Beats and yelling: Bretwaldas of Heathen Doom

Seven Bloodied Ramparts
Out 14^th November on Caligari Records (originally released in 2010)

This reissue of British crust oddity Bretwaldas of Heathen Doom gives us the opportunity to scrutinise what is essentially Amebix reimagined through the lens of Time Team (a twee as fuck 90s TV programme about archaeological digs, for any non British readers), and all the cutesy English pageantry this implies. Referencing black metal via the brokers of punk and heavy metal, it lands somewhere between Root, Bathory, and early Nordic salvos, albeit with a sharper narrative folk element brough to the fore.

Spiritually this is a folk punk effort despite the more explicit references to black metal made throughout. The presentation is rough and ready, the package of guitar, bass, and drums about as basic as they come. The aesthetic aligned with a loose jam band hashing out ideas in the garage in stark contrast to the intensely orchestrated atmospheric currents of extreme metal playing on similar thematic territory. Ambient flair emanates from well placed guitar harmonies and simple yet effective riffing marrying folk bounce with cerebral storytelling ability. Drums may be basic, but they serve their purpose in maintaining momentum throughout. Guitar leads take on a lyrical, poetic stance to compensate for the limitations of the gruff, punky vocal performance.

As with any British attempt to encroach on folk and pagan metal territory usually dominated by the Europeans, eccentricity abounds, lilting on the edge of believability. It’s here that Bretwaldas lean on their punk credentials. Leveraging its aggression and energy – albeit in latent form – as much as its austerity. This latter element seems to focus the creative muscles. The folkist English Weird is accessed not through excessive flamboyance or empty parlour tricks, but a combination of sincerity and efficacious riffcraft, alongside an earthy presentation, a near mystical connection with place and the mystery that still runs through obscure corners of even the small damp islands of Britain.

The packaging is drab, deadpan, the Lemmy-esque vocals grounding the music with a degree of realism. This works to offset the odd, at times oddly meandering riff phrasing. From this angle it can almost look like Bretwaldas traverse styles by accident, stumbling from crust punk to epic doom to progressive metal mid riff almost by accident, with no degree of forethought or intention, simply riding whatever fits the moment thematically. But to counterbalance this there is a powerfully ritualistic undercurrent flowing through the music, which grounds it in the cold sobriety of, if not logic, then at least an anchor of repetition. A modest, understated outcrop steeped in the lore of English metal.