Despite the rather paltry market for Norwegian funk-rock bands nowadays, there is little dismay or stutter in the psychedelic strut of Spirits of the Dead, whose self-titled debut is a rollicking fog of dark romanticism. Equal parts Led Zeppelin knock-off and Queens of the Stone Age emulators, the Spirits lather their music with a haze long forgotten in the primordial soup of heavy rock, clearly students of their genre's sordid history. Yet for all the familiarity of the thrown-together sounds, the Spirits are, in essence, free n' easy, dolling out greasy, screaming riffs with much abandon and little melodrama, endearing themselves to listeners in the process.
Rarely do disparate elements come together so well, but somehow, the Spirits' release is a near-perfect balance between fast and slow, rough and mystical, and retro and modern portions. Led capably by the pure voice of Ragnar Vikse, the imported quartet mixes the tempting mystery of Zeppelin-era 70's rock with the more fantasy-laden elements of Rush, complete with the subtle, trickling references to Tolkien, Lewis, and other masters of twentieth century lore. Or perhaps it's simply the epic influence of Norway's "high mountains and deep fjords," in the band's own words, but whatever it might be, it clearly works: the album writhes, struts, marches, and shatters with aplomb, reveling in its own fuzzy beauty with an unbeatable sense of swagger.
The introductory "White Lady/Black Rave" is evidence of such, punching and bristling its way through eight minutes of Vikse's degraded vocals and dirty organ accompaniments. Clearly, the Spirits have no fear of self-indulgence, but such is the charm of their debut, which alternately pours and tears through its imagery in an effort to leave audiences breathless. For the most part, it succeeds, as songs like "The Waves of our Ocean" and "Fields of Gold" match simplicity with ingenuity as their relentless beats drive spiky guitar hooks to the finish line. There is a sense of unadulterated dedication here, the Spirits mixing danger and poetry in ways that much of rock has forgotten. Though held by the slices of time from which they've borrowed, the Norwegian act has still found a rather intriguing voice that smacks of a lethal beauty.
Then again, what else can one expect when your bassist's name is Deadly Nightshade?
July 2, 2009
