The rapture of the ego within serious extreme metal dissonance permits the inhuman touch of anonymity to speak unadulterated and from a point of nothingness, to stream forth entire worlds of development in complete form with no preamble or expectation. Every assumption a listener or prying internet-connected rat or weasel might devise is a pointless exercise and the only ‘safe’ bout of insight revealed is that the minimal focus on the artist permits the art to live or die in view of the public by its own merit. Human as the listener is, only the few truly warped can subsist upon unfilled void of meaning, symbolism, or climbable sonic artifice. The arrow towards the target is unerring. The sensation of falling into chasm as your screams echo upwards can only expand if it is a truly bottomless fall and as such the volume dies down feebly thin the deeper you fall. There a mile deep is a mysterious captor growling with severe control but descending unwilling all the same. There in the red-hued and bloodshot vision of Decoherence, lies swirling unhinged malevolence amidst torturous acceptance that the fall is endless and all shapes turn to chaos when a mind has given away unwilling all control.

Point towards the fjord and chasm of Scandinavian lineages of black metal past and present for whatever reference is needed for the dissonant and violent acts that Decoherence create, the effect is cacophonous and perhaps too confident in its gait. The descending modus of United Kingdom musician Stroda is the vessel for this noisome existential debasement, the uncomfortable presence in the rift, for all he creates is the entirety of Decoherence beyond the voice of their void. Growling out clotted rust is prolific collaborator Madison, Wisconsin based artist Tahazu (Ordo Malum, SludgeFactory) they are mere sounds he creates, a primal ranting that follows the churn as if hardcore shout in a jazz lounge. All sound is discomfort, all sight is blinded, and the sensation of falling is truly endless within these ten minutes they’d create.

“I” is the muscular flailing of the body as the mind gathers wisdom to reflect, the being spiraling downward amidst flailing cloth accepts its death and begins to worship the very pit with hope for the end, the crushing blow that will end the scrape of his own critical velocity. “II” is the acceptance of the unending, the minds shaping of the unconquerable emptiness that’d surround and the growing fear that time itself cannot pass with the loss of all gravity. Death can never come and no point of reference can satisfy this non-being. The insistent fury of Marduk, the flowing torsion of Deathspell Omega, the noisome wrath of Skaphé, and yet no form would dare such fundamentally atmospheric descent beyond perhaps the most erotically red-pulses of Novae Militiae or the depths of Rebirth of Nefast‘s masterpiece ‘Tabernaculum’.

There are similarly cursed kin but all variants exist starving within the solitude of their own distended vacuum of space. The first impression speaks for itself assuredly within at least 4-5 spins of this ten minute two part piece. Noisome and gnarled as it is the spiked exterior of this fluidic session is both imposing and slightly simplistic in its voyage beyond yet, I cannot deny that full immersion created an anxietous hallucinogenic chaos. The path in any direction is impossible, and the hope is that the great cosmic stew that Decoherence would create will radiate even greater ruin. Moderately high recommendation.

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