded into lies

I’ve been forced to

Build these walls around me to

Confine my very existence

But it’s collapsing

But I’m a thinking man

I carry a little wisdom

If nothing else I do pretend

Above all I understand it’s a given truth

What I told was a I lie

The Crows

I’m a skeleton, no shadows

I’m mere mass floating

From above they send messages

Like tides they jolt through me

I’m pointing upwards

And the crows gather in the frozen trees down yonder

I wish I could touch the spot

With my mind

Let lust be divided

Into dots and numbers

Into geometry

And the crows gather in the frozen trees down yonder

The crows lift towards the sky

And spirits leave the body

To shape new symbols

And new thoughtforms

A reimagined lust

And the crows gather in the frozen trees down yonder

Kinks Of The Heart

The herd lie down circling

The dry skeleton of a tree

The hot sun burning

And the victim hit thrice

The victim hit thrice

The last dance is scorched to

The iris of the eye

The same eye tired from

Not weeping for the victim hit thrice

The victim hit thrice

Round and round it goes

The kinks of the heart

You must swallow it all

The kinks of the heart

I dream I am an argent

Chevron between fylfots gules

And I throw up the sacrilege

And the moon cast silver on the victim hit thrice

The victim hit thrice

Thunder blitz the heavens

Vile animals rabble the bones

Do you feel sentimental?

Judas dangling before your eyes

The victim hit thrice

Round and round it goes

The kinks of the heart

You must swallow it all

The kinks of the heart

The herd lie down circling

The dry skeleton of a tree

The hot sun burning

And the victim hit thrice

The victim hit thrice

Thunder blitz the heavens

I cast the augury of bones

Who hung himself there?

Judas dangling before your eyes

The victim hit thrice

Hailstones For Rain

The sun is scalding

My body is burning

But I feel nothing

The sun is scalding

But I feel nothing

But the scorn

We gave them hailstones for rain, uh uh uh

The sun is scalding

I feel nothing, but the scorn

From the seething crowd

I carry my load

I cry, I lament

For Golgotha ahead

We gave them hailstones for rain, uh uh uh

Hallucinational

There’s a future on the rise

Places no one’s ever been to

Young dreams slowly realise

at unthinkable speed

without any doubt

We’re in motion without moving

We are shining without light

We are flowers without blooming

We are thinking without minds

Everything is now before me

Hallucinational

(This Is) The Night

This is the night and the night is dark

This is the night and the night is dark

I can’t sleep

My head, it hurts

I am howling into the silence

This is the night and the night is dark

This is the night and the night is dark

I can’t think

My head, it hurts

I hear a sound

I am not supposed to hear

From the bog they say:

From the bog they say:

From the bog they say: They are coming …

This is the night and the night is dark

This is the night and the night is dark

I can’t concentrate

My head, it hurts

This is the night and the night is dark

This is the night and the night is dark

I can’t sleep

My head, it hurts

I am howling into the silence

I hear a sound

I am not supposed to hear

From the bog they say:

From the bog they say:

From the bog they say: They are coming …

This is the night

And the night is dark

I am howling into the silence

I am howling into the night

Hard Love

Beauty lose and beauty win

And you trade beauty for knowledge

But you pay with love, hard love

Love is a nail in the skull

You pay with hard love

It’s a surge that fosters the fires within

When hoisting her aloft I witnessed a smile

You pay with hard love

My dirty hands reaches out for the soul

I can’t muster enough love

To equal the feasts of the divine

There’s not enough love is this world

To match the beating of the heart

You pay with hard love

My dirty hands reaches out for the soul

Hounds Of Heaven

The snakes flee an imminence

They betray me as I betray you

They flee upon the prospects of trust

Down the hollows of the deep

They flee the hounds of heaven

They flee the adversary

They flee the nights and they flee the days

At unperturbed speed

Lo and behold, their cunning beguile

And all that’s born die

Heaven and I weep, I’m defenseless

You drove love from yourself

As you drove love from me

Now as the chase draw nigh

It is time to bid farewell

You better content yourself in me

Or nothing will ever content thee

Lo and behold, their cunning beguile

And all that’s born die

Heaven and I weep, I’m defenseless

You drove love from yourself

As you drove love from me

Deadlock

The ocean glints like crystals as the sun explodes

And hisses down into a blood-red dusk

Life pulses in and out

Life pulses in and out

In the deep corners of their rigid hearts

They look into the eternity and whisper ancient nostalgias

They’re futures are at a halt

They’re futures are at a halt

They stare into the darkness and damn the night

Silently bemoaning the lack of life

The repentance of their griefs the only hope

The repentance of their griefs the only hope

They feel sick from watching the spectacle

The pleasures of their existence has been transformed

Into a place of sickness and misery

Into a place of sickness and misery

The Moon Is Dead

Bow to the black moon

And your laughter will turn

Into silence

Your children will hunt your

Dreams and you’ll see

The Moon hanging there

Over our heads

Why such negligence?

The moon is dead

The moon is dead

The moon is dead

The moon is dead

Death takes more than courage

For the unsuspecting

And it is your tears

That will have to

Fill the empty holes

So bow

And prey your children

Will bow too

The moon is dead

The moon is dead

The moon is dead

Hanging over our very heads

The moon is dead

The moon is dead

Hanging over our very heads

All things are in flux

But the old ways are in my nerves

Worn thin from suffering

So bring light, bring light

Cause the night

Has fanned out the day

And forgotten about me

All lyrics by Kjetil Nernes, except Hallucinational by Karin Park 

#Årabrot #Årabrot lyrics #norwegian gothic #Pelagic Records #karin park

[arabrot]

Who Do You Love by John Doran

Who Do You Love?

We drove 5,000 miles of barbed wire.

You’d think that by travelling that distance around a country you could get the measure of it. Especially if the country was only 361 miles from top to bottom and even less from East to West. You’d be thinking reasonably but not accurately.

Despite journeying the equivalent of one fifth of the circumference of the entire Earth in 31 days, all we got to see was the road itself. England endless. What we experienced was just a percentage of a splodge, a smidge of a blotch on the coastal fringe of Europe that deserved neither the sobriquet Great, nor the title United. How did such a small area of land contain such extravagant lengths of major road? In the same way that a human body could house a tapeworm 33 metres long. Probably not comfortably but hopefully not fatally either. Undoubtedly, in May 2015 - general election month - England had beauty to spare: it’s just that none of it was visible from the motorway.

We met on the forecourt of a petrol station near an airport. Heat haze was already starting to rise from the tarmac. The Driver was dressed immaculately in a tight-fitting black suit, shades and wide-brimmed black hat. His concession to non-monochromatic decoration was silver chains carrying cocks and crosses. He looked like Asa Hawkes, the “blind” preacher from Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood - but much thinner. He tipped the brim of his hat hello. This was not his stage hat but his everyday hat. His stage hat, the kind of prairie Stetson featured in the opening scene of Holy Mountain was massive and kept in the kind of box that suggested it was an essential part of a drum kit. It had its own carefully allotted slot in the back of the van with the tons of amplifiers, speaker cabinets, guitars, synthesizers, boxes of books, suitcases full of clothes and bags and bags of oranges we were taking with us. There was only one way to fit all of this stuff into the vehicle, and packing it correctly was like 3-D Tetris. All it took was one giant, impractical hat in the wrong place and then everything had to be taken out again and reloaded in the correct position.

He was the colour of milk, which made the angry red scars up either side of his neck all the more vivid. He looked like the missing link between human being and some future race of Lovecraftian eel-men who would be able to breathe via gills under water.

As well as me and the Driver, there was the Passenger. She looked more like she had stepped straight from the set of Bladerunner than a Jodorowsky or John Huston movie. This was to be their last tour as boyfriend and girlfriend as they were headed straight to a deconsecrated church in rural Sweden to get married as soon as the trip ended. I was merely a temporary guest in their world. A road voyeur with a month long pass.

Within minutes of setting off we hit the M25 we became enmeshed in May Day traffic. I realised that most of the month was going to be spent looking at slow moving traffic on motorways.

But just as driving to Brighton was slow and painful, leaving it the next day was a dream. On the motorway, time stretched and contracted simultaneously in temporal doppler effect. The days seemed longer but time blistered, popped and broke apart pleasantly as the brain switched down a few gears into a near pure experiential mode. There was little to worry about. All I could do was count the pylons and pretend I had a flamethrower to aim at UKIP billboards and hoardings; to luxuriate in motorway sign typography and listen to Maggot Brain as loud as it would go. Miles Davis’ Agharta was the soundtrack to us speeding out of the south up the M1 towards the Rainy City. Al Foster’s ringing, open hi-hat was our fuel. And then it was nothing but John Coltrane, Electric Wizard and NOMEANSNO until we reached our destination. It started raining the second we hit Stoke. And then before long we were on the Mancunian Way heading for Piccadilly in torrential rain, parking the van under a tangle of flyovers. When I planned this jaunt it was a thing of beauty. I took an AA road map and unfolded it until it covered half the floor space in my tiny living room. I took a sheet of stickers from my son’s Thomas The Tank Engine magazine and created a spiral of towns and cities, first round the edges near the coast and then spiraling in toward the centre. Our proposed journey looked like an occult temporal and spatial message only discernable from the god perspective. What I planned was a perfect thing. But after you plan your perfect thing what happens is this: promoters start phoning you up or emailing you. ‘We’ve double booked you with a Stereophonics tribute act’; ‘There’s actually a bar mitzvah on that day’; ‘It’s Record Store Day.’ And then the perfect thing falls to pieces. By the time we hit the road the perfect thing looked like that terrifying film of a spider on LSD trying to spin a web. And there was only one thing worse than a spider on LSD trying to spin a web and that was a spider on caffeine trying to spin a web.

We stopped for several coffees en route to Sunderland the next day. The weather was beautiful. Fields of golden rape seed glowed under a blue sky. But I gave up counting the UKIP billboards. There were just too many. The purple pound signs zipped past in a blur. We’d been on the road for five days and I hadn’t seen a single sign for Labour. It was almost a relief when we passed a huge hoarding in an arable field next to a broken tractor which proclaimed: “Prepare to meet your Lord!” We pulled in soon after to stretch our legs in front of a petrol station that shared a forecourt with a sex shop wrapped in a large tarpaulin hoarding, proclaiming: “Under new management!” Next door was a garden centre flying a row of ten confederate flags and two Union Jacks. There was a knackered and rusty jet stream caravan serving up plastic cups of filter coffee.

It became clear early on that the Travelodge was our friend. Every Travelodge the Driver, the Passenger and I shared was identical. A family room. One double bed, one fold out couch bed, minimal decoration, very interesting mass produced art, scant furniture, tea making facilities and a portable telly, often chained to the wall. The Travelodge may have had less furniture in it than the average bail hostel and may sometimes have smelled like a suburban pet shop from 1984 but it was totally fine as we were low ranking touring musicians and writers, not visiting dignitaries from Saudi Arabia.

After Leeds, our Travelodge was situated in a motorway retail park so the following morning we walked just a few hundred yards to the Toby Carvery for breakfast. Pushing open the double swing doors we were confronted by a man in stained chef’s whites, with hair pushed under a light blue plastic turban crowning a jowly and crimson face. He was methodically and noisily applying a large cleaver to a foot long cylindrical sharpening steel with a schnick-schnick sound.

“Hello!” said the Driver cheerfully. “Are you Toby?”

The chef looked up slowly and a pendulous and translucent bead of sweat swayed under his nose. His eyes were like drill holes in gammon. Bruised udders of flesh were hanging below each of his nicotine-stained ocular orbs. He was possibly the most hungover man I had ever seen. He jawed away silently, his eyes flickering dully with rage as he started straightening up. The BPM of metal on metal increased. The three of us circled round him gingerly and headed rapidly for the breakfast counter past tables rammed full of people who looked like they were about to die. I had never seen so many morbidly obese people in one place at one time. It was like God’s waiting room with unlimited fried egg.

Oh England, you are sick.

It was only £5 per head and you could eat as much as you wanted but the choice was only bacon, sausages, roast potatoes, black pudding, fried egg, fried bread, beans and mushrooms. The thrill of the open road. Unlimited roast potatoes and bacon for breakfast.

(We spent just one night at the supposedly more upmarket Premier Inn, and it was relatively more luxurious but due to its incomprehensible automated reception machine, it took us an hour and a long conversation with two angry Premier Inn employees to gain access to our room. “Getting into this hotel was like the opening scene from a new episode of Black Mirror”, said the Driver, a recent convert to the show. “There’s nothing like waking up in some shitty English town, before eating some shitty English breakfast before driving slowly down some shitty English motorway for 12 hours before loading into some shitty English venue and playing a shitty gig to ten people before going to some shitty Travelodge just to watch a really well made English TV series which explains to you exactly why everything is so fucked”, he told me gleefully.)

Any hotel room was actually very much like home as long as you had a laptop, a handful of Nick Cave CDs, some Right Guard and a copy of Threads on DVD, which happened to be the exact contents of my overnight hotel bag.

Waking up in another identical Travelodge on another identical Motorway retail park the next day I realised finally that this was literally the worst place for a writer to be during general election month. Nowhere had wifi that worked. It was like being in a bubble of ignorance for 31 days. We had to choose these parks to minimise the chances of the splitter van getting stolen with all of our gear inside it. Every Travelodge we stayed in was essentially the same, surrounded by a handful of other outlets - a Toby Carvery or a Harvester or, if you were really unlucky, both of them. Then maybe also a Costa, a Boots and an Esso petrol station as well. They were all accessible from a motorway roundabout that wasn’t really near anything other than either an airport, a prison or an industrial estate. A vague hangover from reading JG Ballard as a schoolboy led me to believe that there would be some kind of mind-expanding nourishment to be had from this aspect of the venture but these motorway retail parks were all identical. They were the most co-opted and least free spaces of all.

After breakfast, outside, sitting on a wall drinking a cup of tea in the sunshine, I looked intently at a semicircle of rooks surrounding a single bird of their own kind. They were slowly advancing in toward it. The bird in the middle was stock still and not moving. It didn’t look like a friendly encounter. The Driver and the Passenger came out and joined me. The parliament were just about to attack the accused in order to peck it to death but just as the corvine jury bore down, they were disturbed by a loud noise from above. The Red Arrows flew over the Travelodge in formation causing them to scatter  It felt almost as if the Driver existed in a bubble of weird, uncanny, apocalyptic and esoteric events that moved with him wherever he roved. But it was also as if he barely noticed any of them. I stood pointing at the sky.

“Yes, yes” he snapped irritably as if he was sick of seeing this kind of thing. “Let’s get in the van and get off otherwise we won’t get to Digbeth in time.”

That night I dreamt that the solid iron core of the Earth was about to slough us all off until the planet stood raw and bleeding in space, just roiling magma with no skin to contain it. The utter indignity of being born between waves, the scions of a pusillanimous age we were all about to be cast into the void with the filthy scab of a country we called England. A flat and unmagical land. A depressing and tawdry place. When I opened my eyes Toby was stood in the corner of the room, sharpening his cleaver, schnick, schnick, schnick, schnick. Empty eye sockets carved out of rancid, fly-blown gammon.  

“We have to stop eating lunch at the Harvester!” I sprang out of my fold out bed and shouted at the Driver and the Passenger, waking them from their sleep. “The full rack of ribs is fucking killing me!”

Fuck the Harvester. Fuck Toby Carvery. All of the clothes that were hanging off me on May 1 were now snug and it was only May 12. My ears were ringing with the premonition of some future blue cheese dressing related pulmonary event.

It was easy to see how ruinous life on the road could be, even when you didn’t drink or do drugs. I felt sorry for younger bands who felt they had to go out partying every night after shows. After a couple of weeks it must end up hellish.

The road to Hull was paved with UKIP signs. Only Necrosis by Cadaver played at ear disrespecting volumes kept us sane. It was dark as we drove into town and ghosts lined Ferensway waiting to greet me. The cinema where I’d had my first date in town, the pair of us just turned 18 - watching Shirley Valentine no less, saying, “Imagine being that old” about Pauline Collins and Bernard Hill - was now a bingo hall. The war memorial that I regularly drank sherry in front of on a bench. The Welly nightclub where I saw a punter swan dive off a balcony and go headfirst through the corner of a formica table. When they took him out on a stretcher there was a blanket pulled up over his face. And then down past my old house on De Grey Street and into the car park of the Adelphi. And then the ghosts waved us back out of town.

The drive to Great Yarmouth was gruelling and 13-hours long because of traffic - we got stuck behind no less than three serious road accidents. Bodies strewn across baking tarmac. Bloodied travellers weeping in incomprehension at the hard shoulder. Slow moving the traffic might have been but at least we had plenty of long albums to listen to. Just like a mattress in a shared student house or the narrative flow of the Bayeux Tapestry - Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp A Butterfly sagged in the middle but it was very, very long, making it ideal for the van.

Eight hours later, after the show, we flew down the A47 unimpeded like we were clinging to a rocket, listening to Slayer albums sequentially at full volume, gabbling like a bunch of four-year-olds as we went. By the last day, I felt like I was about to die and constantly on the verge of tears. I didn’t want it to end. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times. It was genuinely the worst of all times. And yet I’d crawl over broken glass to be able to do it all again right now.

You know, if you really want to get the measure of a country don’t drive round it. Take a train or walk. Maybe buy a bicycle or a skateboard or something.

We drove 5,000 miles of barbed wire and parked the splitter van by the roadside.

John Doran, Bangkok, Thailand, December 2017

[arabrot]

ÅRABROT  - THE WORLD MUST BE DESTROYED EP

“The revolution will come soon. All this will be destroyed. The world must be destroyed”

Årabrot trampling underfoot the shrill stanzas of skepticism were:

A P Macarte – bass and background vocals

Ane Marthe Sørlien Holen – timpani, gran cassa, tubular bells, gongs, vibraphone, metal percussion and background vocals 

Andrew Liles – sound design

Dana Schechter – lap steel guitar and background vocals

Joakim Johansen – drums

Karin Park – vocals, mellotron, pump organ, piano and synths

Kjetil Nernes – vocals and guitars

Kristoffer Lo – amplified tuba, flugabone and noise guitar

All songs by Kjetil Nernes. 

Produced by Kjetil Nernes and Karin Park.

Recorded by Greg Norman at Electrical Audio, Studio A, Chicago, Illinois, USA and by Kjetil Nernes and Karin Park at Djura Missionshus, Djura, Dalarna, Sweden, 2017.

A P Macarte vocals recorded by John Tatlock at The Box Mobile Recording Studio, Manchester, UK, 2017.

Mixed by Milton von Krogh at Taakeheimen Lydrike, Oslo, Norway, 2017.

Mastered by Jason Ward at Chicago Mastering, Chicago, Illinois, USA, 2017.

Assistance and handclaps by Johan Klarberg.

THE WORLD MUST BE DESTROYED

I see right through you, your monkey heart

Your nervous breath, the foul mouth

I see right through you, your bended knees

Your frivolous words, your philosophy

I see right through you, your persiflage

Your wolf hunger, your jolly laugh

I see right through you, your fleas and your ticks

Your cavities, your snake tricks

I see right through you, your angel lust

Your death erection upon the cross

I see right through you, your transparent skin

Your drool, your tongue licking

I see right through you, your lockjaw

Your fundament, the dancing vertebra

I see right through you, your smile and sweat 

Blood pulse and the soft part of your neck

I see right through you, the clock ticking

Cocks and crosses and backstabbing

I see right through you, I see right through you

Don’t let me see right through you

They say the world must be destroyed 

Must be destroyed 

Must be destroyed

Don’t let them think you ’re broken

THE COMING

Here comes  a picture and a starry night

Here comes a hotel room and blinking lights

Here comes an envision of a woman by the sea

She screams my name, desperately 

Here comes the folding knife and a curious grin

Here comes trouble, she’s off wandering

What will they say, what will they say

Here comes the foul mouth, slanderous

Here comes a mysterious stabbing, was he drunk?

Did he hit on her? Did he hit her?

Here comes laughter in the alleyway

The dance you’ve been longing for, death as a gentleman

Father, you may rest here drunk among the graves

Mad from drink, drunk on insanity 

Mother, you may well read your magazines among the dead

Something out of the ordinary play in your head

Here come howls like laughter and a broken mirror

The gun draws blood, the knife retaliates

Beware, he’s on your back, his shadows are different

Luckily you are already among the ghosts

There’s that laugh again, scorning, bellowing

You pay your dues in the pit for a manoeuvre like that

Let him flee, let him flee

Here comes freedom, but only for a while

Here comes the law, strong manly law

In the spotlight you try to escape, you heave-ho 

Ghosts you can always run from

You can’t escape yourself, madness leaves no victim

Here comes the baton, there’s no return

You suck that weapon, you suck those kisses

Well, well, here come the pointing fingers

And suddenly it’s silent except a terrible scream

ANOTHER HALLUCINATORY DREAM

In a haze I sweep a corrupt tongue

Over sacred ground

The hearth crackle in the background 

And I tap the fluids

Let me fill your holes before I hit the ground

I flicker along with the shadows on the wall

I float in dreams and lick the sweat 

Cacoëthes, you are my god, I idolise you, I worship

I wake to find goosebumps as pearls on the sheets

And a smile like a thousand slivered diamonds

I am a sinner and I drown in blood

I am enthralled by cruel sex and I fall

I fall to my knees and die a million deaths 

In the holocaust of my very soul

#Pelagic Records #karin park #the world must be destroyed #antonin artaud #Årabrot #greg norman #electrical audio #chicago #djuramissionshus #kristoffer lo #andrew liles #dana schechter #a p macarte #milton von krogh #martin kvamme

[arabrot]

OUR TIME IS FIX’D EP

I enter the Pussyhouse, crows circling my head

thick grey mist fill the room as I open the door

it's scraping fantasies and creaking gospels, you see a skull's jaw hinged down 

all hope has perished- 

I am greeted by your lucid angels  - and I am grateful my beloved - but my eyes are black 

and my blood seethe hot and I weep behind my laughing death mask 

I weep behind my laughing death mask while they introduce me to the Pussydome 

I weep behind my laughing death mask where the wild cats snarl and growl (grrr) 

I weep behind my laughing death mask with backs arched and hair standing. Their sideways glances are callous, as they moist their lips they suck you dry. 

I am so goddam hard

They curl in snake-like motion, in hordes, like armies of worms. It's a spell …

They introduce me to the bath, where I undress and enter the hot water. 

My fingertips touch the eddy and I taste the kitty and they refill my glass.

I hear a foreign tongue, I hear laughter, I hear my heart beat, I hear myself breathe. So uncannily feline, so sweet the touch. They pull me under …

I cycle from dark to new to full and back. I scuttle towards the ubiquitous light of the Pussymouth and see fucking as pure callisthenics. I wrestle Satan all night long, the dark of the moon imbued with renewals, the dark of the unconscious imbued with rebirths. Me hoarding venomous weeds and bones, the moon illuminating my ghostly appearance. 

Only the undulating ophidian larvae crowning my head betray signs of life. 

https://open.spotify.com/album/7cL62XMMmBJxhWaVzmipDP?si=OIvL8EpCQfuMtjK25Oisiw

William Blake - Our time is fix’d, and all our days are number’d

#årabrot #ourtimeisfix #ep #pelagic records #lustmord #andrewliles #karinpark

[arabrot]

WHO DO YOU LOVE

Maldoror’s Love

The Dome 

Warning

Pygmalion

Serpents

Sinnerman

Look Daggers

A Sacrifice

Sons And Daughters

Uniform Of A Killer

MALDOROR’S LOVE

For your love I’ll pip the shell ’til it breaks

And releases a thousand hounds

For your love I’ll sleep centuries of sleep in

The deserts of your soul

For your love I’ll wear flower petals that

Wither in the burning sun

For your love I’ll stand by the window and

Lick your tears ’til dawn

For your love I’ll seek God among the serpents howling

Who do you love?

For your love my heart will beat the centuries

Of woe they call the blues

For your love I’ll slouch towards Golgatha, hail,

Who do you love?

For your love I will wander endlessly in the

spices of your perfumes

There’s nothing as cold as the faces of statues (for your love)

And the sea is only meant for drowning, yet we’re on pedestals (for your love)

My wife is holding my hand there on the beach (for your love)

I’m drowning my sorrows in the crushing waves (for your love)

Oh, for your love

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwL8CwzDKSw

THE DOME

So where are you, my lover?

I hear you calling from the valleys yonder

The deep ice-slicked gorge, the streams that flow

I cannot hear the words you say

Where are you? I am calling you from afar

But what you say is unintelligible

I can’t hear what you say

Let me come closer, I will try not sound insane

Try not sound insane

So please, my lover, I will try to comprehend

Let me appreciate the facets of your outlet

I will try to understand

And in an act of love, in honour and respect

I will build a dome for you

A palace to resonate for you

A holy echo will reverberate

And I will understand, I’ll hear what you say

I’ll hear what you say

I shoot to resound

But there is no sound

You better suck that pistol,

better suck that pistol dry

It will take months and even years

But I will strive to complete the task

My endeavors, I will get it done

And I will have a gun ready to resound

I pull the trigger, but there is no sound?

The echo is missing from the blast

I will reload to try it again

I will point to the heart and fire the gun

The last sound you’ll ever hear

WARNING

Nobody laughed when they lynched and dropped him in the Thames

Nobody cried either, the body all bloated when they pulled him out

They made a harp of his bones, the harp sound so deep

It resonated all the way down to the underworld

And not even the dirty old egg-sucking dog heard a note

It was many a year ago, a kingdom by the sea

They stabbed the old wife for a week, repeatedly

She was accused of pinching holes,  a benchmark exercise

They stabbed her for another week when she didn’t die

They stabbed her for another week, she didn’t die

Out of her holes, out of her holes, the past seeped right out of her holes

Heed yourself!

A hundred syringes plunged into her spine

But her holes were really hard to find

And when they finally hit the spine

It was hard to cover the holes, poor woman

PYGMALION

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t63ORAlDxg8

LOOK DAGGERS

I crushed the first two tablets of stone

They didn’t mean anything to me, the third was hewn

By an unfazed master, a gun pointed to his head

It was translated to Love Is Like A Lion’s Tooth

Heave earth upon it

The Crowley bust is painted with white tears

The partisans round up in fear

Most of them weep, they laugh on the inside

The rest of them of laugh, they weep on the inside

Heave earth upon it

The cicatrix of the tall man

Ousting his devils

Sheathe the will

And a fire within

With burnt-out shadows

Into the holocaust

He embarks with nothing left

But a fire within

I came down from the pedestal and crushed the stones

They didn’t mean anything to me, I pointed my fingers

The third stone was ancient, I crushed that one too

Rumours say Love Is Like A Lion’s Tooth

A SACRIFICE

With droopy eyes you see the water lilies

The fisherman has lost his catch, he is frail and bony,

The demons of the waters are now speaking to him

They speak of a sacrifice, an offering

The fisherman looks to the ground

She’s precious to him, she rides on her back

Her arms like serpents around the waist

She thirsts for desires, it’s a sacrifice

With droopy eyes you see the water lilies

The daughter is innocent, she is pristine

The water will embrace her beauty

The fisherman looks to the ground and

The preacherman raises his hands to the sky

She’s precious to him, she rides on his back

Her arms like serpents around the waist

She thirst for desires, they speak of offerings

It’s a sacrifice

Preacherman raise his hands to the sky

He speak of offerings, it’s a sacrifice

With droopy eyes you see the water turn red

The daughter is pure, she’s innoncent

The waters will embrace her beauty

She walks in and is never to return

The preacherman looks to the ground

She’s precious to him, she rides on her back

Her arms like serpents around the shaft

She thirst for desires, she speak of offerings

It’s a sacrifice

SONS AND DAUGHTERS

I’m here to invent a new sin, the sin of loving you

May the gods be with me

The faint whispers behind the trees

Are they of horror or of joy?

Are they the shadows in your head?

In your head

Love is like an X-ray of a black hole

Formidable, penetrating

I see babies in gigantic cones

They are moving like pawns

Are they the shadows in your head?

In your head

They circulate the gardens

They hang from the wires

They are mathematical, metaphysical

They are shaped like cylinders

Gyrating at their own axis

They produce terrors, soon

sons and daughters

UNIFORM OF THE KILLER

’tis an angel you are, you keep falling

Stalled at the horse

Crimson bled all over, the blood form a landscape

Thrice saluted you are

Thieving kermes dripping to the sticky mud, Hermes the pilferer dog the loot

Beard to his knees, the hands of a loiterer

The uniform of a killer

Maldoror, you who see ghosts

Do not love too long

Remember under every drunken dancer

Lies a dead man in his grave

The godhead on a celestial pedestal

Poking its finger at a vast and universal mockery,

dying under a blazing star

The draught from below are your lovers breathing their dying breath

It’s a propensity hard to confront

An abyss which cannot be filled

A yearning which cannot be assauged

’tis an angel you are

Maldoror, you wear your heart painted on your chest

And under your very feet

Lies a dead man in his grave

ÅRABROT RED IN TOOTH AND CLAW WERE:

Kjetil Nernes – vocals and guitars

Karin Park – vocals, mellotron, pump organ, piano, synths and flute

A P Macarte – bass and background vocals

Joakim Johansen – drums

Dana Schechter – lap steel guitar and background vocals

Ane Marthe Sørlien Holen – percussion, gong, metal, noise and background vocals

Andrew Liles – samples

Kristoffer Lo – amplified tuba, flugabone and noise guitar

All songs by Kjetil Nernes except Sinnerman (traditional) and Serpents by Andrew Liles.

Produced by Kjetil Nernes and Karin Park.

Recorded by Greg Norman at Electrical Audio, Studio A, Chicago, Illinois, USA and by Kjetil Nernes and Karin Park at Djura Missionshus, Djura, Dalarna, Sweden.

A P Macarte vocals recorded by John Tatlock at The Box Mobile Recording Studio, Manchester, UK.

Guitar solo on Warning by Emil Nikolaisen recorded at Malabar Studios, Oslo, Norway.

Mixed by Milton von Krogh at Taakeheimen Lydrike, Oslo, Norway.

Mastered by Jason Ward at Chicago Mastering, Chicago, Illinois, USA.

Assistance and handclaps by Johan Klarberg.

The ”Foxy Spring” by Malcolm Bucknall.

Do not forget the original master - 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8w9Eii9ZFsQ

#arabrot #årabrot #who do you love #whodoyoulove #pelagic records

[arabrot]

Kitchen diaries

Well known to everyone who’s seen the Cocks And Crosses documentary and recent Video Blogs on YouTube a  considerable amount of time is spent in the kitchen of the Church Of Årabrot - listening to music, hanging out or hailing favourite cooks such as Nigel Slater. Here’s a Spotify playlist based on the big pile of vinyls placed by the record player in the corner - 

https://open.spotify.com/user/%C3%A5rabrot/playlist/5NSB7QyEgj7FYSrkS93rE1

Make sure to subscribe to Årabrot’s offical YouTube channel for new Åravlog-episodes every Friday up until new album release - ‘Who Do You Love’ -September 7th on Pelagic Records  -https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCpN0MnP1OT8HSoa-WmHL3Wg?view_as=subscriber

Oh, and here’s the infamous church studio - http://www.djuramissionshus.com

#spotify #playlist #årabrot #djuramissionshus #nigel slater #pelagic records #andreløyning #cocksandcrosses #martinmentzoni #åravlogs youtubechannel #whodoyoulove

[arabrot]

SINNERMAN

“Old blues, the minstrels in dirty suits, the choruses of the chain gangs, the gospels, the deep roots of folk and country music channeled through generations of blood and sweat, the love and hate of biblical proportions. This is all such a pivotal part of the greatest art. That being literature, music or even film. I watched the Nina Simone documentary one night and was deeply moved by her version of ‘Sinnerman.’ A few days later I tried a different take of the song in our studio and it had a nerve I quite enjoyed. We tried it again some time later and that particular vibe was still there. I had no plan for the song at all, no idea if it actually was good or not. I wasn’t even sure it would be included on the album. Boy was I wrong.” K:N

The “sinnermen/women” were:

Kjetil Nernes – vocals and guitars

Karin Park – vocals, mellotron, pump organ, piano, synths and flute

A P Macarte – bass and background vocals

Joakim Johansen – drums

Dana Schechter – lap steel guitar and background vocals

Ane Marthe Sørlien Holen – percussion, gong, vibraphone and background vocals

Produced by Kjetil Nernes and Karin Park.

Recorded by Greg Norman at Electrical Audio, Studio A, Chicago, Illinois, USA and by Kjetil Nernes and Karin Park at Djura Missionshus, Djura, Dalarna, Sweden, 2017.

A P Macarte vocals recorded by John Tatlock at The Box Mobile Recording Studio, Manchester, UK, 2017.

Mixed by Milton von Krogh at Taakeheimen Lydrike, Oslo, Norway, 2017.

Mastered by Jason Ward at Chicago Mastering, Chicago, Illinois, USA, 2017.

Acephalus by Johannes Høie, inspired by the original ‘acephale’ by André Masson. 

Sinnerman is a traditional. 

Check out ACÉPHALE:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acéphale

#årabrot arabrot sinnerman pelagicrecords acephale

[arabrot]

Årabrot Speciale

Årabrot is a two-headed monster. The band has toured Norway, Europe and the States extensively for years. They have released 7 critically acclaimed albums and won Norwegian Grammy for Best Metal 2012. The  most recent full-length The Gospel was voted Album Of The Year 2016 by influential music site The Quietus.

Årabrot the rockband is without a doubt a well-known and established name, but another important component of the band – the arty and more experimental Årabrot Speciale – often goes unrecognized.

 Årabrot Speciale is Årabrot outside of the conventional structures of a basic rock’n’roll-band. Årabrot Speciale is the elemental force. Dark and hypnotizing. Atmospheric. It could be the soundtrack to a perfect suicide. Crushing, ugly, but at the same time majestic and surprisingly beautiful.

(photo by André Løyning)

The Årabrot Speciale main core consists of Årabrot frontman Kjetil Nernes on vocals, guitars and electronics and pop artist Karin Park on vocals, flute and synths. The duo have performed at Øya Festival 2012, Trondheim Documentary Film Festival 2016, Kongsberg Music Film Festival 2016, Tromsø International Film Festival (TIFF) 2010, 2013, 2016 and Haugesund International Film Festival 2016 (all Norway).

Årabrot Speciale presented live music to the screenings of director André Løyning’s documentary – Cocks And Crosses – The Music That Wouldn’t Die – at Norwegian theatres 2016, including the opening day of Norway’s biggest film festival the Haugesund International Film Festival.

Årabrot Speciale has performed live music to silent film classics such as The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920), Witchcraft Through The Ages (1922), Faust (1926) and an unofficial present-day world record of 5 hours (!) film music to the epic Die Nibelungen (1924) at the Silent Film Days, Verdensteateret Cinema in Tromsø, Norway, 2016.

The Årabrot Speciale-performances have included guests such as noise maestro Lasse Marhaug, sound artist Andrew Liles (Nurse With Wound/Current93) and jazz violinist Ola Kvernberg.

http://thequietus.com/articles/21574-arabot-speciale-watch

Årabrot documentary Cocks And Crosses: The Music That Wouldn't Die will be screened at Docnroll Music Doc Festival in London November 8th at the legendary The 100 Club. This is the international premiere of the film. The screening will be followed by a Årabrot Speciale performance by Kjetil Nernes and Karin Park with guests John Doran (The Quietus) and Andrew Liles (Current 93/Nurse With Wound). There will also be a q&a and dj-sets.

http://www.docnrollfestival.com/films/cocks-and-crosses-the-music-that-wouldnt-die-arabrot/

Årabrot Speciale live in Trondheim 2016: 

(photos by Thor Egil Leirtrø)

Check out Årabrot Speciale by Thor Egil Leirtrø here - 

https://thoregilphoto.com/2016/11/18/2016-11-18-arabrot-speciale-m-ola-kvernberg-dokkhuset/#jp-carousel-8818

#årabrot arabrot årabrotspeciale cocksandcrosses årabrotdocumentary andreløyning årabrotlive

[arabrot]

For Lack Of Discipline You Will Die 7″

Listen here - 

https://sheepchaserecords.bandcamp.com/album/for-lack-of-discipline-you-will-die-7

http://thequietus.com/articles/19506-listen-new-arabrot-7

https://open.spotify.com/album/26HXOLWRQ9brRuchP5dxB9

Side A: Song Of Calumny

So what I worship is not right? My money belong to someone else? The words I write is all about you? Well, I hate to bring it to you for lack of discipline you’ll die

The air I breathe I pollute?   When I smile I’m recalcitrant? When I ring out the bells of repentance I’m accursed and for lack of disciple I’ll die

Mein gott, the world’s a jumble

For lack of discipline, for lack of discipline you’ll die

When I talk I command? by pouring out my heart I catechise? So the paths I choose are all circling?

For lack of discipline, for lack of discipline you’ll die

So when I make love, I mock          When you hit me I abuse you? By ending a relationship I murder? When I make progress I breathe my dying breath?

For lack of discipline, for lack of discipline you’ll die

Side B: The Isis Pool (Narrated)

I dream of the Isis pool, a moonlight tryst, I let love into the inner sanctum of mind and action. In damp cavities I participate in the varieties of the flesh, I lick and expose, tongue and reveal. There, you lay bare before tigers, coquette - susceptible to their yearning, their mad hunger, their crazed cravings.

They lap the Satyr’s milk from voluptuous breasts; they pass their tongues over the pubic tabular and with considerable finesse taste the beautiful flavours of the glans.

Soon I experience the exposure of true libido. On all fours she’s gently revealing her parts, displaying moist orifices for a touch of hungry caress, a mouthful of lustful appetite. The inclination is vaporous, a female drizzle of perspiration between open spread legs, femme moans through trickling mouthparts, the effete groan into sticky folds.

Affected, over-refined, sensuous.

Moving, elegant, sumptuous.

La-di-da, la-di-da. The inexplicable belle softly stroking the protruded flesh, occasionally embracing it with sultry painted lips, conforming to the movement of the cunt’s jerking convulsions. She’s partaken of the Isis pool climax, drinking freely of the tryst’s glorious ejaculation.

It’s like a fountain jet for ancient goddesses and the abundance of sensual desires only make the thirst stronger, the heat thrive, the hunger grow.

+ Duh! 

(ad lib blabbering)

“ENDELEG HAR EG BLITT SKILD FRÅ KVAR EINSKILD NATURLEG TING”

#årabrot #Arabrot #the gospel #for lack of discipline you will die #7" vinyl #haugesund #appolinaire #sheep chase records #johannes høie

[arabrot]

The Gospel

In front a tall white stranger laughing with hatred one of our own an appearance gaunt and hollow a burning spear at hand accompanied by heralds in the distant horizon machine gun fanfares

It’s the gospel

A tall, white stranger in his hand a long spear at iron’s point a fire he thrust it in my heart pierce my entrails the pain’s great, I moan I’m left on fire I’m left on fire

It’s the gospel

A tall white stranger trumpets blare, a cannonade the soul satisfied now with nothing less than god In front a tall white stranger laughing with hatred one of our own I’m left on fire

It’s the gospel

#årabrot #Arabrot #arabrot video #the gospel #conrad myhre dahl

[arabrot]

Rebekka (tragoedie)

She stood there on the cliff laughing her big black hair in the wind breathing I was on that cliff too swaying she told me all about herself I wanted her dead

You thought I was mad maybe I was too mad for an instant mad for you She stood there quiet near  triumphant one hand in pocket smiling, saying Why don’t you kill me?

She stood there on a cliff smiling I was there too swooning She told me all about herself I was listening Why don’t you kill me dear? That’s just what I did, I killed her dead

Now she was lying there on the floor Head struck on a heavy piece on the floor of a ship’s tackle thrown on the third on the third day cast cast out by my own hands

#Arabrot #årabrot #the gospel #rebekka (tragedie) #ollelundin #rebecca #alfred hitchcock #Årabrot lyrics #årabrot video

[arabrot]

Tall Man

The Baltic people don’t complain when they have to meet up 7am for a twelve hours outdoor session in the very middle of winter. Not even the Porta Potti guy seem to bother as he delivers his services on the bumpy dirt roads just in the the outskirts of Latvias capital Riga. It is late January and a small crowd of about fifty extras, camera-people, makeup-artists, cook and crew make up a little military-style camp on the top of Getlini ECO - Riga’s very own landfill, the city garbage dump. 

It’s Årabrot come full circle. Back from the dead. Tall Man booming in our heads.

First commander Traavik sets the standard. Resolute, stoic. The Latvians are used to the cold. Guess they unfortunately have been underminded for generations. Nothing is taken for granted. And now it even starts to snow...

Getlini stinks. It’s not a bad smell, it’s foul. It is wrong. One imagine how the enormous population of birds here cope. We cope. Under soldier Traavik’s stern guidance we easily move from exercise to exercise. 

The undulating snow covering the camp and crew and lay a comfortable ice-cold blanket over the scenery. And when filming the final shots at nightfall you are weary and aching from frost, but strangely feel at one with the stale circumstances. You feel happy to have been part of the apocalypse. A tiny apocalypse and a tiny bit of armageddon.

 I ʞ:u I 2016

ÅRABROT - TALL MAN 

Director: Morten Traavik DOP: Valdis Celmiņš, Jānis Šēnbergs Art director: Kristaps Epners Costume designer: Jurate Jurjāne – Silakaktiņa Make-up artist: Viktorija Safronova, Renāte Bāliņa 1 AC: Miks Ramāns 2 AC: Mārtiņš Jurciks Photographer: Aigars Endzelis Gaffer: Toms Ločmelis Casting: Māra Liniņa, Liene Vindele Editor: Gatis Belogrudovs Grading and mastering: Krišs Roziņš Sound designer: Artis Dukaļskis Unit manager: Ņikita Alimovs Logistics: Gatis Rūtiņš Line Producer: Agne Skane Producer: Uldis Cekulis

Produced by VFS Films and Traavik.Info

Special thanks to Getliņi ECO waste management company, Linda Vītola-Barānova, Rūdolfs Kalējs. Support: SDG Lighting, Hansa Film Services, Vedam.lv, Two Wheels, Visi savējie.

#tallmanvideo #mortentraavik #riga #latvia #årabrot #vfsfilms #getlinieco

[arabrot]

The Gospel

“Everyone stands alone at the heart of the world, pierced by a ray of sunlight, and suddenly it’s evening”

The Gospel

In front a tall white stranger laughing with hatred one of our own an appearance gaunt and hollow a burning spear at hand accompanied by heralds in the distant horizon machine gun fanfares

It’s the gospel

A tall, white stranger in his hand a long spear at iron’s point a fire he thrust it in my heart pierce my entrails the pain’s great, I moan I’m left on fire I’m left on fire

It’s the gospel

A tall white stranger trumpets blare, a cannonade the soul satisfied now with nothing less than god In front a tall white stranger laughing with hatred one of our own I’m left on fire

It’s the gospel

I Run

I run and I run from horrid dreams in its gelid sooth under the mattress, under the sheets

I ran and I ran from you oh, have mercy on me I wrestled the deuce for you oh, have mercy on me And I faltered because of you oh, have mercy on me I woke to the weight of sin oh, have mercy on me

I run and I run from aurorae so heavy and grey they turn to pitch-black afterlife

I run and I run too crooked to tell the truth too warped to plead for mercy knees too weak to kneel in prayer

I run and I run from marbled masks with hollow eyes crying diamonds

I ran and I ran from you oh, have mercy on me I wrestled the deuce for you oh, have mercy on me And I faltered because of you oh, have mercy on me I woke to the weight of sin oh mercy on you

Tall Man

The cool night leaves a carpet of thin murk and in the silence is the shadow of a tall man under the looming night you have found your place in the dark and in  the silence is the shadow of a tall man

She'll be warned of the moon and the silence she'll feel is a concluding hush and the silence is the silence of the moon it shines upon the shadow of a tall, of a tall man

It just rained so the ghosts of your footsteps tell and in the silence is the shadow of a tall man under a lit window crouches a white angel nonpareil and in the silence is the shadow of a tall man

She'll be warned of the waxing moon

She'll be warned of the moon and the silence she'll feel is a concluding hush and the silence is the silence of the moon it shines upon the shadow of a tall, of a tall man

Faustus

I wager, back! hold! why do you scourge me and my soul? the world is yours I love her, I love her not Go to the crossroads and call for me thrice I wager, seize my soul and the world is yours the world is yours I love her, love her not I claim my wager, I love her not   one word to remember, to remember the pact I claim my wager I love her, I love her not Just one word to break the pact one word say the word just tell me the word I claim my wager I love her, I love her not

Hear me call out from the funeral pyre

I wager, back! hold! why do you scourge me, seize my soul? you wrest what is divine in me I love her, I love her not The golden receptacle, the pernicious drug I claim my wager, it’s in my hand why am I accursed? I love her, I love her not

Hear me call out from the funeral pyre

I will remember to not say the word

Ah Feel

It takes two to make you but just one to die and I'm bound for the grave The moon lets its tears drop to the mighty sea and I'm bound for the grave And they tell us to be careful it's a hazardous ride and I'm bound for the grave I watch my friend the moon illuminate the night and I'm bound for the grave

Norðr ok niðr liggr helvegr

And I smell it up the nose where the sickness is and I'm bound for the grave I enter the warm smell and vomit the cry and I'm bound for the grave the moon weep, streaks of reddish-yellow griefs and I’m bound for the grave it makes so much noise I think I better lay down here because I'm bound for the grave

Norðr ok niðr liggr helvegr

It takes two to make you but just one to die and I’m bound for the grave The moon submerge into the obscure and I’m bound for the grave I feel religions of sorrow and the rain slowly falling and I’m bound for the grave There’s too much noise in keeping out the silence I’m bound for the grave and I’m bound for the grave

And The Whore Is This City

And the whore is this city I force it to all fours spit in the gaping hole and make a start on a ride

Oh, triple-faced Hecate what have I done to you?  

I’ll bathe in the midnight waters for you I’ll dress in dark and dig pits for you I’ll sacrifice myself for you Cut the wether on the pyre of the holocaust

Oh dear mistress Hecate did I hurt you? what have I done to you? what have I done to you?

Oh, triple-faced Hecate let your dogs upon me such anger, such animosity hurt me like I hurt you

Oh, triple-faced Hecate what have I done to you?  

I’ll bathe in the midnight waters for you I’ll dress in dark and dig pits for you I’ll sacrifice myself for you Cut the wether on the pyre of the holocaust

Oh dear mistress Hecate, holocaust is offered and is only sweetened by the libation of honey

I Am The Sun

I am the sun, blood-orange, claws and teeth Seraph’s trumpets sound, flags flap in the wind I lick the skies, close your eyes and see the blood-orange is the last you’ll see before eternity

Your ghost will display its white teeth in the darkness of the well Drain that cradle, dear sun, you are the god I worship the most

I hear bells as cannons and then a terrifying silence clanks and tintinnabulation as religious rites I clear my throat and scream at the winds and the shrieks and shrills will silence the chimes

Your ghost will display its white teeth in the darkness of the well Drain that cradle, dear sun, you are the god I worship the most

Suicide, hung by garters, they dropped a bag of heads Suicide, hung by garters, infants sucking tears

Darkest Day

It's the darkest day of the year it won't get much darker than this I black out into the dark and I go to that place where the angry Man kills where the excited Man rapes where the weeping Man slits his wrists where the covetous reaps where the giddy feels remorse where the desperate loses his heart

Rebekka (tragedie)

She stood there on the cliff laughing her big black hair in the wind breathing I was on that cliff too swaying she told me all about herself I wanted her dead

You thought I was mad maybe I was too mad for an instant mad for you She stood there quiet near  triumphant one hand in pocket smiling, saying Why don't you kill me?

She stood there on a cliff smiling I was there too swooning She told me all about herself I was listening Why don't you kill me dear? That's just what I did, I killed her dead

Now she was lying there on the floor Head struck on a heavy piece on the floor of a ship’s tackle thrown on the third on the third day cast cast out by my own hands

Årabrot casting the augury of bones were:

Kjetil Nernes - vocals, EGCs, harmonium, MS-20 Milton von Krogh - bass Magnus Nymo - drums Ted Parsons - drums, percussion Stephen O’malley - guitar Karin Park - piano, mellotron, harmonium, vocals Anne-linn Bjørke - vocals Juno - vocals Erlend Hjelvik - vocals Emil Nikolaisen - guitar Andrew Liles - samples Johannes Høie - art Kristoffer Lo - brass, noise

Recorded by Greg Norman at Electrical Audio, Chicago, Il, US, January 2015 and Emil Nikolaisen at Djura Missionshus, Djura, Dalarna, Sweden, February 2015.

Overdubs recorded by Milton von Krogh and Emil Nikolaisen at Djura Missionshus, Djura, Dalarna, Sweden. Erlend Hjelvik vocals recorded at Mallvarr Studio, Sandnes, Norway.

Mixed by Milton von Krogh at Taakeheimen Lydrike, Oslo, Norway, April/May 2015.

Mastered by Jason Ward at Chicago Mastering Service, Chicago, Il, USA, summer 2015.

All songs and lyrics by Kjetil Nernes. All rights reserved Tono.

#Årabrot lyrics #årabrot #årabrot the gospel

[arabrot]

The Gospel playlist

Årabrot is often like sticking a finger up yer bum. You don’t really wanna go there, you imagine fingernails full of shit and everything, but once you dare, once you actually squat down and thrust it up there you realize it’s not so bad at all - perhaps a slightly questionable odour - but mostly a sweet tingling feeling of something different. New album out February 2016, here’s the some of the stimulus -

http://spoti.fi/1SPUPwC

[arabrot]

«IN ORDER TO LOVE SOMETHING YOU HAVE TO HAVE SEEN AND HEARD IT FOR A LONG TIME»

Side Solve: 1. Cannibal Manifesto (RESIDENT™- speech) 2. Time To Pull The Sticks (Kjetil Nernes - vocals, EGCs, Milton von Krogh - guitar, Magnus Nymo - drums) 3. Celebration (Kjetil Nernes - vocals, EGCs, Milton von Krogh - guitar, Magnus Nymo - drums, Karin Park - background vocals)

Side Coagula: 4. Mea Culpa (Kjetil Nernes - vocals, EGCs, Taurus, Milton von Krogh - guitar, Magnus Nymo - drums, Spiritwo - chants, Audun Storset - organ, Lasse Marhaug - noise ) 5. — (Lasse Marhaug - noise, Kjetil Nernes - sounds) 6. It’s Hot Drop It (Kjetil Nernes - vocals, EGCs, Karin Park - vocals, organ and pianet, Magnus Nymo - drums)

Arabrot chained by the foot of a crucifix were:

Kjetil Nernes - vocals, guitars, Taurus Milton von Krogh - guitars Magnus Nymo - drums Spiritwo - Middle Eastern chants Lasse Marhaug - noise Karin Park - vocals, Pianet and organ Johannes Høie - art

Recorded and mixed by Milton von Krogh at Djura Missionshus, Djura, Sweden and Taakeheimen Lydrike, Oslo, Norway, between October 2014 and February 2015.

Vocal overdubs recorded by Karin Park at Djura Missionshus, Djura, Sweden.

All songs and words by Kjetil Nernes. All rights reserved Tono/NCB.

Mastered by Jason Ward at Chicago Mastering.

Artwork by Johannes Høie.

Audun Storset played organ on Mea Culpa.

Parts of this and most all other Årabrot recordings are funded by Norsk Kulturråd. Thank you very much.

TIME TO PULL THE STICKS

Ah, hahah, you bunch of idiots It’s time to pull the sticks out of your voodoo dolls, babe Time to pull the sticks out of your dolls Oh baby, I’m grinding needle teeth

They milk the poison sac and the world goes along with that

I’m saying… I dance the dark dance Oh yeah, it’s time to pull the sticks out of your voodoo dolls, babe It’s time to pull the sticks out of your dolls Oh baby, i’m grinding needle teeth

They are all full of shit and the world goes along with it I’m saying…

CELEBRATION

At the happy celebration turning thirty-three Jesus Christ kissed his disciple saying: 'Everything will be alright'. We licked the mist at the time, we were chewing on the night. I spilled the beans and you spilled your guts. We gnawed at the obscure. A true shindig of grande excess. We did, with crazy eyes, squint into the caliginous black. A drop of memory spilled here and there. The dark matter masticated and the vaporous monster by my side. Harsh gnarly mouth twirling its bloody-red tongue round the sublime clit, dirty smoke exhale from protruded lips. I was nothing but ire in those volatile hours. The grotesque savouring divine liquids by my side. The organs throb and dance in fabulous motion. What a sight! A throbbing miracle! Hands raised in madness! 'Everything will be alright'.

MEA CULPA

The roof-top eagles are watching me Impressionistic architecture bulging in Oh, it makes me sick Hordes of Man as ants by the river I see their faces of fears and terrors, it's nauseating Oh, it makes me sick The mocking grotesque of the Stomach Dancer I see myself as a Borough Satyr, it's nauseating Oh, it makes me sick The Syncopal's tear-stained confessions Her feather-like touch to the chin is nauseating   Oh, it makes me sick I lustily embrace her femininity I look into sincere eyes and bluntly lie, it's nauseating   Oh, it makes me sick I stagger blindly and crush my teeth I bleed in shame and rue and it truly,   it truly makes me sick

The foul mouth-hole of disgust is sickening

IT’S HOT DROP IT

Oh, how they bite, those teeth how they grind, through a pinning headache, through brow and sweaty forehead through the air, through the clammy air.

#arabrot #Årabrot lyrics

[arabrot]

Electrical Audio Sessions, Chicago, IL, USA, January 12th-15th 2015

The Arabrot crew were:

Kjetil Nernes - vocals, EGCs

Magnus Nymo - drums

Milton von Krogh - bass

Karin Park - mellotron

Greg Norman - engineer

10 songs recorded -

Ah Feel, And The Whore Is This City, I Run, Faustus, Rebekka (Tragoedie), The Gospel, Song Of Calumny, Tall Man, Darkest Day, I Am The Sun

Album working title REQUIESCAT.

Hails!

#electricalaudio albini chicago arabrot

[arabrot]

ARABROT EUROPEAN TOUR JOURNAL 2014

Arabrot is back! Just a few months ago an impossible thought. The idea of floating back to the surface from the bottom of the sea almost indiscernible.  No wonder someone screams "Jesus" in between every song at M4, Brussels, Belgium. Arabrot's been tossed and turned, scarred and wounded, humiliated and ravished up the years. Members come and go, some grateful some broken. Songs written - some great, some futile. Many years have passed in the gutter of underground music. Arabrot was banned in Boston, banned in Leipzig. Accused of being nationalsozialist, sexist, pederastic, Machiavellian none-the-less. Why? God knows why. But the truth is the meticulous planning and organising of a tour including the correct tools, cables, electricity and whatnot for the grand wall of amps and drums certainly acquires a certain whiff of fascist order. The changing of amp tubes, repairing broken cymbal stands, spending a few thousand NOKs on a car-related fix. A few weeks of working an every day full 12 hours shift and finally everything, including the seemingly fatuous little detail, is crossed, checked, completed.  An important part of the overall autistic approach to these details is making sure our beloved Doris the van has the correct air pressure. The load is surely heavy. On the way down from the church where we live in the Swedish woods there is a nice little gas station actually selling guitar strings and drum sticks and cables if one is in need. I worked out the air device and filled the tyres to a perfect 4.5 bars and put the tool back in place. Then opening the front door, ready to step in and continue the travels I notice a local fat ugly fuck in a small ugly shitcar parking right in front of our Doris and the ugly fuckface is already out filling the shitcar with gasoline. As there is now no room for Doris the van to move forward and no time to waste I set the car in reverse but only to discover the space on this tiny gas station is just too tight for a shitcar and a big van and unfortunately we crash into a rental trailer parked by the side of the store. The right side lamp of the trailer breaks and the entire grille of Doris the van peels off leaving a huge gap in the front. A magnificent start to a three week tour. As I see the ugly fat fuckface gaping back at me I am hailing the gods of destiny I am the writer and performer of intensely angry music so Vansbro, Dalarna, didn't see its first mid-day gas station manslaughter this beautiful Saturday in October.  Halden is friendly and comforting. The fortress lay its calming hand over the city. The people of Halden is sweet and bucolic, the show is a good start. Singaporeans Observatory are nice to the ears. I am greeted by an interesting mix of Norwegians, Swedes and Italians chanting the birthday hymn and they even bring in a cake before we embark on the everlasting journey towards the continent. The next few days are kilometres, kilometres and more kilometres. I am happy to team up with friends Rabbits of Portland, Oregon. They are good people and a damn good band. They sound raw and gritty and with that beautiful Karp-swing to it that almost makes we want to tap my foot in some dance-like motion. Rabbits are like the blues. Noiserock blues. Their rhythmic approach feels like it's taken from the prehistoric vaults of noiserock origins, it's like several centuries of new and no wave refined and churned out in one go. It feels good. 

A memory from a few years ago. I had gulped down several cups of coffee on the long ride down to Belgium when we hit heavy traffic in the outskirts of Brussels. After a few hours the liberating view of a service sign came with almost religious annotations: The urge to take a piss had come to epic proportions. We parked the car outside and I ran in to find the whole restroom area tucked in yellow out-of-order plastic. The sheer desperation led me outside the service centre where a grove of trees beautifully encircled the entire gas station area. I found a suitable spot by a huge tree of some sort and zipped open to complete my unfulfilled urges when I noticed the silhouette of someone semi-squatting a few meters further into the bushes a head of me. I instantaneously thought of the Eastern bloc truck drivers taking a shit in the back alley of the Texaco station I once regretfully worked at in Oslo but soon discovered the outline of another person, chav-like in a track suit, on his knees in front of the first man and I zipped up faster than my own shadow and moved away. I finally took a two minute piss down by the road and strolled relieved and happy back to the car next to an equally relieved Belgian business man in his fifties. The boy in the track suit came out the other direction a bit later approaching his next customer waiting in a BMW. I had just taken a piss in the secret Eden Garden of gay Belgian gentlemen and will forever think of this incident when entering Belgium. The show at Magasin 4 is great. It certainly kicks us into tour mood. The M4 staff and crew is nice and friendly. The sound and lights phenomenal. Thank you wonderful M4. See you next time, Belgium. 

I am eternally and indefinably grateful to bring the MoE-people on tour. They are diligent and effective. They move in a different pace, they are like the Doozers of Fraggle Rock. Last but not least they are brilliant musicians. I feel confident and cool when they are in the band. Arabrot definitely sound better than in years. Probably better than ever. A five-headed monster, tight, heavy as Satan's anvil factory. It's funny how people perceive us. It often seems like our reputation colour the impression of us to such extent some people just can't correspond normally with me. I've had people yelling and screaming at me online, probably imagining some crazed Norwegian lunatic living in the deep woods of the North. One promoter in Boston was sure I kept the bass-player on a leash in a Fritzl-style cave refusing to ever work with Arabrot again, even promoting a total ban of Arabrot in Boston. I'm sure intrigued to go back there. 

Usually the situation changes remarkably when I meet people eye to eye. The loudness of the music, the aggression of the lyrics, the desperate vibe certainly makes an impact, but seeing a bunch of well-mannered Norwegian gentlemen and women in white shirts and blue dresses certainly turns the impression askew. "No beard?", they may ask. "Not even band shirts?" "They must be part of a cult - probably Satanic!". One guy in Halden greets us and hails: "See you at next Mass! 

Infamy don't bother me. I am happy to be the occult leader of Arabrot. 

  I think this is Arabrot's fourteenth European tour. That is including the first few sorrowful attempts. Musically there's been ups and downs as with anything - but there is at least always an interesting story to tell.  Like the time the promoter organised a pigeon shed for us to sleep in France or the time in Halle, Germany, when at get-in time two long-haired dudes were shovelling gravel in the basement - The venue had yet to be dug out! 

When you've been around a few years you tend to recognise a few faces around and in Kortrijk, Belgium, a good old friend turns up shitfaced with a frying-pan full of steaks ("for real men") at 5 pm this beautiful Sunday. It's 19th of October. Our friend was the driver for Murder Junkies - G.G. Allin's infamous band - when we did a show with them in Siegen, Germany, many years ago. I've been a G.G. Allin fan for years, a fascination sparked by seeing a documentary at a student festival when I was a teenager. The show was surely one for the books, but interestingly The Murder Junkies acted sober and clean and above all much more focused on good merch-sales than anything else. Arabrot behaved well too but it was without doubt our driver at the time and our friend from Kortrijk who hit it off real good with copious amounts of drink and wonderfully excessive behaviour matching good ole G.G. on a good day. I have great footage of our dear female driver, topless and blindfolded, onstage next to Murder Junkies' red and yellow-haired naked drummer. The very next morning I'm awaken by our friend from Kortrijk licking my nipples. It's amusing how certain people with a spark in their eye have an obsessive compulsive interest in bodily functions. Our friend from Kortrijk were talking non-stop of nipples while snorting thick lines of cocaine from the dinner table. I remember David Yow was the exact same way. I love David. Bless him and his interest in nipples. 

Photos by Karin Park, Catty Stone and Lady Driver

#arabrot tour