Review Summary: To bury, to beget
You are presented with firewood. Two thoughts should spring to your mind: firstly, that no fire will exist if you do not kindle it yourself; and secondly, that the tree from which the wood was taken is now likely dead.
It is fórn, or sacrifice, on both parts. The potential of death to bring light and life, but no more than potential - it is on you to create the fire amidst the blistering cold and ice.
But
Fórn, whether it gives or takes, remains no less than a primordial invocation of power. It looms, disseminates into endless stretches of land, grows out gnarled limbs of sound that thrust out from layers of permafrost. It echoes so chillingly, and yet we know that snow scintillates - a deadly allure, a call for your willing involvement in the inhospitable. The tortured shouts of “Agnis Offer” harmonize eerily well with the instrumentation, and it’s all the more shocking when the guitars stray away from the high level of dissonance that would have been expected from the trajectory of the track. “Blótan”, then, utilizes the displaced anticipation and thunders in with a colossal wall of blast beats and searing riffs - listen carefully, however, and you will notice an intriguingly restless, serpentine bassline that crawls underneath. For all its immediately evident ferocity “Blótan” is rather multi-layered, awaiting a curious soul to peel back the epidermis. It is a defining trait of
Fórn that it feels expansive rather than claustrophobic despite its numerous crushing, unhinged moments; the sweeping introduction of “Kenoma” is one of the more obvious representations of Fyrnask’s atmospheric tendencies, though they are nonetheless reflected in the size of the soundscape created in the record.
Fórn draws its strength from the fitful slumber of its interludes, dreaming of symphonic spectres that haunt amidst creeks and rumbles. Sparseness is no salvation in itself, but when it is the only solace to natural forces beyond human manipulation, it becomes a reluctant haven. Orchestral elements - strings, booming percussion - materialize hazily in the background, culminating in the mournful intonations of “Havets Kjele”; it is almost gentle, almost soothing, and yet it has not the spirit to whisper even a word of consolation. When
Fórn does awaken, it rouses with sudden viciousness - adding to further surprise, none of its conscious nightmares begin immediately into the track - and so the cycle commences again.
Look further beneath, and
Fórn reveals more light below the surface. It is a compelling argument that the atavistic need not be simplistic, that our most fundamental instincts are derived from origins primal but not primitive.
