Various Artists – ‘Codex of Pleasure and Pain – A Sonic Tribute to Clive Barker’s Hellraiser’ – Eighth Tower Records
Given the somewhat torturous history of the actual Hellraiser score, offering another perspective seems entirely reasonable. As much as Cenobites remix flesh, these 11 artists from across Europe dig their hooks into their chosen chunk and give it a good yank. There are few horror films, certainly from the ’80s onwards, that have intrigued and inspired quite so much as Hellraiser, somewhat uniquely, not filmmakers, but artists and musicians. Hopefully, but not definitely, let’s bring the film puns to an end and see what these new voices bleeding from the box bring us.
From the opening track, it’s clear we’re not dealing with homage in the usual sense. There’s no orchestral swell, no gothic grandeur, no attempt to mimic Christopher Young’s original score or Coil’s famously rejected cues. Instead, we’re dropped straight into the labyrinth – no map, no guide, just anguish and malaise shifting in the dark. The compilation doesn’t seek to replicate Barker’s world so much as inhabit it. These aren’t attempts at cinematic grandeur; they’re like those agonising YouTube videos of potholers filming themselves squeezing through impossibly small gaps, causing you to take a deep breath and dig your nails into your palms.
Each artist approaches the mythos not as a fan as such, but more like a willing sacrifice. That they understand Barker’s original vision is a given; these are interpretations of the mythos that stare at you straight in the eye and don’t blink.
There’s a pleasing lack of cohesion here. No guiding hand. No tonal consistency. Just eleven sonic sadists dragging their chosen body part into their own domain. Some opt for drone and decay, letting the sound rot in real time – others go full industrial, hammering out rhythms like chains on wet stone. A few seem to let out pained sighs of resignation. SÍLENÍ’s ‘Beyond the Veil of Torment’ offers a slow, ceremonial descent. It’s not a track so much as a beckoning. A low, ritualistic pulse builds beneath layers of static and breath, like being ushered into Leviathan’s chamber.
Sonologyst and vÄäristymä follow with ‘Echoes of Ecstatic Pain’, a piece that feels like it’s been stitched together from rusted metal and half-erased memories. It pulses, but not rhythmically, more like a neck wound trying to close. Philippe Blache’s ‘Revelatory Signs from the Underworld’ leans into drone and decay, letting the sound rot in real time. It’s the kind of track that doesn’t end so much as dissolve.
Grey Frequency’s ‘Demons to Some, Angels to Others’ is the first to flirt with recognisable motifs. It’s stark and cold, announces itself with a shallow gong, and twitches in the corner, wretchedly. It’s a nod to the original score’s grandeur, but twisted, inverted, and made intimate. 400 Lonely Things’ ‘A Score To Settle (For Stephen Thrower)’ is spectral and feverish, blind insects biting and throbbing ghastliness holding a stethoscope to its stomach growling. There’s something deeply wrong in its restraint, as if the track itself is holding back for your benefit, knowing full well it doesn’t have to. Like so many of these tracks, it doesn’t lead to a crescendo of any kind, only relief that the madness has ended.
Paolo L. Bandera’s ‘Voce Cenobita Incandescente’ captures the shimmering excellence of the Cenobites, almost church-like in its reverence. There’s a feeling it gives of the unholy taking pleasure in its carnage – they’re not punishing so much as delighting in the process. The hooks go in, the flesh stretches, and what must be done is done. There’s no scream, because there’s no need. phoanøgramma’s ‘Seduction of Pain’ whispers, beckoning you closer to listen into ages-old ceremonies at your peril. It’s invasive and intimate. Kokum’s ‘My Voice Fades Away in the Mystery Cube’ is perhaps the most literal invocation of the Lament Configuration, a resigned heartbeat fading away beneath unfolding inevitability. The heartbeat returns at the track’s close, seemingly unaffected but somehow ruined beyond recognition.
Mario Lino Stanca’s ‘Circus of Pleasure and Pain’ is, as the title suggests, more strident and visceral. It’s theatrical, yes, but not in the usual sense. Limbs jerk at percussion, cymbals splashing like innards on a stone floor. It’s clear that we are the spectacle on show, unseen eyes watching us fall apart, joyously. An almost theremin-like tone adds a cartoonish wash to the show, a neat twist in tone; a palate-cleanser with acid. Nerthus follows with ‘Sweet Flesh’, glowing with bruises and digging underneath the muscle to scrape at the bones. There might be a voice at the end, or it could just be bubbling and seething. And finally, vÄäristymä returns with ‘Lord of Labyrinths’, a closing piece that resolves nothing, a limp across the boundaries of Earth and beyond, like listening to a machine from the bottom of the ocean.
What Codex of Pleasure and Pain understands – and what many adaptations miss – is that Hellraiser isn’t just about gore. There’s transcendence, violation, and pride. These pieces don’t just echo the film’s aesthetics; they explore its metaphysics. There’s none of the sickly exposition that plagues modern horror; it celebrates without ceremony and treats you with respect – no climax, no resolution, no catharsis. It’s the distilled essence.
What’s striking across the compilation is the absence of melodrama. There’s no overacting, no horror tropes, no cheap scares. These artists aren’t interested in shocking you. Barker’s universe has always been about transformation: of body, of desire, of perception. It doesn’t want to scare you. It wants to reconfigure you. Even the quieter moments, of which there are many, feel invasive. It’s the sound of something watching, waiting, knowing. ‘Codex of Pleasure and Pain’ doesn’t end – it persists.
Daz Lawrence
