sábado, 29 de noviembre de 2014

OPERA IX


Origen: Italia, Biella
Formados: 1988
Estilo: Black melódico
Temática: Brujería, leyendas, magia negra, ocultismo, paganismo y tradiciones
Enlaces: FacebookOpera IX.
Miembros:
  • Abigail Dianaria Voces
  • Alessandro Muscio Teclados
  • M:A Fog Batería
  • Ossian Guitarra
  • Scùrs Bajo
Discografía:
  • Gothik Demo 1990  
  • Demo '92 Demo 1992  
  • The Triumph of the Death EP 1993  
  • The Triumph of the Death Video 1994  
  • The Call of the Wood CD 1995
  • Live at Babylonia Video 1998  
  • Sacro Culto CD 1998
  • The Black Opera: Symphoniae Mysteriorum in Laudem Tenebrarum CD 2000
  • Maleventum CD 2002
  • Anphisbena CD 2004  
  • The Early Chapters Recopilatorio 2007  
  • Mythology XX Years of Witchcraft Video 2008  
  • Strix - Maledictae in Aeternum CD 2012
  • Sabbatical Live Video 2013
  • Back to Sepulcro CD 2015
SACRO CULTO (1998)
Tal vez el segundo larga duración de los italianos no sea una obra muy apreciada dentro de la escena y haya pasado sin pena ni gloria por más de un reproductor pero no nos llevemos a engaño, aunque no es una obra sencilla de apreciar considero que su influencia en el metal extremo ha sido más que importante. Hablo de metal extremo para definir su música, porque son abundantes los diferentes estilos que podemos apreciar en sus setenta minutos de duración, manteniendo siempre como base un metal pesado de características doom, pero que se mezcla con aspectos melódicos, con la incorporación de teclados que por momentos rozan el gótico, pero que acaban por conseguir una ambientación pagana, fría y ocultista a la cual contribuye en sobremanera el excelente trabajo realizado por Cadaveria a las voces, apartado en el que se expande todo su repertorio de voces agresivas y rasgadas a la par que las enfrenta a otras más limpias y melódicas. Se puede criticar ciertos aspectos como la extensa duración de los temas, no creo que sea el caso ya que en esa extensión se nos permite variar de registros, bien es cierto que en determinados lugares los riffs no acaban de convencer al cien por cien. Un álbum como comentaba que si no se le ha dado una oportunidad se le debería por lo menos permitir una escucha. (8).


1. The Oak 10:40  
In the whirls of time,
turning their eyes
toward the shadowy monumental
symbols of the past,
following the lines up to the places,
where power and mystery reign
some people raised many stones to the sun
in their imposing silence.
A warm wind is blowing in my face
melting the ice of death.
Burnt alive victims around the cromlec’h
in honour of my immortality.
Crucified on The Oak.
My blood is trickling down it
no light in this church made of trees
some men in white are chanting their song
to the altar of Cernunnos.
Crucified on The Oak.
Oh you, God of Moon,
sanctify this magis ritual.
In my heart there’s the power of glory,
in my eyes the shine of the sword.
Oh you, God of Death, rescue me from this fear,
I will be your messenger,
rescue me from this light.
Oh Mother Darkness, receive the son of cruelty and wisdom.
Crucified on The Oak, in honour of Esus.
The earth is imbued with the blood of my God’s enemies
and from flames a battle-cry is madly risen.
Far away the death-song is going on with the crossing of the swords.
The fog is hiding our temples made of stones
and the Gods are silently waiting for the event.
The bloody encounter between our Pagan Devotion and the only god.
Ruins around The Oak.
Corpses in oblivion.
Sealed up by the light of reason.
Oh, cursed mortals, which is the right way?
2. Fronds of the Ancient Walnut 12:25
 Feel the breeze on my face
the icy breath of the Goddess.
I raise my hand and touch the illusion.
My mind is powerful and my Ego is high
as the mountain in front of me.
Clouds run fast and silence comes
from the Fronds of the Ancient Walnut:
no scents, no odors, no sounds, no laments;
the cold vanishes...
I get all the colors all around me
and I see the enchanting dance of the branches:
it is the Walnut calling the witches,
it is our dream voyaging through the aethyr.
What was not becomes reality.
I am the deer running to the Sabbath!
I am the crow which observes the silence!
I am the craftsman of myself...
therefore I praise the Horned and the Great Mother!
And where the wind blows, at the mercy of the oneiric,
it is the touch of the world’s spirits
which enhances my magic.
Mind’s spreading, faint voices chant at the moon,
the silvering light of Levanah penetrates the unconscious
and revives the Ancient Knowledge.
I take flight, the dance is over.
Now we are the deer returning from the Sabbath!
Now we are the crow which contemplated the silence!
Now we are the craftsmen of ourselves...
therefore we praise the Horned and the Great Mother!
3. The Naked and the Dance 08:20
The fresh humidity of the green moss wets my skin,
my body laying down, as it suits to who adores a god,
over the sacred stones of the Cromlec’h.
Our bodies clinging each other,
what is of the One becomes of the Many.
The incense smoke dances with the candles flames
attracting the celebrants astral energies.
The choral worshipping of the Black Goddess raises from our minds,
what is of the Many becomes of the One.
The sacred wine shall fill the cup which turned was in the goatish horn,
the fertile lips shall kiss the rod which life and shape took from the
walnut.
An the Nine shall come at the beginning of the dance,
the naked feet shall caress Sheela Na Gog,
the naked bodies moistened by wood’s breath,
the naked minds dancing in the air,
and the shrewd spirits, by sacred fire inebriated, shall turn to whirl,
and once more the Great Spiral shall be Tregenda
one and seven to celebrate the thirteen fullnesses of Levanah,
who of ancient memory made arcane magic mortal.
Simple melodies by “Her Who guides” vibrated,
enchantements of witches for millenniums hand down,
bodies like veils fluttering to paint the Great Dance
offered to the sky as a tribute of the soul drag into oblivion.
May I rejoin the stars, free my astral,
embrace Knowledge and in the All regenerate myself now beast now man,
till to reborn from the effluviums of my ethereal spirit God I Myself,
God among Gods,
deserving of my devotion and of my passion!
Sacrifical victim for those who welcome me
heir and part of the All.
4. Cimmeries 12:42
Gorgot Assai Belem.
May the Great Portal open to me,
my voice thunder in thy name
and for the power of the Lords of the Great Frost.
The whirling air of the North guide my spirit
in the quest for glorious past.
And it was in the mist of time
that the death fires floodlighted darkness
the wind brought the smell of blood,
the air of extermination and the exterminators outcry.
The blades of sacrifice deepened in the flesh
and the nerves and the black seers raised
hearts still pulsating to unnamable Gods
for their obscure prophecies.
Prepare now your soul for the embrace of the sacred death,
may water suffocate your breath and flame consume your flesh,
all this so that Teutates, Esus and Taranis protect my people.
Heavy and slow were the treads of the black warriors
in the Aeron’s march, dust rising like whirls
while the horrible Crow turned His eyes to the battle remains.
Morighon was reigning among the stones of the timeless,
where the stars engraved their symbols
and under the brightness of the moon
the initiates were enlighted on the Great Secrets.
I want to reopen my eyes to look beyond the horizon of fear,
My God is in me,
in the strenght of my arm,
in the light of my sword.
Crom.
I raise my arms to Andraste,
so that only massacre be in my eyes.
Crom.
To the threshold of the abyss I kneel,
so that the Three Furies invade my soul.
Crom.
With wine I honour the Gods,
so that inebriation draws me near them.
Crom.
My face I paint of moon
like all the sons of the dying sun lands,
I belong to Her.
Crom is in me.
Remote are now those archaic deeds in the mist of time,
and the Cimmeries testimonials sleep
in the obscure silence of the tumulus
like ancient relics, mighty sigils to fragile ashes.
But the choirs will thunder again Gorgot Necrod Belem.
May the Great Portal close to you.
5. My Devotion 14:59
Under the moonlight, bitter falls a tear over the face of memories. Oh, shining blade! Cut my flesh, so that be the Sacred Fire nourished by my vital fluid. And you! Spirits of the Air, leave smoke as a sign of my rite. Stone after stone, I create my Lucus and so I divide the world of human dimension from the one of Gods. How wonderful falling into this darkness. Blow up the last torches and shut up your eternal chant. Lucifer! Helel Ben Shahar. Shining Master of light, Prince of dawn, wipe the shadows out of my spirit, banish weakness from my body, give me the strangth of Power, let my throat be ripped up by crying My Devotion. In my devotion the sign of Voor. In my devotion the sword of Hathoor. May the four elements become my allies, may the faith of darkness be my weapon and the spirit my temple. Son of time’s forces, deter my mind from the wicked ignorance of the Lambs of god. In my devotion the sign of Voor. In my devotion the sacred Tor. The circle of power be a sacred place, shield and protection from the followers of the nazarene. Light in the light and light in the darkness. I seize my nature, the five edged star adorns my breast and my hands clutch the club. We are wolves in the sacred wood of life. In my devotion the sign of Voor. In my devotion Bathym Belem Gomor. Take me, oh ferryman, through the vision of my death, the heat of the Great Black Veil. My hearse brought in slow procession by the No Named, my reunion with Mother Earth, the keeper of the dreams last turning his clepsydra, the breaking up of the black mirror and The Guardians of the threshold will open the last Portal. Let the candles burn out, darkness consumes light, time divours life. My Eternal Devotion to Darkness.  
6. Under the Sign of the Red Dragon 11:18
I raise my eyes at dead of night
I hear the silence moulding my body
I hear the damp and living ground throbbing
I belong to it.
I'm the guardian of this land,
I'm Dracula, Prince of Walacchia.
My name is synonymous with fear and terror
which I sowed and grew and which I fed on.
I led an army of dead soldiers
that I myself had raised from their graves.
I spread death and destruction.
Stifling smell of blood and excrements,
desperate cries, sobs.
Thousands of corpses rotted in the sun.
Thousands of poles rose as I passed.
My head beheaded and laid down.
The law: my law.
I was Vlad, the Impaler,
nobody could obstruct my path.
And the powerful Turks come in crowds.
And the new forest came up,
forest of fright and blood.
And the sultan of gold and silk
came with his numerous army,
thousand of persons were horribly impaled
and crowds came, crowds of enemies.
And at the end I was surrounded.
Chill, blood, horror of an irrepressible slaughter.
By then I was a prince without land.
And from the ground a whisper,
the whisper of the dead, rose:
"Dracula, please, come back!"
  01:10:24  



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