Just like a delicious pasta sauce ruined with too much onion and garlic, a voluptuous hot dog demolished by relish, or a smooth caramel sundae devastated by coconut and almonds, Draconian’s brand of My Dying Bride worship is killed by the most typical cliche trappings of the genre. Listen, you don’t need female vocals and choirs to make Doom work! Why can’t anybody see that? Growing up in America, I hear choirs and I think of Christmas, churches, and junior high. A choir does not conjure the hopelessness of our existence musically for me. It sounds more awkward than despondent, like a loud fart during a moment of silence. Female vocals are okay in moderation, as a pleasant novelty, if the woman has a really good voice. However, I feel it’s a woman’s job to cause the pain, not to sing about it. With just the bare essentials (haunting melodies, somber dirges, Doomy heaviness, and the harsh vocals) Draconian would have been close to perfection. I could’ve even looked past the dorky vampyric spoken parts. As is, this is a work of tragedy for all the wrong reasons.
Page 1 of 1 pages