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Fields of the Nephilim | Mourning Sun | review | rock | Lollipop

Fields of the Nephilim

Mourning Sun (SPV)
by Scott Hefflon

Vampire rock, caked in dust and blood, the weariness of the ages hanging off every word Carl McCoy croaks (he barely has a human voice anymore). 20 years in, having influenced brooding, death-obsessed teenagers in black tee shirt in various stages of posing and decay, Carl and, uh, whoever is actually in his band (details aren't just hazy, they're completely fogged out) return with their first new full-length in, er, a really long time. Like a decade. Reissues have surfaced, and been mightily appreciated in these dark times, lemme tell you, but the last real release was by The Nephilim, called Zoon, and was kind of an industrial metal thing, I vaguely recall. I sold it for a booze money within a couple years. But Mourning Sun, yeah, this is a Fields of the Nephilim release, and after two or three more nights haunted as it loops on repeat, I'll've absorbed it and made it a part of me. This is not for the casual listener, but they have plenty of spiky-haired "metal" bands in black tees and eyeliner to chose from that'd shit themselves if they ever got a glimpse of the visions in Carl's head.

Carl and Fields are the real deal, and everyone knows it. You can just tell it's authentic. Music has changed drastically in the 10 years since the last release, even moreso in the 20 years since Fields was birthed. The only thing that's tickled that dark place like Fields of the Nephilim is Hypocrisy at their most cryptic and doom-heavy depressed. Type O and the like were too romantic. Blood and silk. Fields always seemed to have the weight of ages upon them, and dirt beneath their fingernails from clawing out of the Earth. No Brad Pitt in frilly shirts here, no Wesley Snipes in bondage gear, Carl wears a broad-brimmed hat, a dusty cloak, and mud-caked cowboy boots.


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