Review Summary: The Voice of the Sea has been silenced, but their passion rings out loud and clear.
The day it was discovered that vocalist Chris Torpy had sadly taken his own life was the day I discovered this band. A cruel twist of events brought me into the world of post-metal and since that day I hadn't found anything in the genre as compelling as The Quietest Place on Earth. I assumed the band would just...stop. Thankfully that wasn't the case and after more than two very long-feeling years, we have an album that is as much a solemn tribute as it is a musical triumph.
It wasn't decided from the beginning that the album would be instrumental. The band played with various ideas from finding a permanent replacement, to having some guests, to doing it themselves (*shudder*). Eventually it became apparent that the only appropriate thing to do was to have no vocals at all. Some people are going to be put off by this pretty hard, especially since the vocals on their two previous albums are some of the most powerful elements present there. But you can't take it out of context; this band's identity is still fully realized and well established. Going instrumental may not have been the master plan, but the band does more than make it work.
The first track is almost certainly a homage to Chris, although it's not about him. Not exactly. It evokes the final trial of one Captain Lawrence Oats, the Gallant Gentleman who was part of an antarctic exploration team. He contracted severe frostbite, slowing down his party considerably, but they would not leave him. So he walked into a blizzard to die that his friends might move fast enough to leave with their lives. And they did. Part eulogy, part exoneration, the calming chords give way to dramatic and neatly layered riffing. Three guitars are not a gimmick here; the band is very conscious of the atmosphere and soundscape they can produce. They don't get in each others way, but rather play off each other or flow together seamlessly. Bass that simultaneously floats and drones, cymbal smashes that are the audible equivalent to shockwaves, fanning out in every direction with each strike. The choir the cry of an icy storm. I imagine each grueling step the Captain took, knowing one of those steps would be his last. A whole lot of passion goes into these 6 minutes, but it's just the beginning.
Bogatyri enters with soft and sad acoustic notes that somehow carry an eastern European vibe and evoke a storytelling mood. The ability displayed here to set the stage for a fairly specific set of images is uncanny. Even if you don't know all the details it still works. The impact intensifies when you learn of the three heroic knights. Plant workers from Chernobyl, they dove to their deaths to release a pressure valve in a radioactive pool beneath the reactor that if breached by the water would have caused a steam explosion blanketing most of Europe in a radioactive cloud. The song builds gradually and with purpose, adding layers and slowly increasing the pace. The race against time is felt in the tension and urgency of the instrumentation. Dueling patterns of melodies and a desperate driving backdrop from the drums and bass conclude in riffage that roars and whines and eventually collapses into smothering staticy echoes.
This is not an immediate album. There's never anything terribly complicated going on. A cello and even a trumpet feature a few times. The piano is not overused. Nuances abound, but none are very difficult to discern. You simply need more time to think about what you're hearing and to understand and absorb the message contained within each track, and the album as a whole. Repeated listens probably won't reveal more layers; they will however further illuminate and intensify the themes found herein.
The Last Dive of David Shaw is just as it sounds. Opening with actual audio from Shaw's final descent, it breaks away to into a somber set of simple strums and, much like the previous track, builds layer upon layer that close in around your ears. Unlike the previous track, it backs off when you least expect it, returning with an altogether unsettling combination of thudding drums and creeping plucks and pulls of the guitar strings. Smoothing out again with some simple but wonderful bass and an enchanting melody, it almost fools you into a false sense of security. Almost. David Shaw dove down nearly a thousand feet underwater to retrieve the body of a fellow diver who had attempted the same feat and failed ten years before. He had found the body and came back to the surface, promising to retrieve Deon Dreyer and return him to his family. And he did. But only after the depths filled and crushed his lungs, though he struggled against them, tangled in the power lines of the equipment meant to help him. Days later both bodies surfaced. He had kept his promise. The losing battle he fought pushes through within the strokes and pulses of the band's instruments as they pour on yet another overwhelming ocean of sounds and emotion. The song ends with a beautiful piano piece, bringing sorrow but also closure, and the promise that the spirit of exploration and discovery might not be drowned.
At this point I realized that the album still had not quite matched the intensity of the opening track, despite its best efforts, and I was starting to wonder if it had outdone itself too soon. What came next laid down that concern with a vengeance.
Challenger – Flight opens with a speech from William S. Burroughs; a prolific writer and generally forward thinking individual, he had quite the concept about the significance of our dreams (that is, when we sleep). He seemed to believe that dreams were not only important on an emotional or cognitive level, but a physical one as well. The ambient background (produced still mostly with the band's traditional instruments) sets the tone, conjuring images of empty spaces and far off places. This gives way to the familiar soft notes and calming tones that signify the band's expertly crafted build ups. The music waits patiently, in no rush to force a cacophony on you, content to let you slowly approach what's coming. A heavily distorted and utterly pain-filled ripping guitar solo punctuates the onset of the second half of the track, but it too fades away. Wondering what could possibly be left to say without words, an organic synth line and picking that feels like a countdown herald the Challenger to ignite its engine, the flames and smoke crawling out from underneath. The grounds vibrates, the rocket shakes and battles against the almighty force of gravity, straining with all its strength until finally airborne. It picks up speed and tears into the sky. But something is very very wrong.
The guitars fly and swerve and switch places, dancing and curving around each other in a mad dash to the stratosphere. The drums the fuel, the bass the atmospheric pressure bending and falling around this crude machine humans have devised to launch us to the heavens. The music piles onto itself until it seems as if a hundred people are playing these notes and then...it stops. In the blink of an eye a fireball consumes the Challenger. "They were here and now they're gone", a distraught voice utters. And we are left staring at the horizon in disbelief as the shards of this great embarkation trickle back down to Earth.
Swan Song carries the weight of the lost crew on its back, unsure if we are able to bear the burden of our own ambition, if our desire to be better as individuals, and as a world, is just too much to hope for. Yet hope remains. These people have not died in vain. They have saved lives, faced their fears, and inspired us to chase our dreams and strive for the impossible. To dive to the depths and reach for the stars. We Lost the Sea have encapsulated and personified the human condition; its failures, its triumphs. And most importantly, the sacrifices made so that our dreams might live on and someday be realized.
