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Album Reviews
Album Review: Cradle Of Filth – Darkly, Darkly Venus Aversa (Peaceville/Abracadaver)
By CMU Editorial | Published on Tuesday 23 November 2010
For some unknown reason, I went through a fleeting but embarrassingly intense Cradle Of Filth phase as a very young teenager. It was the late 90s, my boyfriend had longer hair than I did, I had tried to write an English essay on Lestat de Lioncourt; it was a sad, deprived state of affairs. Thankfully, like I said, it was short-lived.
Now older and wiser (well, at least the former), I can stand back and look at the music less… well, like I NEED to like it in order to fulfil some sort of pre-pubescent image crisis. Which is why I’m in a better frame of mind now to appreciate* (*try to) Cradle Of Filth for what they are, rather than just saying I like them, listening to a couple of songs and then shoving their CDs to the back of my collection just to appease some – like, totally goffik – boy.
The Suffolk-born’s ninth album ‘Darkly, Darkly, Venus Aversa’ opens with twinkling harps; not bad, not bad, I think – and I turn it up a little, a hopeful smile on my face. Nervous laughter erupts from my mouth at the inevitably cheesy monologue: “Mistress of the dark of Sheba… whose sweet seductions and wicked rites…” You get the general idea. My toes curl so far up in my slippers that they fall off (slippers, not my toes – it’s not THAT bad), and I think to myself, “Wait, isn’t Dani Filth, like… 50 years old now? Surely”. A lot of people get on at bands like Green Day for sticking to a schtick that their human years have outgrown – should the same be said of dark metallers and general piss-takers Cradle Of Filth? Though one thing that separates these bands from Billy Joe and co is the fact that they aren’t taking themselves too seriously at all.
Like a bad, schlocky horror film, Cradle Of Filth unroll the hot mess and don’t stop, consistently garnishing it with layered organs, over-the-top imagery (ie virgin/whores sacrifices in the name of big scary demons etc), ridiculous song titles (‘Harlot On A Pedestal’), blast beat drums and laryngitis-inducing screeching. It’s horrible, in every way shape and form – BUT THAT’S THE FUCKING POINT. It’s so beautifully and horrendously over the top that it works. And isn’t that a good thing? TW
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