My Dying Bride
Like Gods of the Sun (Fierce)
by Dave Bone
Your body hits the shower floor in slow motion and your head slams against the white porcelain. The warm red stream flows past your mouth and touches your lips with the bitter taste of iron. Everything becomes cold and faded. Curled up in the fetal position, you begin to hear the sound of a caressing violin, which is followed by the funereal hum of a guitar and a mournful eulogy of poetic remembrances. The dirt of churning chords and desperate cries covers you, forever in peace. Death has brought a band.
Fair Yorkshire, England is where we lay our scene as six once star-crossed musicians are starting to make the breakthrough they’ve have been so patiently awaiting. My Dying Bride began as a death metal act with intellectual quirks that separated them from the barbarian mentality of their peers. Their maiden voyage was characterized by songs of epic length which were introduced by tasteful classical intros and then, without a yellow light, broke into grinding spasms of distortion, sending metalheads reeling into a headwhipping frenzy. Entire songs were sung in Latin (a dead language, of course) and the lyrics well-versed in Shakespearian tragedy.
Many EPs and four albums later, they re-emerge with the prodigious Like Gods of the Sun. This is the band’s latest entry from the road to sainthood (or the athiest equivalent) and showcases a more perfected Bride. By now, the death vocals are long gone, replaced by the saddened weep of the emotionally wounded Aaron (no last names ever given). Slow, down-tuned anthemic guitar riffs and dark organs stand in for the frayed-nerve speed blasts, but in no way is this a kinder, gentler band. With all the `97 upgrades, they achieve their impact with a much broader spectrum of success than ever before. A majority of the songs still have the theme of broken relationships. “For You,” “A Kiss to Remember,” and “For My Fallen Angel” may all sound like Hallmark cards but you know the second the songs fill the room that this ain’t the kind of love Michael Bolton howls about.
