Courtesy of Bosse-De-Nage / photo by SF Sludge
Bosse-De-Nage is one of the current USBM scene’s most interesting new talents. The band is notoriously press-shy, largely eschewing interviews and clinging to anonymity while crafting progressive, textured black metal with heavy post-rock, shoegaze, and even hardcore influences. Sure, hidden identities are a dime a dozen in black metal, and BDN’s particular take on the genre is something of an aughties staple (albeit an undeniably well-executed example), but there’s more to this Bay area outfit than their split with Deafheaven. Perhaps surprisingly given their genre of choice, the most enduring and insidious appeal of Bosse-De-Nage lies in its lyrics.
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Vocalist B. (Bryan Manning) is an incredible writer, one who conjures up surreal, shudder-inducing vignettes and starkly poetic, post-modern meditations on sex, filth, bodies, perversion, and death that place him alongside Pig Destroyer’s J. R. Hayes and Cretin’s Matthew Widener as one of extreme metal’s most gifted (and twisted) lyricists. The depraved character of Marie appears on several releases, sending chills down the spine of all who encounter her—don’t worry, you’ll meet her in the first track of BDN’s upcoming album for Profound Lore, All Fours.
Get lost in one of All Fours‘ eight tracks, “To Fall Down,” then scroll down to read an exclusive excerpt from Manning’s upcoming book, The Sinking House.
Excerpt from The Sinking House
by Bryan Manning
Before I could turn around, an arm slipped into mine. It was a dry, withered arm, droopy and small. Despite its pitiful look, it was vital.
An old woman croaked, “Walk with me.”
With a jolt, we moved through the corridors at an intense speed. Arms locked, she walked by my side bent over a stick, which seemed too thin to hold her weight, and I walked with her. Separate yet together, we advanced like hallucinations. My ideals absconded, staying behind to wait for the next breeze or to find a room to call their own. Only forward motion mattered now. Her pale lips, encased in wrinkles, were almost smiling, although in general her disposition was neutral. It seemed impossible that someone of her size and age could move so effortlessly. Her control was absolute. I struggled to speak, and our unnatural momentum left me confused and nauseous. She exuded inspiration and prestige, belying her crouched form. They formed an atmosphere around her with a discernible boundary that kept out the damp air and mold. Our embrace held me in this atmosphere and I hoped to stay in it forever.
“Who are you?” I managed.
“Glory.”
We walked for days. Our progression had the aspect of a tranquil journey on a high-speed train. Doors and lamps fell away slowly, like a distant landscape, while the floor passed below as a single-toned blur. I stopped considering anything intimate or internal, although at times my bliss was interrupted by an idea or a memory imposed on me by Insight. These survived only briefly before Glory waved her hand to brush them away. The gravity of Glory’s hunched back drew me to her, and the desire to live in her radiance, to breath Glory, was overwhelming. While I was there, within her orbit, I was happy and she was happy.
“Do you ever stop walking?” I asked.
“When there is something worth stopping for.”
We walked for months. Wandering through hallways at all hours, our arms entwined, never stopping to eat or relieve ourselves; together withdrawn from the wind and world. It became natural not to speak and our days passed quietly.
We walked for years. Collecting objects from far away places and polishing countless antique memories. Glory’s aura never diminished. Her hips swayed voluptuously and I held her tight. With my free hand, I caressed her face and hair.
One day, we stumbled upon my childhood bedroom. It was all there: the plain furniture, the bed, my toys and books, everything exactly how I remembered it, but cloaked by a nascent disintegration. In an instant, this mundane scene brought an end to my euphoria. Memories came rushing back. Not as pictures or words, but as the inky shadows of Insight, whose genius is the black, vertical ocean behind closed eyes. Impressions faithlessly authenticated by words, but in substance something more. Something fugitive that resides within me, seemingly endless, that answers only sporadically when appealed to; all vague and ineffable. The dark skeletons of consciousness, as inconsequential as an evanescing dream.
“It’s time to move on,” she said, gently.
Excerpted text copyright Bryan Manning, 2015.
All Fours is out April 14 via Profound Lore.
Kim Kelly is getting creepy on Twitter – @grimkim
