Inside the charred husk of ancient spires sits a stoic, solitary figure. Head bowed, fists clenched, a single shard of light leaks through the growing cracks. Keijo Haino unearths sounds from the depths of time. Whether it’s through his voice, guitar, or hurdy gurdy, as it is on My Lord…, the sharpness of his creation is only exceeded by the clarity of his vision. My Lord… groans with the fading energy of one thousand suns and explodes across countless dimensions.
Haino is as singular a figure in music history as there has ever been. Here, he splits the annals of time into black glass shards, fueling an inextinguishable fire that uses dissonance as a bludgeoning force. Voice acrobatics spill onto the ground, staining the decaying concrete slab with blood to feed the next generation of sonic aerialists. Metal breaks. Strings snap. High-pitched wailing calls the blissfully unaware toward the altar where the dark magus chews up fortunes and spits them out. Haino channels ancestral spirits with elegiac timbres, breaking their hold on the terrestrial divide.
Unencumbered by death, the horsemen ride free. This music is physical, tactile. It’s a boa constrictor sustained by harsh cacophony, feeding on the stray notes like maggots at a body farm. My Lord… breaks the crystal spheres containing memories and spreads them like fire across the parched Earth. Haino is perpetual.