Vargsønn [Live at Dødskjeller] - KKUURRTT
SIDE A
The Undying March of Illegitimate Swine (3:27)
Seven Sons of Hróðvitnir (6:41)
C10H5ClN2 (3:57)
SIDE B
Heil Hammerfest (5:44)
The Indebted Servants of Black Metal Overlords (9:11)
Serpent Fuck (2:22)
SIDE C
Summon His Wrath (7:06)
Dead Lives (4:08)
SIDE D
[Death Tape]
Vocals: Lord Vesuvius
Guitar: Fenrir
Bass: Sothoth
Drums: Voorhees
Vargsønn - Live at Dødskjeller was recorded on January 13th, 2014 in Bergen, Norway. It is the completely unaltered recording, with the entire “[DEATH TAPE]” included as per the band’s original intent. The actions of Vargsønn are not sanctioned by Cursed Vision Records and we include it on this vinyl release only because of our contractual obligation to do so. The following is an account of the evening from the band’s recording engineer Gunnar Sørensen as translated by KKUURRTT.
- Cursed Jared, Cursed Vision Records (2023)
***
The whole building was condemned, but we couldn't have cared if we wanted to. Squatter’s rights afforded us our own rooms even if the place was built to burn. A shoddy wooden staircase was the only way in and out of the abandoned hotel basement that we'd converted into our very own underground concert hall. Dødskjeller quickly became the go-to spot for every metalhead in a hundred mile radius. It became our mission from within this dark dungeon lair to spread the word of “death, doom, destruction and despair” through the band’s distorted tones, foreboding feedback and the guttural scream of pitch-black poetics.
Everyone already knew what was going down that second week in January. Buzz was Sothoth had scored some IF6 for the show, and after friends telling some of their other friends about it, what felt like most of the Scandinavian scene had assembled in our little town. The guys were set to try the glimmering nightmare pill we'd all read about on the Internet. And making a live recording out of the experience? That was just about the most metal thing anyone could think to do. Especially after our predecessors had already spilled pig’s blood, burned churches, and killed over bad record deals.
A flashing strobe at the edge of the stage shifted the room from blinding light to pure darkness. Murmurs loudened through the crowd as the four men of Vargssøn emerged one by one through a black curtain. A low wail of excitement pierced through the tension of an impatient room. It’s the first thing you hear on the track.
The thrum of Sothoth’s bass came alive as Voorhees tap tap tapped along on the edge of his snare. The two found a rhythm, building a beat while Fenrir’s guitar hissed at us, refusing to let the cable’s connection settle and forcing a static upon the room far more aggressive than strings and frets could ever compare.
With black corpse paint dripping down the crisp-white plastered on his face, a monstrosity of a man took his place in front of the microphone. It was easy to believe that he really had become the demon he’d long-ago convinced himself to be: Baal's Thirteenth, the Voice of Damned, Lord Vesuvius.
I could see bodies bouncing in anticipation. Whispers calling bullshit too afraid to speak up. My microphone was raised almost to the roof, recording to tape off of some eighties contraption I’d dug up from a used electronics store in Olso. Analog had this low-fi quality that matched their sonic sludge. At least I hoped this makeshift system would better capture the band’s visceral energy after proving impossible in the studio. Listening to it again, I think it did.
A slow rumbling bassline oozed through the speaker, Sothoth's head bobbing along to its hum. The crash of the cymbals lined up with the first strum from Fenrir's guitar. The fuzzed-out doom of "The Undying March of Illegitimate Swine" tore into the room, the crowd’s shoulders swaying and toes tapping. The band plowed through their classics faster and more fanatical than I'd ever heard them before. Then, in what felt like the blink of an eye, it was over.
“Today our passage through the gates of Hell has been granted,” Lord Vesuvius bellowed. “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse will lay vision upon the wasteland that was once, and shall be again, our home. Bring me the key.”
As if forced by the command of Lord Vesuvius’ word, Sothoth unhitched the strap on his bass and reached into the back pocket of his jeans, revealing a small black plastic container. The pop of the top spoke whispered volumes of dread. The IF6 pills tumbled into Lord Vesuvius’ hand, lights refracting specks of shimmer trapped within each one.
“Sothoth.”
Sothoth pinched one of the four pills and dramatically dropped it down his gullet. Within seconds he was on the floor, shivering and convulsing, slamming his head against the stage. He looked up, teeth bloody and smashed, the curve of his lips showing nothing but pure pleasure.
“Voorhees,” Lord Vesuvius continued, beckoning the drummer to him.
The stout and balding man approached the singer with drumsticks still in hand. He grabbed a pill, slurped it down and without missing a beat stabbed both sticks straight through his eyes. Voorhees doubled over in pain, blood dripping out of his sockets and staining the strobe red. He spun in circles, blindly trying to find his way back to his kit, murmuring “Mama Mama Mama” like a child lost to the night.
People stumbled out in droves, silent and shaking. Men I’d seen profess their undying love for death were barely able to hold it together. A girl rushed by covering her mouth whimpering, her eyeliner so smudged from tears that it looked like the corpse paint of the band.
“Fenrir,” Lord Vesuvius said next.
Fenrir strummed a droning, monotonous chord, eyes firmly planted on the crowd. Lord Vesuvius moved to the guitarist and served him the pill as if sacrament. Fenrir’s tongue pulled back into his mouth and eyes shot instantly blank. He dropped to his knees without breaking the rhythm of his strum, playing what now, in retrospect, sounds like a riff straight from hell itself.
One last pill waited. The glitter splayed its muted light across the blood-red walls. Lord Vesuvius let it wobble in his palm, shadows trembling in its wake. A handful of fans remained, huddled in the back. We had to see. For all their earlier theatrics, the pomp, circumstance, the final pill entered his mouth without a trace of fanfare.
A lighter emerged in Lord Vesivius’ hand, casually flipping it open and closed as if not remotely affected by the horror he’d consumed. If anything, he seemed invigorated. Open. And closed. And open. And closed.
Lord Vesuvius bent down and picked up an abandoned whiskey bottle resting at the edge of the stage. He unscrewed the top slowly before drenching himself in the liquor, soaking his stringy hair in the smell of Sunday morning hangover. He laughed unlike anything I’d ever heard before. As if he’d never heard anyone laugh before and this was his best impression of what people do.
As he whipped the bottle around his head and sprayed the others in the band, drops of liquor splattered onto the venue floor. The lighter continued. Open. Closed. Open. This was the last straw for many, and those who remained started filing out one by one. I was transfixed. My feet were glued to the floor and my eyes to the stage as the crimson light flashed and the lighter’s CLINK found its way into the beat.
AIYEEEEEEE—Lord Vesuvius screeched one final signature wail as the click and the clack of the lighter turned into a FZZZ and his whole body erupted in flames.
DUNHDUNUHDUNH—The bass bubbled under Sothoth’s face as the heat did the same under his skin. He collapsed to the ground, the fire engulfing his twitching limbs.
BADUMKSSSHHH—Voorhees crashed onto his drum set, collapsing under his weight and sending him rolling into the curtain. The orange glow flickered up the fabric.
BZZZGRRRBZZZ—Fenrir wouldn’t let up. The constant looping, maddening feedback of his chord progression remained even as the skin melted off his face.
I stayed as long as I could. Though this recording does cut short, I know they were still going long after I left, their laughter chasing us outside into the freezing cold.
- Gunnar Sørensen, 2019
***
KKUURRTT is glad you read his thing. He can be found on Twitter at @wwwkurtcom.