Time is my witness I tried my best with this release. I knew it would not be an easy listen, when you have to deal with some truly abstract and elitist black metal. The full title itself, UTD: Beneath The Odd Edge Sounds To The Twilight Contract Of The Black Fascist/ The Wealth Of The Penetration In The Abstract Paradigmas Of Satan, should have given anyone pause. So, I tried UTD on various occasions, in different settings, being influenced by different moods, tried to let the record “grasp me”, rather than overanalyze it. Sadly, the result remains the same. He is Woe J. Reaper himself, the sole creator of Furze, he is so cult he can record a split with himself on this CD. I am a mere mortal, not up to the WJR’s philopsphy, but I am going to call it as I see it – I could hardly get through this intellectual pile of black noise.

Somewhere amidst the bouts of audiotorture which will be known as UTD, there are pieces of Darkthrone blackened thrash (Beneath the Wings of the Black Vomit Above), and semblance of keeping up with himself and the overall sense of purpose (A Life about My Sabbath). Just about everywhere else, except a coldly twisted trance inducing hypnotizing riff on Mandragora Officinarum, we will have guitars going full-on buzzsaw, breaking up their own fabric, mottling up the muck beneath them, lounging into hysterical speeds (Djerve Djevel) and retreating away seeking sanity breathers. Nothing that would individually scare me, but Furze finds the way to make the Death-Devilish mix unpalatably chaotic. That, perhaps, is the purpose in itself, but UTD sounds more as a sarcastic way to mock a listener than anything else. This twisted dark irony, where the seeker is going to be searching forever, when the creator’s purpose was to have no purpose at all.

The drumming and the voices on UTD take the last bit of hope away from me to ever upgrade this CD above the “never to be heard from” stack. I have heard that somewhere in there legendary Frost contributed to the madness, but all I hear is atrociously fast muddled snare kicks, as if the sticks are tied up to the legs of scared shitless rabbit who is pummeling the skins in the hope of fear retreating. Following on the heals of guitar sqeals and dental drills, the voice of Woe J. Reaper metamorphosizes between moans, howls, hisses, pisses, gentle breathes and old ghost croaks.

Pretending to be wondrous and occult, I can hear only bizarre with Furze, but will be the first to admit this is over my too analytical head. Pick it up if you think chaotic shapeless blackened noise is something you crave.