Chelsea Wolfe – Apokalypsis (2011) [Pendu] // Grade: A+

It happens out of nowhere: Songs, albums and artists that you’ll never un-know. They become instantly essential, like a good narcotic, all heady and familiar and necessary. PJ Harvey is one those artists, Disintegration one of those albums, “This Charming Man” one of those songs — and in one fell swoop, just a year after releasing her debut, Chelsea Wolfe is closing in on all three.

Welcome to Apokalypsis. Someday we may know it as the album that cemented  Wolfe as a crucial mainstay, as this great big monster of a record that so perfectly encapsulated her lush doom-folk. Comparatively speaking, it might be her Rid of Me, though probably not her Disintegration; we’ve plenty of time for that yet. And if you loved The Grime and The Glow, you might even be of two minds about this one; aside from the animalistic screeches on “Primal/Carnal,” few moments feel nearly as terrifying, as confrontational, as Wolfe’s debut.

But Apokalypsis isn’t about all that. It doesn’t need to be. From the seasick and circular “Mer” to the lurching pulse of “Demons” and soft, organic Phillip Glass vibe in “Movie Screen”, so much of this album happens between the lines, you’d be hard-pressed to find a space where confrontation wouldn’t ruin the whole thing. For now, at least, Wolfe is working with fluid clarity, a hot surge of dynamics, rich and intense emotional nuance. Like before, she’s spinning a guttural, slow-moving siren song — only now, we’re seeing her through the clearest glass. And when her cascading voice is right there, all warm and intimate — something just off PJ Harvey and Hope Sandoval and, at times, Katrina Ford — it begs you to consider what exactly she’s not saying.

Still, Apokalypsis isn’t all slightness and subtlety. When Wolfe lets loose, she sets souls on fire, and the album’s best track — that one song you can’t un-know, the song that’ll live in my blood at least as a quintessential Wolfe moment — is no exception. The grand, bone-chilling dirge “Pale on Pale” builds from swirling Gregorian chants to a metallic screech over the course of seven minutes, all symphonic in structure, tightly wound in intensity; the sort of thing you feel in your teeth and eyes and veins before it explodes and shatters everything. You’ll hear it echoing in your skull for days after. And like a necessary album and artist, like a good narcotic, like any other essential pleasure, you’ll go back to it — you’ll go back to Apokalypsis — for years.

- Rue Sauvage