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David Tibet

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Current 93, “The Light Is Leaving Us All” (The Spheres, 2018)

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This long-gestating new release from David Tibet and his shifting orbit of collaborators is an unexpected late-career throwback to the dazzling and immersive epics of Current 93’s golden age. In Tibet’s parlance, it is common for recordings and performances to be described as “channelings” and that seems especially appropriate for The Light Is Leaving Us All, which at times feels like it effortlessly transcends time and space and dissolves reality to open a fleeting portal into an alternate world swirling with unknowable mystery, unearthly beauty, and ineffable sadness. At its best, this album feels like a motley and wild-eyed caravan of minstrels, actors, and puppeteers unexpectedly appeared in a medieval town to share a vividly haunting, hallucinatory, and deeply eschatological fairy tale that will be the last thing that any of the villagers ever hear.

The Light Is Leaving Us All made its debut as a rapturous multimedia performance in London earlier this fall with Tibet’s impressionistic and achingly sad tale of witches and vanishing light backed by a series of slow-moving films by Davide Pepe. While there were occasion appearances from a mysterious red silhouette (the witches) and allusions to a glowing red barn, the bulk of the imagery was a series of antique sepia-toned portraits of families in which everyone’s eyes were replaced by trails of white that slowly oozed to the edges of the frame. It was a genuinely unsettling series of images that very effectively represents the album’s tone of loss mingled with something ambiguously transcendent. 

Enigmatic ambiguity is a big theme in general, actually. For example, the witches clearly seem to be the tragic, beautiful martyrs of the tale, but it is quite hard to piece together much else from the fragmented narrative, which is purposely elusive, enigmatic, and pregnant with cryptic allusions. Also, the narrative features quite a wonderfully disorienting and colorful swirl of characters and events: in just “The Policeman’s Dead” alone, it is divulged that the policeman, the surgeon, a young girl, and the murderer are all dead (and the moon is drunk). 

Notably, that is the first real song on the album and it is one of the two (or possibly three) instant classics to be found, as Alasdair Roberts’ lovely and hypnotically repeating classical guitar figure steadily accumulates intensity until it resembles some kind of ritualistic medieval procession. The entirety of the album is quite good in general though, as every piece feels like an essential deepening of both the spell and the bittersweet mystery of the narrative. Naturally, Tibet is in peak form lyrically and the band’s temporally dislocated and lovely music is lysergically and disturbingly enhanced by the masterful hand of Andrew Liles, but there are a still few pieces that unavoidably eclipse their surroundings.

The most striking one by a landslide is “A Thousand Witches,” as its sadly lilting melody and swaying rhythm provides a gorgeous and devastating backdrop for Tibet’s tender recitation of names and allusions to “two thousand eyes in the carnival sky. “Experiencing it live was a borderline religious experience for me and it does not lose much power at all in its recorded form, as it brings all of the sublime details into focus that help make it such a jaw-droppingly beautiful and timeless piece: the strange and lurching percussion, Aloma Ruiz Boada’s swooning violin melodies, Reinier van Houdt’s subtly lovely augmentations of the simple chord progression, Michael York’s mournfully beautiful flutes and bagpipes, the chorus of chirping birds—every single thread converges to absolutely floor me. It feels almost too pure and perfect to have emerged from our world, but it is far from the first time that Tibet’s work has affected me that way and it likely will not be the last. Moments like “A Thousand Witches” are exactly why I have remained an unwaveringly devoted Current 93 fan throughout more than two decades of my evolving taste. 

The other significant bombshell on the album is “The Postman Is Singing,” which has the riff structure of a doom-metal dirge, but inventively dispenses with distortion (mostly) to unleash a slow-building firestorm of militantly jangling clean guitars and an ascending cacophony of darkly blossoming strings and throbbing electronics. It is a truly glorious and infernal racket of squealing and shivering strings by the time it finally winds down. Aside from that, I would be remiss if I did not mention “The Bench and the Fetch,” which diverges from the escalating darkness of the album as an unexpected oasis of nakedly pretty and sincere ’70s-style folk that perversely suits the album perfectly.

The only significant way that The Light Is Leaving Us All falls a bit short of past career-defining masterworks like All The Pretty Horses or Black Ships Ate The Sky is the slightly reduced frequency of absolutely revelatory individual songs. As a complete artistic statement, however, it is hard to imagine this album being any more absorbing or cumulatively powerful, as it perfectly unfolds like a darkly entrancing folktale that seethes and swirls with so much mystery, depth, poetry, and hidden meaning that I feel like I have barely scratched the surface of its emotional and philosophical core. 

Moreoever, Current 93’s work has always found multiple ways to ambush me with something unexpectedly striking or emotionally resonant. For the most part, the melodies themselves are instantly graspable and tend to establish my early favorite moments, but appreciating the full depth of the lyrics or the intricacies of the arrangements is another story altogether that ensures that I will find secret new pleasures for months to come. I definitely do not expect to tire of this album anytime soon. I suspect I will never unravel exactly what Tibet was trying to say with this album, as it is so willfully enigmatic and open-ended, but it would be a reductive mistake to read the album as a timely and fable-like elegy for the end of the world, even if it would be a completely fitting one. Perhaps it is merely the elegy for a particularly dark chapter (the one starring us), as Tibet makes it quite clear that all of the lost light will ultimately fill the night sky and that the birds never stop sweetly singing.

Listen here.

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Zu93, “Mirror Emperor” (House of Mythology, 2018)

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The inimitable David Tibet returns to House of Mythology for a second inspired collaboration, this time teaming up with shape-shifting Italian ensemble Zu. Unlike his more spacey and indulgent union with Youth, however, Mirror Emperor feels very much like a Current 93 album. That similarity is not due to any lack of vision on Zu’s part though, as this album is very much driven by a David Tibet in peak wild-eyed, apocalyptic prophet form: Mirror Emperor is essentially a fiery, hallucinatory, and poetic tour de force that drags Zu down a deep rabbit hole in the UnWorld on the other side of the mirror. 

As such, Mirror Emperor is a dazzling and compelling album primarily because Tibet had a vivid vision that he breathlessly shares with an incandescent passion. The music is often quite good as well, of course, but Mirror Emperor is more of a lysergic epic poem than a collection of discrete songs. That is just fine by me, as few things are more captivating than pure, undiluted Tibet with a microphone and some strong feelings to share.

David Tibet and Zu first met in Rome about seven years ago, but Massimo Pupillo has been a lifelong Current 93 fan, which seems to have made him an especially sensitive and thoughtful collaborator. I suppose it could be said that Mirror Emperor falls roughly in the same aesthetic territory as Myrninerest or classic Cashmore-era Current 93, as Zu largely devote themselves to ringing arpeggios, strummed acoustic guitars, and moaning cellos. 

Mirror Emperor sounds like something other than folk though, more closely resembling some kind of timeless and dreamlike chamber music. More importantly, Zu tend to wisely cede the foreground to Tibet, as he is a force of nature here and they mostly just needed to avoid stepping on his toes or breaking that otherworldly spell in order to create a great album (simply give Tibet a pen, step aside, and watch the fireworks). 

That said, Zu were not at all timid or one-dimensional—they were just very tactful about picking their shots and choosing when to allow their hallucinatory reverie to erupt into something more forceful. The most prominent Zu eruption comes quite early with “Confirm The Mirror Emperor,” which resembles a sludgy and Sabbath-inspired metal groove that has been sucked dry by a vampire, leaving only a thick and sinuous bass line. 

That absence of distorted guitars leaves plenty of space for interesting activity in the periphery though and Zu made the most of it, embellishing the piece with woozily swooning slide guitar, shuddering cellos, and something resembling erratic, cascading autoharp ripples. Zu also take center stage in more subtle fashion on “The Heart of The Mirror Emperor,” weaving a simmering and throbbing soundscape of electronics and tape loops. 

Eventually, the piece boils into a crescendo of quavering washes of distorted chords, yet it is otherwise one of the most tender and quietly beautiful pieces on the entire album. Notably, there is also a brief, brooding interlude of murky ambiance sans Tibet near the end of the album, but Zu are largely absent as well, as the piece is essentially just a brief glimpse into the howling void.

Most of the strongest pieces unexpectedly come near the end of the album. The first is the languorously lovely “(The Absence of the Mirror Emperor),” which wonderfully recaptures the magic of All The Pretty Horses-era Current 93. A lot of that success is probably because it is one of the few pieces on the album that feels like an actual song, as Tibet’s near-spoken-word delivery crosses the line into fleeting and beautiful snatches of melody. Zu’s accompaniment is especially inspired as well, as the strummed acoustic guitars are gorgeously embellished with a delicately ringing harmonic motif and quivering, hauntingly lovely snatches of cello. 

It also features the best closing line since Tibet dropped a “Sincerely, L. Cohen” on the Myrninerest album (this time, it is a snarled “Hey, was that the apocalypse?”). The following “Before the Mirror Emperor” is another highlight, as Tibet sings a tender and lilting melody over a sublimely beautiful backdrop of chiming arpeggios, groaning strings, spectral drones, and buried field recordings. Elsewhere, the brief and hopeful “The Imp Trip of the Mirror Emperor” is similarly lovely, as Tibet sings a languorous melody over a dreamy web of rippling and quivering arpeggios. 

It is noteworthy that most of the best songs seem to have a hopefulness and innocence to them, as Mirror Emperor‘s premise seems to be a fundamental dark one. The album is considerably more complex and deliciously ambiguous than the broad outlines of its dark fable suggest, however, as the arc flows seamlessly and assuredly through passages of light, shadow, density, and delicacy. It never gets dark enough to be truly harrowing, yet it does achieve a sublime transcendence at points. No darkness is ever complete enough to fully smother beauty and wonder, even though it sometimes feels otherwise.

It is redundant at this point to observe that David Tibet is a iconic and oracular artist, though it is sometimes easy to take him for granted, as he has been releasing brilliant albums for decades. However, a bold vision and near-Biblical intensity alone do not always translate into immortal work, as the metaphorical stars still need to be perfectly aligned for a fresh masterpiece to be birthed. Happily, those maddeningly unpredictable and obstinate stars were quite close to their marks when Tibet and Zu came together, as this album is one of the most focused, consistent, and vividly evocative releases from Tibet in years. 

In fact, I suspect I will be finding hidden depths and meanings in it for months to come (especially once I splurge on the vinyl to get my hands on a lyric sheet). To borrow Tibet’s own parlance, I am ecstatically OverMoon to announce that Mirror Emperor is an especially powerful Channeling. This is truly something deeper and more profound than a mere album—this is a vividly constructed world and mythology that mirrors our own, but shimmers with ageless dark magic and layers of sublime mystery. Years from now (if people still read), I truly believe David Tibet will be justifiably regarded as the reawakening of the lost visionary poet tradition. If he is not the modern day heir to Blake and his progeny, there simply isn’t one.

Samples can be found here.

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Hypnopazūzu, “Create Christ, Sailor Boy” (House of Mythology, 2016)

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This collaboration between David Tibet and early Current 93 alum and erstwhile Killing Joke bassist Youth is quite a fascinating, bizarre, improbable, and intermittently perplexing release. Given how little attention I pay to mainstream music, I had completely forgotten that Youth also has an ongoing project with Paul McCartney (The Fireman) and a long history of production and remix credits involving artists like U2, Depeche Mode, Erasure, and almost Duran Duran. 

In short, he is primarily an ingenious chameleon whose greatest gift lies in adapting to new situations, figuring out how to make the most of them, and egolessly fading into the background. That is exactly what he has (mostly) done with Create Christ, Sailor Boy: consciously opting to be as invisible as possible. As such, this album is primarily a showcase for David Tibet’s snarling and singular poetic rantings presented on an epic scale, some of which rank among his best.

Throughout its many incarnations, Current 93 has always been a reliably eccentric and aberrant project, both musically and lyrically. Consequently, the most immediately striking aspect of Create Christ is the straightforward simplicity of Youth’s synthesizer arrangement on the opening “Your Eyes in the Skittle Hills.” In one respect, it feels somewhat anonymous when compared to David Tibet’s usual fare, but the lush neo-classical grandeur nevertheless suits Tibet’s wild-eyed proclamations quite beautifully. If Tibet has composed an epic, impassioned, and otherworldly tale, it makes sense that it should have a suitably epic-sounding backdrop. 

It is no small feat to wield dynamics so effectively that lines like “You and moonbeams walking through the walls” or “In the dead forest, your lips like planet cream” can seem incredibly heavy and deeply profound. Also, it definitely seems like Tibet found his new sonic environs quite inspiring, as he does a lot more actual singing than usual, surprising me with lots of sustained notes and frequently straining into the upper end of his range. He is also quite throaty throughout Sailor Boy, escalating the intensity of significant moments with an impressive battery of growls and howls. In fact, the album actually feels like a bizarre religious experience at times, unpredictably and seamlessly veering from sublime chant-like beauty to demonic snarling (“you groovy girls with teeth!”) within the same song.

Youth’s decision to hang in the background “so you only hear the stories” means that Create Christ is a lot like being harangued by a half-mad prophet who just emerged from a few decades (or centuries) of seclusion in the desert: the breathless torrent of words is a bewildering mixture of striking poetry, arcane wisdom, cryptic jokes, puzzling allusions, beautiful imagery, and personal obsessions. I mean that in the best way possible, of course. Skittles, the stars, cats, penguins, Christ, Archie comics, ghosts, dead languages, flowers, the moon, and Pinocchio all seem to hold a place of honor within Tibet’s hermetic personal mythology and all seem importantly intertwined. 

I have long believed Tibet to be one of most brilliant and fascinating artists around, but his vision is a unquestionably uniquely personal one. The gulf between his world and mine is quite substantial, so the trick is always to harness and present the phantasmagoric fever dream of his words into something more universally meaningful. When that fails, Hypnopazūzu merely sounds like distinctive free-associative poetry that presents an enigmatic and beautifully worded puzzle of associations. That is fine, obviously, but it is an intellectual pleasure rather than a visceral one. 

When the trick works, as it does on pieces like “Skittle Hills” and “Christmas with the Channelers,” it can be absolutely revelatory. Words are unquestionably Tibet’s primary weapon of choice, but the meaning and power of these pieces can greatly transcend those origins when the flow, content, emphasis, melody, and underlying chords unexpectedly converge in the perfect place.

As distinctive, striking, and mesmerizing as this album is, it is not without its occasional misfires. The most egregious one is “Sweet Sodom SingSongs,” where Youth abandons his trusty Moog for a foray into a languorous tabla- and tambura-fueled raga groove. Initially, it is quite good, but then it unexpectedly departs from Om-like territory into a major key hippie jam with the deeply unfortunate refrain of “It’s tool time!” 

Elsewhere, Youth is guilty of over-egging the pudding a bit, particularly with the dramatic faux-string flourishes of “Pinocchio’s Handjob” and the soaring orchestral swells of “The Crow at Play.” David Tibet is already a dramatic supernova, so bolstering his performances with any sweeping, cinematic touches just feels uncomfortably over-the-top (though the line separating epic and bombastic is admittedly quite a blurry and subjective one). 

Elsewhere, I found the shifting nature of the Hypnopazūzu aesthetic a bit awkward, as “trippy Eastern-damaged rock band” and “lush neo-classical goth pop” are fairly divergent threads to seamlessly bounce between. The brief and gently psychedelic interlude of “Incidentally, Shaitan” worked quite well though—I wish that facet had been explored much more. Shortcomings, missed opportunities, and unevenness aside, however, Create Christ is still quite a unique and inspired statement and worthy addition to Tibet’s impressive oeuvre. Obviously, it would be nice if every song were as wonderful as “Your Eyes in the Skittle Hills,” but it is hard to be begrudge an album for only containing a couple of stone-cold, transcendental masterpieces.

Listen here.

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Current 93, “I Am the Last Of All the Field That Fell” (Coptic Cat, 2014)

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One of the many things that still keeps me excited about Current 93 more than 30 years into their career is that each new incarnation has the potential to be a stunning or reinvigorating reinvention of David Tibet’s vision. This latest line-up offers up an especially divergent and unexpected aesthetic, primarily due to the contributions of Dutch classical pianist Reinier Van Houdt and saxophone titan John Zorn. Although large parts of Field definitely fall a bit short for me, they are happily balanced by some truly wonderful and boldly original moments as well.

I am insistent that the opening “The Invisible Church” is a work of pure genius from start to finish, though absolutely no one seems to agree with me thus far. It begins with some cascading and dissonant minor key chords from Van Houdt before cohering into a simple, melancholy chord progression that inexorably unfolds at a snail’s pace, providing the sole constant in a song that seems constantly on the verge of unraveling.

Despite their eclectic backgrounds, every member of the group seems to organically and intuitively understand the “hallucinatory prog rock on the verge of collapse” aesthetic of “Church” perfectly, particularly former Cancer drummer Carl Stokes, whose slow-motion fills always sound like they might just abruptly stop or trail off into nowhere. Another stand-out is Groundhogs’ guitarist Tony McPhee, who contributes a host of very broken-sounding blues licks amidst the increasingly mournful oboe swells and twinkling piano divergences. Naturally, Tibet himself is in fine form as well, purring apocalyptic poetry like a prophet in the midst of a fever dream.

That wonderful momentum thankfully extends into “Those Flowers Grew,” which gradually takes Reinier’s minor key arpeggios into increasingly propulsive and wild territory as Zorn’s playing evolves from lyrical melodicism into something approaching free-jazz caterwauling amidst harsh snarls of wah-wah guitar. By the time it reaches the end, it sounds positively unhinged. Also, the sound itself is spectacular, as all of the various threads weave together with both presence and perfect clarity. I was also struck by how comparatively loose and organic it felt, as it is rare for Current 93 to sound remotely like an actual band playing together in a room.

Unfortunately, the album then hits a prolonged lull with “Kings and Things.” Of course, the word “lull” is quite relative in the case, as Tibet himself remains magnetic and there is no dearth of great ideas—it is just that the band is never quite firing on all cylinders at once ever again. Also, Tibet’s consistent aesthetic vision of Field is a bit of an inherent liability, as I have never found a piano to be the ideal foil for his vocals and 11 piano-centric songs in a row definitely yields diminishing returns.

That lack of variety was made still more exasperating when I realized that James Blackshaw was relegated to bass and that Cyclobe’s Ossian Brown was mostly just around to play hurdy-gurdy on a song or two. Any respite from the piano at all would have been welcome, but—for better or worse—Rainier Van Houdt seems to be the primary non-David Tibet architect of this release. Sometimes his playing is absolutely beautiful or virtuousic, particularly his runs into the higher octaves, but he can also seem weirdly leaden or straight-forward as well. Those latter moments are quite confounding.

One such moment is the late-album nadir,”I Remember the Berlin Boys,” a jaunty, lurching piece that would sound uncomfortably like it belongs in a community theater production of a popular musical were it not for David Tibet’s ranting about invoking picnic demons into his loins (I certainly hope he succeeds). Thankfully, the album unexpectedly surges to quite a strong finish after that, as “Spring Sand Desert Larks” offers up an invigorating dose of rapidly rippling, Lubomyr Melnyk-style arpeggios over a muscular waltz beat that almost sounds punk at times. Also, it helps that Zorn turns up for some strangled saxophone flame-throwing near the end as well. Field then draws to sublime conclusion with the tender Nick Cave- and Antony Hegarty-sung “I Could Not Shift The Shadows,” which resembles a cross between a music box and an old, curiously worded spiritual.

Sadly, three or four fine songs do not quite add up to a great album or even a shadow of the band’s Stapleton/Cashmore prime, but Field is at least a strange, bold, and improbable experiment that often works far better than I would have expected it to. Tibet definitely stepped outside his comfort zone and enlisted a line-up that is bizarre even for a band that previously contained Sasha Grey, as I imagine no one ever expected a guitarist from a ’70s British blues band (McPhee) and a controversial religious painter (Norbert Kox) to turn up on the same album.

Also, for lack of better wording, Field employs some very uncool elements in mostly cool ways: it is very hard to play a saxophone melodically in a rock context without sounding like you are celebrating the end of another successful episode of Saturday Night Live, for example. I definitely appreciated that when it worked. Consequently, Field‘s greatest appeal lies in its uniqueness and eccentricity rather than its quality, though I still maintain that at least “The Invisible Church” stands among Tibet’s best work. Also, it should go without saying that even a merely decent Current 93 album is more fascinating than the vast majority of the contemporary music landscape, but I will say it anyway.

Listen here.