Marduk
After 20 years, black metal legends Marduk remain sworn to the dark
Guitarist Morgan Håkansson talks like he plays—fast and precise. He ends sentences firmly, and could be a political spokesperson if he wanted to. Rarely does he deviate from the talking points surrounding his band Marduk’s albums. Ask him about something off-topic, and he’ll steer the answer back to the company line. I’ve seen him do this to many interviewers. He does it to me, too, when I call him in Portugal. Marduk are touring Europe before undertaking their first full American tour since 2001. I ask him about this. Naturally, he feels “great” about it.
Talking to him seems like talking to a press kit, until I realize he’s another of one of those guys for whom the professional is the person. Helmuth from Belphegor is one such guy. Piotr Wiwczarek from Vader is another. They eat, sleep and breathe their bands. I ask Håkansson what Marduk means to him. He says, “It’s mostly my life. It’s the first thing I work with in the morning and the last thing I do at night.” Many juicy interviews come from personal lives spilling over into professional ones. When there’s no spillover, but instead complete congruence, no dirt ensues.
Yet Marduk have kicked up plenty of dirt the old-fashioned way—with actions, not words. Håkansson formed the band almost 20 years ago, at a time when fellow Swedish metalheads embraced death metal. He chose black metal, but didn’t find that choice terribly radical. “I was thinking about pushing the limits of what had already been done. I never had a problem with death metal. I think black metal and death metal are not as different as many people would say. For me, Satanic metal—metal with Satanic lyrics—I believe it’s more of a mentality than a specific style.”
At the outset, that mentality yielded three smoking albums: Dark Endless, Those of the Unlight and Opus Nocturne. Then vocalist Legion joined in 1995, cementing a lineup that more or less stayed intact up until 2003’s World Funeral. A highlight of the band’s output during that time was 1999’s Panzer Division Marduk, perhaps the Reign in Blood of black metal. It was short, brutal and balls-to-the-wall fast. That album helped establish Marduk’s reputation as an endless blast beat party. I used to fall asleep to 2004’s Plague Angel because it was so relentless it turned into white noise.
That record was a turning point for Marduk, however. It introduced new vocalist Mortuus and brought bassist Magnus “Devo” Andersson back into the fold. Mortuus was known for his Funeral Mist project, whose Salvation is considered a classic in so-called “orthodox black metal.” Funeral Mist’s most recent record, Maranatha, added all sorts of instrumentation and textures to black metal’s template. This diversity started finding its way into Marduk on 2007’s Rom 5:12.
Now Mortuus’ fingerprints are all over Marduk. Wormwood is Marduk’s most varied album to date, with a wide range of speeds and feels. Mortuus growls and howls with great expressiveness, in contrast to black metal’s usual monotone rasp. The record is a strong statement and has polarized listeners. Though the positive reactions please him, Håkansson doesn’t really care. “As usual, when you do an album, a lot of people love it, some hate it. That’s the way it is. We don’t do music to satisfy certain people. We do music to satisfy ourselves.”
Mortuus is another guy who speaks precisely and firmly. Having two visionaries in one band might seem problematic, but evidently Håkansson and Mortuus see eye-to-eye. Håkansson states, “I would like to work with dedicated people. Therefore, it’s a pleasure to work with, for example, Mortuus, because he stepped up to the plate immediately and took part in songwriting and lyrics and arrangements. With the lineup we have now, we work more as a unit than we’ve ever done before. I think we’re stronger—mentally and in all perspectives—so it feels triumphant.”
I press Håkansson regarding the vision that he and Mortuus share. Again, he gives me the company line—the name “Wormwood” comes from the Book of Revelation. It translates in Russian to “Chernobyl.” The album is about “morbidity, sourness and religious and divine punishment.” Despite how tidily Håkansson states these themes, however, he says they weren’t premeditated. He and Mortuus work intuitively: “We don’t sit down or plan or have an agenda when we work on music, that it has to sound a specific way. We just work on the music and lyrics, and make them become a unit. Everything comes naturally.”
Håkansson also claims such ease of creation when he plays guitar by himself. Despite his formidable chops—early Marduk is filled with bitchin’ riffs—he says, “I don’t practice a lot, actually. My guitar is my weapon. I see it as a weapon that I use when I go onstage. I don’t sit down and rehearse and play scales up and down. For me, it’s a vehicle to make creations come onto the tape. Every time I take up the guitar, I more or less create music.”
Fine, then. Swedish kid who grew up on KISS and Iron Maiden delves deeper into metal, and starts making it himself, becoming an icon in his own right. Maybe it really does all come naturally. At least, it sounds that way.
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