It’s a miserable, wet day somewhere amidst the uncertainty of yet another bloody lockdown that I settle down to listen to the latest, frostbitten sacrifice from the UK’s Wynter Myst. I leave it to the music to transport me somewhere else – somewhere far, far away – and luckily this iceberg of raw, bleak irresistibility does exactly that. Sod global pandemics, there’s freezing to be done.
First off, this is pure and true to the blood-soaked embryo of black metal – the one that sits in the hollowed out womb of 30 years ago. In a world where music has moved to becoming post-everything, this absolutely post-nothing. In fact, as opener ‘Tumult’ springs into icy life, you soon realise that this is almost pre-everything.
Shimmering tracks such as ‘Winter Inside’ and perhaps my favourite, the wilting and atmospheric ‘Frozen Lunar Spectre’ are born in the frozen, Northern lands of old. The whole conjures up the precise reason that this particular genre of music was written. Yes, that’s nothing new and has, repeatedly, been done before, but it is refreshing to hear ‘Frore’ be so honest and to speak with such integrity.
This is pre-internet, pre-Netflix, pre-fucking-contactless metal. This is music without electricity that relies solely on the grim power of the Siberian winds to ghost it into life. And, in my post-everything world, I love it.