Wovenhand, a.k.a. D.E.E, 16HP's former frontman, takes us deep into his fierce universe, with the release of his Christlike album Mosaic.

In theory, you should steer clear of Mosaic, Wovenhand's latest album, in which religious faith is whipped into mystical frenzy. And yet, through the veil of English [the review is destined for French speakers] and prophecy, such aspiration actually enhances the album. D.E.E. is about to start celebrating the introit. Everything about Mosaic works wonders, and will take the listener into a welcome summer trance : the dark, despondent, damned splendour, the slow, sackcloth-clad binary fury, the blazing pipes and guitars, the sound effects, as well as the rattling war-drums, the echoing, distorted « om » plainsong, and the words, like magic formulas sung in cabalistic Esperanto.

Sonic Temple.
D.E.E., a handsome Klaus Kinski lookalike, could be another Deerhunter, he could be the lost brother of Gun Club's Jeffrey Lee Pierce, Peter Gabriel in his tribal Biko era, and Scott Walker in full Tilt - but he is above all the archpriest of a strange sonic temple. He used to be 16HP's fiery arch-preacher, but built this temple all by himself, from floor to ceiling: the ink swirls on the cover -in the style of Victor Hugo-, the verse, the orchestration, the distortion and the sibylline stanzas. Suffused with black light, his ceremonial album opens with Breathing Bull, like an Indian Dies Irae, and then Winter Shaker shoots up like a feathered arrow, riddled with “Halle-Hallelujahs” and leaden rhythms reminiscent of Joy Division. And ends with Little Raven, deathly seventh seal that conjures up Poe's melancholy. In between, Swedish Purse takes us on a medieval carousel, Twig and Elktooth drone and rumble like a dirge sung by a monastic choir, and Whistling Girl offers a timely hosanna. This achingly poignant song sounds like a pop Miserere, and conveys enough anguish to make your heart ache -picture a white trash Ugolin [a character from French novels Jean de Florette and Manon des Sources by Marcel Pagnol, later adapted on screen], hanging from a lute's string in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

What's more, although the “heroic rock” sound (a phrase that was used to label the Psychedelic Furs, the Simple Minds or U2 in their messianic era) borrows from liturgy (with psalmody, droning organs, creaking, bell toll and groans), it also explores other options, and does not reject synthetic programming. Adorned with dynamic strings, Dirty Blue's pounding melody and its wrinkled charm are as powerful as Whistling Girl's. The binary lament Truly Golden is their equal, an outpouring of majesty and Gregorian whispers. Such is the new wave triptych of this sorrowful mosaic. Poignancy suits D.E.E.'s own brand of emphasis: “A burning coal of kindness/over my head”. A brief country-folk hootenanny unsung by his fateful voice (but entitled Bible and Bird, as befits the atmosphere) brings some light relief, before Slota Prow/Full Armour, in a frenzy of Gaelic and Balkan arrangements, mark the climax of the album: “In the beginning was the word”, Mosaic-style.

Curses.
First, with Slota Prow, the offertory is spoken, and sounds vaguely Yiddish: “Moldich fudjok eveshek prashtene tovent dochen oshlyk...”. Then, it suddenly turns into a sort of pleasant Ibiza-esque disco-beat, and here comes Full Armour, like a Grail in the language of the Knights Templar, doomed to be burnt at the stake. The song is based on a looped rhythm inspired by the pavane dance and played in arpeggios, and the voice of the wolf, whose pack you can feel lurking about, is calling out for the graceful golden-haired woman. The celebration of Eucharist is drawing to a close, with major chords, on the powerful, feverish Deerskin Doll: “Lovely in the rivers mirror/you stand in my circle”. From genuflexion and the sign of the cross to a Carl Orff-like trance, watched by “a roaring figure on the wall”, in his cell, D.E.E. hears voices, the “mocking voice” of God. Yet there is nothing to laugh about, judging from the final litany, Little Raven, the bird of ill omen. A few notes from a music box, a distorted horn, a mallet tapping nails into a coffin, and then a mournful Sabbath mumbles: “In the sky (…) you will lie.”

Translation by Magali