Le temps des récoltes
An extremely slow, crushing doom metal track with thick, glutted guitars, heavy distorted drones and amplifiers breathing, buzzing and screaming with feedback. The sound is raw, dirty, almost decomposing, like rusted machinery grinding inside a cavern. Every note falls like a body sinking into mud. The drums are minimal, dragging, funereal, with long empty spaces that feel like falling into a pit. The vocal is spoken-word, deadpan, disillusioned and barely alive — a hollow voice drifting above the noise, ethereal, emotionless, like a ghost reciting a last memory. The delivery is slow, breathy, exhausted, fading in and out of the mix as if swallowed by the amplifiers. The atmosphere is oppressive, suffocating, thick as smoke and blood. The whole production feels unclean, saturated, broken, with feedback wails, background hums, and the raw life of dying amps.
Le temps des récoltes
An extremely slow, crushing doom metal track with thick, glutted guitars, heavy distorted drones and amplifiers breathing, buzzing and screaming with feedback. The sound is raw, dirty, almost decomposing, like rusted machinery grinding inside a cavern. Every note falls like a body sinking into mud. The drums are minimal, dragging, funereal, with long empty spaces that feel like falling into a pit. The vocal is spoken-word, deadpan, disillusioned and barely alive — a hollow voice drifting above the noise, ethereal, emotionless, like a ghost reciting a last memory. The delivery is slow, breathy, exhausted, fading in and out of the mix as if swallowed by the amplifiers. The atmosphere is oppressive, suffocating, thick as smoke and blood. The whole production feels unclean, saturated, broken, with feedback wails, background hums, and the raw life of dying amps.
Lyrics
au soir, aux nuits
aux zébrures oranges et blanches
aux tirs de semonce
les hommes se fanent
flétris de l'appel
ils enlisent les sols des vertes semences
le bleu s'effondre dans la boue
et tonne aux sourdes plaines
les chants des obusiers
se brisent sous les cris d'agonie.
la fumée brûlante
des cratères de chair
s'échappe en lézardes.
le parterre et ses herbes
gisent en lande rouge
à l'inverse du ciel
en averse d'azur
où plane la noire silhouette
aux ailes obsidiennes.
un regard éteint se pose
sur le vol d'un corbeau
il accapare la créature
de son étrange appel
l'œil pâle le fixe.
en va-et-vient voilé
un flou bec et jaune
éclate en gerbe carmin.
et croasse en multiples ricochets
la clameur solitaire
dans ce paysage morcelé
où se vit la mort
et s'impose le silence.