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Årabrot

by ARABROT

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about

The Norwegian Grammy winning noise-metal-punks in Arabrot are ready to present their sixth album. The self-titled release is scheduled for a world wide release through Fysisk Format the 19th of August.

The album follows the bands greatest success, Solar Anus from 2011. This release had a power which surprised many of Arabrots fans - suddenly biblio-pornographic lyrics had become popular culture, as had Steve Albinis sparse production techinque. Solar Anus featured on many best-of-the-year-lists, and it received widespread good reviews:
"As unsettling as a thunderstorm approaching a medieval battle" 8/10 NME

"One of Europe's best heavy rock bands" 5/5 The Stool Pigeon

While writing the new album, singer and guitarist Kjetil Nernes inhabited an old abandoned church just across the border in Sweden, in a pastoral countryside where time has stood still for generations. His view of Oslo had started to mirror that of Knut Hamsun: "Oslo's a weird place. Always an omnipresent notion of some unresolved deed cramping one's shoulders, bolts of nervousness creeping down the spine, Ray Bans in the Easter morning sun belly full of coffee, shivering cold nights under the full moon dizzy from litres of red-wine ending another tedious twelve hour recording session. Shaky hands and a sweaty back"

The album features a widened family of Arabrot-collaborators, most notably Emil Nikolaisen (Serena Maneesh/4AD) who in addition to recording and mixing the album, also plays bass and does backup vocals. Nernes recalls: "Emil spending hours and hours crawling and creeping under the skin of the sonic texture. Each and every note turned and twisted, each and every riff wound and yanked. Digging deeper and deeper into the dark surge. Indulging, revelling till his head is spinning, his eyes wet and dreary. Exulting in Tourette's-like howls and shrieks, puffing a small cigar, conjuring up a pure magical momentum. It might be the clammy sensation of Oslo's Youngstorget area which really brings out that extra spark, the crazed passion, the enigmatic touch of danger. The heartbeat which is Arabrot."

The recording session itself was almost a contradiction to the rabid mixing process - set prices and clear working conditions for professional musicians. Basic riffs, percussion and vocals were laid before Norwegian experimental music stalwarts Lasse Marhaug and Erland Dahlen added their musical substance to the mix. A sudden visit by by Laura Pleasants of Kylesa resulted in guest vocals on Arrabal's dream.

While the lyrics on the 2010 release "REVENGE" were a revenge fantasy dedicated to a certain someone, and "Solar Anus" and "Mæsscr" told stories of the human beast, this album revolves around breaking away from city life and the feeling of social asphyxiation invoked by them. Nernes has revealed that much of the inspiration for the lyrics has been found in early 20th century surrealists like Georges Bataille and Robert Desnos, mixed with a fascination for the mythologies of ancient greece and the Old Testament.

Artwork by Johannes Høie.
Mastered by Jason Ward at Chicago Mastering.

Arabrot is supported by Fund for Performing Arts and The Art Council of Norway

credits

released August 16, 2013

Kjetil Nernes -vocals, EGCs, organs and synths
Emil Nikolaisen - bass, background vocals, loops, electronics and synths
David Park - drums
Lasse Marhaug - pure noise
Erland Dahlen - percussion, numerous vile machines
Karin Park - piano
Laura Pleasants - vocals on Arrabal's Dream
Jan Sjönneby - Trumpet on Drawing Down The Moon
Resident tm - voice on Drawing Down The Moon and Ha-Satan Deofol

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about

ARABROT Haugesund, Norway

Grammy award winning noise rock from Haugesund, Norway!

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Track Name: Ha-Satan Deofol
Under a dying olympic flame
They dance gaily around yonder maypole
They hammer nails to the cross
And the blood on the floor is yours
You may put me in a barrel, roll my skull down the hill
Tar and feather for the non-conformist
The blood on the floor is yours
I hoist my half-dead wife
Hold her tightly in my arms
I dream I kill her for my own concerns
The blood on the floor is really mine

Protrusive eyes, a fixed gaze
I arose in a haze
To open for my very lover
Hands dripping
Fingers flowing

Under a dying olympic flame
Life revolves around yonder maypole
The gates will never really open
And the blood on the floor is yours
She’ll wail hysterical orgasms
And laugh at tormentor’s scourge
Chains and fetters for the formalist
The blood on the floor is yours
In beautifully groomed gardens
The gates of life opens upon death
A monstrous and hideous passing
The blood on the floor is really mine
Track Name: Throwing Rocks At The Devil
First stone for ...
Second stone for ...
Third stone for ...
Fourth stone for the defile
Fifth stone for ...
Sixth stone for ...
Seventh stone for ...
At the heap of the defile
I’m throwing rocks at the devil, seven for each pillar
Track Name: Arrabal's Dream
Nuns run with naked children, flags in hand
Red and black, half-and-half
Waving and shouting at religion, crusaders of the demagogue,
Who roam and pillage, spread open the land
and dream only of death

Do not pronounce the name
Do not
Do not pronounce the name

Nuns run with veils torn open
Big, red flags waving , ripped apart by bitter winds,
Half-and-half, the chastity of their beliefs turned to religious rancour,
Their skin now expose a bleeding eruption
the eyes watching wet from tears

Blood calls for more blood down on your knees down the sanguinary mouth calls for
more blood bloody eyes covered bloody eyes calls for more blood
spread your arms
spread your legs
Kill whom you jolly well please
Track Name: Blood On The Poet
On demand, dum da di da
Of the statue deity, dum da di da
The young poet and a mirror linked
To the hallway of aqueous phantasms
Four doors, dum da di da
All locked for lunacy, dum da di da
The poet squint his eye through the keyhole
One more time for the death of the Mexican

One more time for the shadows on the walls
One more time for the tinkling-bell child
Spinning by the bed of the unmanly
One more time the gun to his head

One more time, dum da di da
For the assassination, dum da di da
The spinning hallucinatory imagery
By the aerialist by the bed of the epicene
One more time, the master’s choice
The gun put to his laurel crown
We are born with a wound, born with a wound
Wound of separation
Close the gap

On demand, dum da di da
Of the master, dum da di da
The poet plashes through the mirror
To the hallway of aqueous phantasms
One more time, the master’s choice
The gun put to his filthy wreath
We are born with a wound, born with a wound
Wound of separation
Close the gap
Track Name: Dedication
I've dedicated my self to many a woman
Shirley Temple, Lee Miller in Hitler's bathtub
Louise Brooks, Brooke with the cat Agatha ...
Or was it Golgatha?
Never did I dedicate my funeral like Desnos
Never did I dedicate my death like Rigaut
So I dedicate my demise to you
I dedicate my death to you
First time I died was back in 2001.
I swirled my drink too close to see that what was doing on
Second time was the year 2006. I made a mistake and, god,
I had to pay for it
Third time 2009 all innocence had deteriorated and all left was murder
pure murder, pure death,
pure dedication
Track Name: Blood On Bunny
Blood on Bunny, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
Bunny spread open, you dirty bastard
Bunny denies being the Christ but the blood will be on her own head
Blood on Bunny, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
She’ll die for your sins, you dirty bastard
Bunny denies being the Christ but the blood will be on her own head
Come away, my lover
The blood will be on her own head
Track Name: Drawing Down The Moon
Blessed be you, that have brought me these ways
Blessed be you, as I’m kneeling at the altar,
Blessed be you, without which I would not be
Blessed be you, formed in beauty
Blessed be you, I won’t utter the name
Track Name: The Horns Of The Devil Grow
The naked behind the starry skies is pouring water from the urns
I wink, I blink, I close my eyes, connivance at full swing
The Phoenician angels might bring hope and renewal for a bitter loss
But if you sing the praise of love you sing the praise of death

Hey, I traverse, I correlate
The horns of the devil grow
I grow, I the sycophant
The horns of the devil grow

No love without the taste of death, I was an intern at Hell-Salpêtrière
I got my taste of love confused and was well received in hysteria’s bed
The hysteria divine, its desires, it captivates, the madmen and flagellants
It’s mythical and it’s erotic, the horns of the devil grow

Hey, I traverse, I correlate
The horns of the devil grow
I grow, the non-entity
The horns of the devil grow

I sweat, I traverse the inside to the outside of the body, it’s taboo
I cry, I traverse the inside to the outside of the body, it’s taboo
I spit, I traverse the inside to the outside of the body, it’s taboo
I retch, I traverse the inside to the outside of the body, it’s taboo

Hell, I traverse, I correlate
I got the stye in the eye
I grow, the parasite
The horns of the devil grow
Track Name: The Bitter Tears Of Könt
He finished his book cause the sun didn't set
The stifling heat gone, under Arabic veils
Her naked sex, a breath of cool air
He was warned: if she strips naked there
She'll lull out a devastating storm
But he worshipped her apropos of nothing.
She was idolized, let her hair fall down
Slipped out of a batiste dress, she undressed

At the first gate the crown
At the second gate the necklace
At the third gate her earrings
At the fourth gate her ornaments
At the fifth gate the belt
At the sixth gate the bracelets
& at the seventh gate the girdle
She entered naked into his secret, not known

Nor seen
And not meant
To be known
Nor seen

Now no more a wonderful mirage
Safe in his mind's eye
Grisly, she pivoted and spat back
Kill me with your own hands
I want your fingers round my throat
See the jugular vein throb
See the white foam at my innocent lips
Kill me if you hate me, but do it right
She couldn't help but sink in the sandy mire
Terror-stricken by a boundless void
Gazing out with blank wet orbs
Admitting the loss of a beloved
Not known
Nor seen
Track Name: Mænads
Let’s raise our glasses to the mænads
The drunken, raving ones
Who in intoxicated exaltation
Will hunt you down
Who will howl and bellow
Who will let you taste their naked flesh
Under fawn fox skins and with thieves’ cant
Wrap their snakes around
They lick the honey-trickle
From vine-clad long sticks
Let’s propose a toast to substitutes and prostitutes
Those who lay naked spread on panther skin
After the maniacal revelling and raging hysteria
And feats of madness and loud bang of drums
And crashing of cymbals, sparagmos and omophagia
Praise the rapture of these rites
You’ll find yourselves within a droning frenzy
You’ll find yourselves engirdled by moist, damp bodies
Of the women of the Amphissa
Whose mouths are greedy with blood
A drop of blood on carnal lips
Are licked with an ivy-poisoned tongue
Wild, lively eyes project venereal ardour
And what will you do?
You will raise your glass for good health
Pour me some more!
As I slide my fingertip down the rima vulva
As I suck milk from phantom breasts
Lap wine from Earth’s womb
While serpents glide through sweat
In a ritualistic movement
Let’s raise our glasses to these nurses
And praise their mere existence
To the mountains! To the mountains!