Review Summary: Orange is the new black metal
Some things are better untranslated. For instance, Dan Brown's novels have been published in 56 different languages, Rupi Kaur habitually translates generically mundane existence into execrably mundane poetry, and while the word "Pazuzu" refers rather excitingly to a Mesopotamian Demon King of Sou' Westers (fuck oath), "Oranssi" simply and Finnishly modifies this Wind God to be coloured orange. I wish I'd never learned that.
Muuntautuja, according to the robust academic faculty known as Google Translate, means "variables". According to a Finnish bloke that constitutes one of Oranssi Pazuzu's five appendages, it means "shapeshifter". Is this variance in translation a beautiful irony of language, or have I been misled by one source or another? I wish to never learn the answer.
Which of
Muuntautuja's many morphing variables shall we dub the nominal Boggart, then? Perhaps it's the songwriting: every track defined as its own biome in non-Euclidean space by noxious atmospherics, with the addition or subtraction of various sonic elements (mostly related to guitar music) resulting in organic expansion, contraction, and collapse wherever it feels necessary; some songs never reach critical mass, some surpass it, others float around a little pointlessly – all of them mutate. Maybe that ain't it, though. Maybe it's the band themselves: a metalsphere anomaly who bravely plunged their black metal into psychedelic rabbitholes on 2011's
Kosmonument before making the brave choice to strip much of the black metal out of 2020's
Mestarin Kynsi, and who now cite Death Grips and Nine Inch Nails as bio-worthy influences on
Muuntautuja. That seems too easy though. Mayhaps it's just the way that shapes literally shift when you're 128 days deep into a lightless Lapland winter (translation: Kaamos) and making a serious dent in your psilocybin cache. Although I sincerely hope for the latter explanation, I wish to never learn the answer.
I like to imagine
Muuntautuja as a soundtrack to seven chthonic excavations, any of which could serve as impetus for a Yharnam and/or Innsmouth-sized outbreak of blood and/or fish. That might explain why it sounds as if Jarko 'Korjak' (translation: fixer) Salo and his drums are being buried alive whenever the mix gets cluttered (if only I could hear those oddly-placed snare shots as "Voitelu" (translation: lubrication??) reaches peak tumescence more clearly). Maybe his kit was set up a little too close to the digsites, and every time the bassist—who seems to have found a particularly resonant cavern for his thunderous distortions—struck one of his girthy strings large chunks of dirt were loosed upon poor Korjak. This rhythm section is responsible for making
Muuntautuja translatable, owing to the way they play everything right down the middle, leaving plenty of room for everyone else to get stoopid with it. Take the ending of "Valotus" (translation: exposure??), for instance, which implodes in a choking haze of static, clipping, robotspeak, and all manner of eldritch earfuck before filling its smoking lacuna with a ringing that'll have tinnitus-sufferers digging fingernails into palms and sweating buckets.
Ugly and loud as things get, the Outer Gods unearthed in this process are as abnormally seductive as some of these translated track titles. The midtempo slink of "Hautatuuli" (translation: cold wind) is far from frigid. Its bassline in particular writhes its way down some very suggestive notes before resolving into a long-held tonic that's as much aphrodisiac as harmonic relief. The drums, when they're not reiterating slick 4/4 grooves like perfect pagan mantras, are also interested in playing with sexy numbers like 5, 6, 6, 6, and 7. Menacing guitar leads rejoice in a sensual lethargy, injecting "Ikikäärme" (translation: the eternal serpent) with an allure that'll make you want to eat your own tail. The track with the most limited sex appeal, "Vierivä usva" (translation: rolling haze, no clear imagery), is saved until last; it might, generously, sound like staring down at the smouldering remains of the album with a cheap post-coital cigarette hanging from your mouth. A feeling often accompanies moments like this, hard to avoid given the biochemistry involved. Even though you've just mashed genitals with the perfect partner, satisfied your heart and mind, felt the constellations pulse in unison with your pelvic floor, here you lie, the ash of a kingsized Rothmans falling gently upon your leftmost areola, and there's that feeling that your rational self tries to deny, struggles to translate. Is it regret?
Translation:
Muuntautuja is pretty much fucking great, serving as a noisier and grimier exploration of the more studio-focussed, less band-in-room world of sonic degradation first mined in
Mestarin Kynsi, which—if I'm translating sputnikmusic's data correctly—was their most popular release to date. Vau! What
Muuntautuja doesn't manage to recreate or build upon from its predecessor, though, is its seamless atmosphere and pacing. The album dips and dives, dodges and ducks, dicks you senseless at the drop of a hat, making for a seriously affecting first listen, but as you familiarise yourself with the shape of each track and its spot in the sequencing, translate one too many words and dare a glance behind the curtain, well, fuck, the wizard's silhouette draws a sharper relief than you might've anticipated, a-and, wait, looks weirdly orange?
