Posted: Oct 11, 2003
Imagine being dead and traveling to the next world. I picture it essentially as a fall, right? Well while you're falling- it's fucking pitch black...Khanate is playing in the background. Now while you're falling (and it's a LOOOOOOONNNNGGGG drop) the record is playing and all the disturbing thoughts you've had in your lifetime are being played in your mind..very visual, almost like a movie...frame after frame just horrible things you've once only thought about, but are now happening before your eyes. So real, so vibrant the colors of pain & disgust. It's unavoidable because it's in your subconscious and you cannot look away. But it's there and it's not pleasant.
the sun shines bright on your eyes but provides no light or warmth. your ears are caked with blood and sore to the touch. your tongue is swollen and fills your mouth with dumb flesh. cackles and crackles echo from a distance, bent around cliffs and canyon walls. your body resonates in the water, but the liquid does not soothe the scorched flesh, your pores closed in resistance. bones are jelly, spine is a frayed cord, the earth shakes beneath you - it's 5 am, it's midnight, the hot red moon is upon you - black sunn sinks below the jagged horizon - the earth is opening to swallow you. it's time to let go.....
Open my ears and close my eyes ..a cold corridor in the twilight of brain leading down to the labyrinths of thoughts. Sounds disturbing the tired chaos from far. Incantations.. Slowly comes an edge.. touching the neck kindly. Its colder then the flesh. Crash! A piece of a broken mirror softly stroke through the column up an down as a pendulum. Falling down.. deeper.. the alpha waves rising. Voice from far. I like that voice! Like an edge.. so sharp .. is the path between dreams and reality.. then crash! It gives liberation. I offer my soul.. take it there.. i really like this journey... On the fields of rape.. guitar mantras from behind the gate to the nightmares.. its so calm.. perfect relaxing.. i feel my soul free.. flying away.. go down.. deeper. Crash! Came when it had to come. Gives wings down there.. another door.. cant see in the twilight exactly. Open. Nails passes. Bells on the chains.. love to go deeper.. to the source.. closer. Take my soul! I love this journey! Tuned down. Heart likes to follow this beats.. the voice calling from the other side of space.. I'm coming.. not sure which side of mirror is real. Then near my ears.. I'm listening. Choked voice, the noises.. touching.. mighty chaos in wires.. they lead down there. Now feel shame.. dying in every moment.. slowly closer to the end.. step by step clock by clock. Its a decaying dimension everything fading out slowly. In this slow death called life.. feel the force KHANATE gives to pass.. to face with Doom and to be into that.. and the feedbacks taking me... Crash!
Wake up. Wake up at 4 a.m. and play this music incredibly quietly. Place your smallest blaster in a wardrobe and sit hunched up in the far corner of your emptiest room. Put 150 watt bulbs in all the lights, take off any lampshades so only naked bulbs burn, swathe yourself in clothes and lisssen as the Dubin emanates - hellish as an Irish buca, malevolent as a Swedish skogsnuffar, small as a figure on a Lionel train set, he’s in your room and he’s standing upon your shelf 3" tall and he’s bellowing. Turn the music quieter… way down… turn it lower, until you can barely hear those guitars. Damn you Khanate, this music is still so unbelievably loud. Without bass, without high end… only with mid-range and still Dubin takes a can opener to your head. Let your guard down until you are beyond life, at that amphetamine point where every light bulb in the room has been cleaned. Use this music. Abandon all reason to Khanate and let the shamanic half-life underworld of your lowest ebb come flooding through. Through every little death... LIFE
JAY BABCOCK / ARTHUR MAGAZINE:
The opening minute is the sound of Khanate plugging into some evil current. What follows is some sort of ultimate nightmare soundtrack: four profound evocations — hymns, really — to desolation and oblivion, to alienation past the point of nihilism's comfort. To the pre-primal, humming, buzzing horror that can unfold from *beneath* the subconscious, down where Goetic demons *really do* roam. It's Kenneth Grant plus James Fotopolous plus a throat full of razors. The whispering of a demon to the hermit; the court jester anticipating his own murder; the supplicant making his 3:45am pleas to a hateful god. It's Sisyphus realizing the rock is rolling back again, and I hope I never hear it again. But, of course, I will.
I found that where say, Mayhem take you on a malevolent , dark journey into pure evil, this just kidnapped me and left me in a completely blackened room, alone, probably in a psychiatric ward in hell, to ponder what it will be like to be tortured mindlessly for eternity. Like looking up the skirt of the Wicked Witch of the West as you lay in a puddle of your own juices, fumbling with your sanity as you look over her shoulder and see the remnants of your family hanging from meathooks still dressed in their blue pyjamas. Look on in horror as you fall into her black impossible eyes and feel the itching of a thousand spiders gnawing through your guts with teeth like broken glass. Smell her fecund insanity as black mist clouds your vision while she removes her clothes and offers you her fertility. Stare into a future so grotesque, feel the impossible, dread the existence of the millisecond as she places her ghastly shrunken albatross features against your cheeks and stares lovingly into your eyes, while her black reptilian tongue that whispers of death and disease and amputation without anesthetic peels apart your lips. Taste her ancient flavours, as you are eaten alive while you procreate with the final horror itself.
Promotional poster for KHANATE "Things Viral" CD sunn28