[gelöscht] - VERFÜHRERVERGELTER

If battery powered blackened electronics and raw ambient melancholia from Potsdam, Germany, sounds like something for you, why not go deep into the world of VERFÜHRERVERGELTER with this brand new album, "Gelöscht".

"Gelöscht" means deleted. Deleted from memory, from life, from death, from form - but still alive somewhere, on another plane of existence and sound, if "alive" is the correct word when describing death industrial.

But, don't let the genre narrowmindness get you - in the 9 untitled tracks (including intro) that comprise "Gelöscht" there is lots of more colors and flavors one would expect from industrial or from ambient.

Yes, I have a problem with "industrial music" and "ambient" in the XXIst century, as they drift dangerously into pop and techno zones. But right here, VERFÜHRERVERGELTER comes to the rescue.

Instead of the "techno umpa-umpa" of modern "industrial" and "lo-fi chill beats" of "ambient", we get landscapes of Kluster-like meanders, early BBC experiments, noise, improvised music, Italian futurism, and modern electroacoustica experiments. I have visited Potsdam at least twice, and I can also hear lots of Potsdam in the LP. If you have ever been to Potsdam, I feel you'll appreciate the LP on another level as well. It's elegant as the location it was recorded in, and the cover artwork.

The album is also really solid, coherent, well thought and performed and recorded/produced - this is exactly the kind of sound I think of when imagining "industrial". I don't know how VERFÜHRERVERGELTER does it, but the album is not only dark and menacing, but also beautiful. I think the strength of this release lies in the contrast of beauty and the beast, the common archetype in art, but here executed perfectly and with a knowing of craft, structure, lack of structure, and tradition. It's modern and ancient, dark and radiant.

I recommend this album to everyone who's into experimental music, not only industrial or ambient - and this has been my first review of an album in 7 years - I never thought I'll do "music journalism" again after writing for Psychosonda 2014-2015. Maybe it's not even a "real review" just a note to accentuate the release and help VERFÜHRERVERGELTER get some well-deserved exposure in the www world.

To summarize this note, or review, I'd like to present a bit of text from the Artist himself, where he explains the creation of "Deleted":

"I had to find a way to put the unspeakable into words. This is how I did it. I recorded this Album in the first half of 2022 and finished it in August 2022. At the beginning I just tried to recreate to sound of my first Demo. But after one-too-many recording sessions, I realized that this wouldn’t satisfy me. What I had so far was dark and intense. I tried to get to the source of that sound and found a locked room inside me. The songs of [gelöscht] are my interpretation of what is hidden away in that place. What has no name, what hides away from description. What is deleted but still acting and affecting me in my life."

Yes, it's impossible to delete existence. Enjoy the sound of [gelöscht].

Die Grüne Antarktis: Erster Ausschnitt (2022).

Die Sonne scheint und füllt den Himmel mit Conquistas Gold. Wir marschieren durch die rote Wüste. Im Grunde dort, wo sich Sand und Meer treffen. Da ist nichts zwischen ihnen, nur zwei Menschen, die schweigend gehen, mit einem Soundtrack von Dudelsäcken und Kirchenglocken. Er trägt ein weißes Gewand mit einer türkisfarbenen Schärpe, sie ist nackt, nur mit einer nicht näher bezeichneten tropischen Blume im Haar. Seine Glatze glänzt in der Sonne, ihr langes blondes Haar spiegelt sein Spiegelbild. Füße hinterlassen keine Spuren im Sand. Der Wind heult, aber der Sand liegt ruhig an seinem Platz, und das Haar der Frau bleibt unbewegt. "Dunkel ist der Garten", jammert ein Chor, der wie tibetische Ritualmusik klingt, "und wir müssen gehen." Der Schatten riesiger Flügel bedeckt für einen Moment die Wüste. Bald verklingt Musik, eine spezifische Klangkunst, entfernte Echos eines Gesprächs, ein Flüstern ist zu hören. Liebhaber. Fremde. Gesten. Dauern. Das hat ihr Wind zum Sand gesagt, das hat der Sand gehört, eingehüllt in den ewigen Abendmorgen, das tragen alle Liebenden, Fremden, Gesten und Dauern unter ihrem Schädel, wo sich die Milchstraße windet, und um sie herum das Ganze Universum der Schwingungen, die Melodie der Ewigkeit. Dunkel ist der Garten, und wir müssen gehen.

The sun is shining and filling the sky with Conquistador's gold. We march through the red desert. Basically where sand and sea meet. There's nothing between them, just two people walking in silence to a soundtrack of bagpipes and church bells. He wears a white robe with a turquoise sash, she is nude with only an unspecified tropical flower in her hair. His bald head glistens in the sun, her long blond hair reflects his reflection. Feet leave no footprints in the sand. The wind howls, but the sand lies still in its place and the woman's hair remains motionless. "The garden is dark," wails a chorus that sounds like Tibetan ritual music, "and we must go." The shadow of huge wings covers the desert for a moment. Music soon fades away, a specific sound art, distant echoes of a conversation, a whisper can be heard. Lovers. Strangers. Gestures. Durations. That's what their wind said to the sand, that's what the sand heard, wrapped in the eternal evening morning, that's what all lovers, strangers, gestures and durations carry under their skulls, where the Milky Way winds, and around them the whole universe of vibrations, the melody of eternity. The garden is dark and we must go.

Słońce lśni faszerując niebo złotem konkwisty. Maszerujemy przez czerwoną pustynię. W zasadzie tam, gdzie spotyka się piach i ocean. Pomiędzy nimi nie ma nic, tylko dwoje ludzi maszerujących w ciszy, z podłożoną ścieżką dźwiękową kobzy i kościelnych dzwonów. On ubrany jest w biały szlafrok przepasany turkusową szarfą, ona jest naga, jedynie we włosach ma niesprecyzowany tropikalny kwiat. Jego łysa głowa lśni w słońcu, jej długie blond włosy odbijają jego refleksy. Stopy nie zostawiają śladów w piasku. Wyje wiatr, ale piasek spokojnie leży na swoim miejscu, a włosy kobiety pozostają niewzruszone. „Mroczny jest ogród” zawodzi chór brzmiący niczym tybetańska muzyka rytualna „a my musimy iść”. Cień gigantycznych skrzydeł spowija na moment pustynię. Wkrótce dźwięk muzyki, specyficznego sound art, cichnie, słychać dalekie echa rozmowy, szeptu. Kochanków. Nieznajomych. Gestów. Trwań. Oto co powiedział ich wiatr piaskom, oto, co piaski usłyszały spowite wiecznym poranko-zmierzchem.Oto, co wszyscy kochankowie, nieznajomi, gesty i trwania noszą pod czaszkami, gdzie wije się Droga Mleczna, a wokół niej cały wszechświat drgań, melodia wieczności. Mroczny jest ogród, a my musimy iść.