Blame it on the media, or the antagonistic state of world affairs, but it appears that social tides have changed almost overnight. Art, music and politics that were once considered unfashionable or just plain unfathomable are causing a major stir, be it The Arcade Fire's macabre dance-nouveau, Do Me Bad Things' bullhorn-abetted multimedia histrionics or the portrayal of Jesus as a splatter of feces. That said, there was little chance you were ever going to see instrumental doom goliaths Pelican vamping on MTV or blaring from poorly-wired speakers in dingy greasy spoons, but the fact that they bring together so many people from such disparate (musical) walks of life -- metalheads, post-rock nerds, blow fiends and resin-encrusted druggies -- is testament to how such a minor shift in perceptions can elevate a band from great to godlike.
Pelican are now held in the same veneration as their label bosses, Isis, but along with undying respect comes immense expectations. It's fortunate, then, that The Fire in Our Throats will Beckon the Thaw isn't just one of the best metal albums to see the light of day this year, but one of the best albums, period. They've shrugged off their sophomore slump with such ease and brutish precision that it makes the whole notion of the "difficult second album" seem like utter codswallop. Pelican used to merely rape and pillage, but now they destroy at will, burying the throng, beliefs and all, in a rush of grandiose ambition and dead-to-rights execution.
From the angelic opening strains of "Last Day of Winter", you can tell that there's something special in the air. That's when you're blindsided by Laurent Lebec and Trevor de Brauw's twin-guitar hail and Larry Herwig's heart-quickening double bass thrum. Following "Autumn Into Summer"'s frigid glissandi is like being dropped into a frozen lake: the senses seize up and you're left gasping for air in a cold-water swell that refuses to weaken. The band has trimmed nearly ten minutes of fat off of "March Into the Sea", transforming the song into a brawny, blood-drenched siege that devours everyone and everything in its path. Lebec and de Brauw continue to wield distortion like a wizard's wand, drenching "Red Ran Amber" in a cloak so thick you'll wonder how the hell any sound has penetrated its dystopian aura.
As Pelican continue their march toward the empire, bodies piling up around them, blood rising ankle deep, they solemnly roll out " " -- five minutes of wintry solitude that stings like bitter wind, a brief bout of placid reflection that fleetingly exposes the raw underbelly of the beast. It's silvery and totally unexpected, and proves that Pelican almost more frightening when they're killing you softly.
On first listen, you'll be left trembling in The Fire in Our Throats will Beckon the Thaw's wake, mouth agape, awed by its sheer magnitude. The second time, you'll still pick yourself up off the floor, but by the third and fourth airings, you'll start to understand the resonance behind its enormity. In the midst of all this chaos and turbulence, there beats a frail heart that longs for the most basic of human emotions -- love, respect, anger and devotion. Like the changing of the seasons, Pelican swoop in without warning and steal the earth from beneath your feet. But like any compassionate benevolent figure, they also harness the power to give, and for the bounty they have provided us with here, we should all be thankful.
