Capricorni Peneumatici – ‘Ix Tab’, Eighth Tower Records
I don’t often start reviews like this, but I think the accompanying text with this release speaks (in tongues) for itself:
Ix Tab is an album dedicated to the mysterious Mayan deity, goddess of ropes and snares, and patroness of those who hang themselves. Originally released on cassette, the album was influenced not only by Mayan mysteries but also by Western and medieval esotericism (I.A.O., The Inquisition, etc.) and vampirism (Akhkharu). The artwork features glyphs and images of demons taken from the Dresden Codex, and the cover image specifically is a representation of Ix Tab, likely the only existing visual depiction of the deity. At the time, the cassette was distributed through underground channels and in a well-known esoteric bookstore in Milan, where, following the interest generated by CP I, Al-Azif, and the Zos-Kia zine, rumors began to circulate, though it’s unclear who started them, that Capricorni Pneumatici was a mysterious secret Californian group devoted to unspeakable cults and somehow connected to Anton LaVey’s Church.
Ix Tab was recorded between November 1987 and January 1988, and it is the first full-length album by Capricorni Pneumatici to make extensive use of the Yamaha DX7 synthesiser, which had previously been used in the creation of the two tracks A-Thele-Ber-Set / A-Ro-Go-Go-Ru for Zos-Kia II (first released on CD by Eighth Tower in the album Witchcraft). Alongside the DX7, the Revox A77 was used as an echo/effect unit and to manipulate vocals, as no digital effects were available at the time. The recordings involved experimental techniques, including the use of glass bottles as wind instruments and a 50Hz sine wave captured by moving a cardioid microphone within the space between two speakers emitting the frequency. This album includes some vocal parts attributed in the credits to an entity called Soda Caustica.
Dedicated to Ix Tab, Goddess of the Ropes and Traps, patron of those who hang themselves.
That’s quite a closing line.
There aren’t many albums I would consider frightening, not including soundtracks. It’s just not an angle most artists approach – what reason would a musician and composer have to unsettle the listener? And yet, like a fairground ride, picking at a scab, or watching a favourite horror film, it’s irresistible. Will it still give me that adrenaline rush and lingering thrill after the event…actually, maybe picking at a scab isn’t the best example, but you get my drift. Chrome‘s 1998 album ‘Tidal Forces’ and the remarkable 1976 release ‘L’Etrange Monsieur Whinster’ by Horrific Child do it for me; no matter how many times I hear them, they still creep me out. The former had me turning on all the lights in the house, and the latter forced me to abandon my late-night shortcut through an unlit alley and take the long route.
And then there’s this. I’ll confess that the blurb completely sold me, and it would have had to have been a real dud for me not to appreciate something about it, even if it was just the concept. I’ve been thinking about this album for a day or two, trying to unpick why it’s had such an effect on me. You know that phrase about ‘if a tree falls down in a forest and there’s nobody there, does it make a sound?’. I think there’s a strong element of that, a feeling that whatever nastiness and ritual we’re hearing the audio of, it’s happening regardless of you listening. Not being there doesn’t mean it still isn’t happening. Fittingly, for something which revolves around ancient practices, there’s an air of permanence and even matter-of-factness that gives this an almost field recording tone.
‘Captivity’ opens the gate with claustrophobic textures and the sound of winches and pulleys being prepared. This isn’t BBC Sound Effect LP stuff (not that there’s anything wrong with those) – the underlying hum and murmur create a stillness and meditative zen that disarms the listener and makes what follows all the more harrowing. ‘I.A.O.’ invokes esoteric orders with circular cymbal treatments and shimmers only for some genuinely terrifying chanting to groan out of the shadows, at which point all bets are off and the whole journey becomes behind-the-cushion stuff.
‘On Carmel’s Peak’ is brief but potent, giving us a bit of geography to orient ourselves. We’re high up and far from safety; there’s a threat coming from all around us. There’s no point running; the repeated refrains tell us that whatever comes next is predetermined and final. GREAT. L’Ultima Cerimonia’ feels like the final rite before the veil lifts, but this isn’t the James Bernard growling thunder and crashing crescendi of ‘The Devil Rides Out’ – it’s got a reverence to it, as if the ropes and snares we’re going to face are indeed sacred and Godly, that we should be grateful for our fate.
‘Akhkharu’, clocking in at over 11 minutes, is, appropriately enough, given that it’s a grimoire of vampyric magick – slow, seductive, and steeped in blood. A swooning Yamaha lifts us up, but then drops us into impossible caverns, that stomach lurch you get that has you completely defenceless. Ropes are cranked. The observers stay silent. There’s a slight lick of flame and an incessant rhythm to what’s happening, and yet there’s no sense of what happens next. ‘The Inquisition’ is exactly as terrifying as it sounds. Just in case we were in any doubt, everything has now become very serious. Elders are clearly involved, and they’re not the merciful sort. Bell-like chimes and a portentous drum move the ceremony along, tightening its grip like the chords around the poor wretch’s limbs.
‘Khampa’ and ‘Ortson Erdap!’ (read it backwards) are riddles wrapped in distortion. The chanting has started in earnest – it’s in reverse, of course, and what language it’s in isn’t clear. It’s very…VERY unsettling. By this stage, it doesn’t feel like you’re listening to a musical creation; we’re into ‘Cannibal Holocaust’ found footage territory. We’re being pulled in all directions – things are creaking – it could be wooden scaffolding or it could be our sockets. The chanting continues regardless, the bell peals are louder – something has happened – are we dead? Has something been wrenched out of where it should be? The priest is still chanting backwards, as is his wont.
‘Dhyana’ offers a moment of meditative dread – exaltations and prayers have been offered, and everyone takes a moment to comprehend what we can see before us. The twitching and resistance have ceased, and the ritual of the ropes has finished its most vicious sequence. ‘Sotterranea’ dives underground, both literally and sonically. We’re still on our mountaintop, but now in the caverns beneath, a jumble of contorted body parts taken away to…well, let’s not think about that. There are whispers from the assembled few – blessings, relief, fear. ‘Le Quattro Porte’ closes the ritual with four doors, none of which lead out. What has happened will remain secret until once again, the Goddess calls for an offering.
There’s no catharsis here, no sunrise. Just the rope, the snare, and the sound of something ancient waking up. A magical album, I doubt I’ll hear anything so affecting for the rest of the year.
Daz Lawrence
