Powerwolf’s ‘Bible of the Beast’ makes me want to smoke meth, hail satan, and invent my own religion
I’m about as religious as a snail crawling through an 8-ball of coke, then falling off your mirror and landing right on the razor blade you dropped because you snorted a line that was waaaay too thick. Hint: the snail, despite his prayers to an invisible space wizard, gets cut in half by the razor and dies a slow, painful death drowning in his own blood. His shell did jack shit to save him, and as a result he died and then nothing happened because snails don’t go to heaven. Wait, jk; heaven isn’t real so it doesn’t even matter if he was a snail or Gerald Fitzgerald, nothing was there to greet him in terms of an afterlife. But hold on, says you, this is supposed to be a review of a power metal album and not a diatribe on my varied religious (or non-religious, as it were) opinions/beliefs. Well hold the fuck on there, dear reader, this is totally about music; I just like reading my own words. And, although I remember fondly what happened last time I made a post about religion, I really couldn’t give less of a damn anymore so here goes.
Bible of the Beast‘s inaugural track is ‘Raise Your Fist, Evangelist,’ and what an introduction it is; it successfully serves as an antithesis for the rest of the album. It’s almost laugh-out-loud hilarious given its content and all of the songs which follow it: “We conquer the land/the bible in hand/the glory of war and praise/are you praying for the final grace?” It’s a rousing and mocking antipode for any bible-humpers who might have accidentally run across this. Thankfully, the song is segued beautifully by its successor, ‘Moscow After Dark,’ which really is really the harbinger of things to come. “No hallelujah saves you/no cross can help you now/this is your nightmare calling” amps up the ubiquitous energy to demented levels.
‘Panic in the Pentagram’ is where the album really lodges its first impavid testimony:
Hail, hail pentagram
hail, hail pentagram
what have I done?
Panic… panic in the pentagram
panic… Satanism ain’t no fun
oh… panic in the pentagram
oh… panic in the pentagram
I count my cash, it’s six six six
enough to cross the river Styx
I pay to Cerberos the fare
It’s a well-hammered track with frisky vocals and prodigious backing instrumentation. It’s enthusiastic and keen, which really generates presentiment for what’s to come. Its scion does not disappoint. ‘Catholic in the Morning…Satanist at Night’ is a hegemonic salute to the disjunction of the bible and its overall level of nonsense: “Hail the storm, the altar is divided… tonight!/the bible torn it cannot be decided now” evolves, later in the song, into “I heard the sound, and now I am enlightened… tonight!/my god is found, for all I need in life is loud/Raise your horns/the volume to the right/heavy in the morning/metal in the night.” In other words, if praising your whimsical sky fairy doesn’t work out so well (which obviously it doesn’t, given that cancer, AIDS, people who believe in abstinence, the astronomical price of PCP, the fact that 74% of the world has been trolled, and anthrax still exist), you might as well worship metal. Fuck yeah.
There are then three platitudinous tracks before the album’s transcendent effort.
‘Resurrection by Erection’ is incontrovertibly the most illustrious track on Bible of the Beast. Both its lyrics, which are fucking sensational, and its engineering, which is thrilling, amalgamate to spawn a masterpiece anthem. It begins from the top and trickles to the smallest facet; Attila Dorn’s vocals are dominant, smashing the verses out with gusto; Matthew Greywolf’s guitar work is supreme; and Falk Schlegel’s effort with the organ is preponderant. It’s a quintessential power metal canticle, and that it’s so irreverent makes it even more sophisticated. The chorus is nothing short of genius:
Resurrection by erection
raise your phallus to the sky and you never die
it’s resurrection by erection
raise your bone up to the sky and you never gonna die
The lyrics continue in more or less the same fashion for the remainder of its playing time, and you can read them all here (trust me: you definitely should).
‘St. Satan’s Day,’ the second-to-last entry on Bible of the Beast, is flashy in its execution. Just like when God dipped his tip in Mary and dropped his load, thereby impregnating a supposedly-untarnished woman with himself (Jesus is commonly thought of as the most emo, cuntiest, and most retarded part of the Trinity, whereas God has all of the universe’s rcon passwords and relentlessly releases the banhammer on people who piss him off (children, homosexuals, animals, people who shave, people who associate with women on their periods, couples who bang before marriage (read: everyone), pornographers, people who masturbate (read: everyone), Americans, and/or Jews), and the Spirit which is basically a pedophile/rapist), ‘St. Satan’s Day’ is an iconoclastic bulletin which celebrates the album’s motif. The conclusion, ‘Wolves Against the World’ is likewise a flippant commentary on the world at large, with lyrics like “we’re banned from heaven” and terminating with the statement that [presumably] listeners are “forever wolves against the world.”
Just like reading Nietzsche and fapping to both CP and lemon party at the same time, Bible of the Beast is a piquant verbalization of the fact that the bible, organized religion, and the entire concept of ‘god’ is nothing more than an Everest-sized mountain of muddy dicks. Various fanboys around the world might try to convince you that their particular brand of hate-mongering occultism is the correct path to choose, but gratefully we have albums like this to steer the ‘nonbelieving’ masses away from such bullshit. Just like I wouldn’t download 20gb of loli onto a flash card then leave it at the police station with my name and address attached, or intentionally troll several billion ignorant dumbasses into believing that Yeezus is art, or steal my non-existent father’s credit card to buy my costume for the upcoming furry convention, I wouldn’t consider Bible of the Beast to be serious in its message. But what do I know, after all. I’m the jackass who has just written over a thousand words on a satan-worshipping power metal CD which I stole from the internet because the antichrist told me that music piracy is legal as long as you don’t try to burn the music onto a disc and then stick your flaccid dick through the little hole in the middle in order to jizz into the asshole of your neighborhood Christian cum-guzzling buttslut. But at least I don’t have to listen to Chris Crocker weep about Powerwolf, given that the band has under 2.5 million plays on Last.fm; I can delightedly enjoy my fucking music by blasting this brutally-lyriced god of metal into my ears via headphones I got from my mother last Christmas. Ha, isn’t that ironic; I ended this review with mention of the lulziest ‘holiday’ we humans have invented. BRB, I’m going to go wank while thinking about Rosemarie Fritzl and the dragon dildo I just ordered online.
Conclusion: There is no god. 5.0/5.0