Review: Splid - Kvelertak
By Greg Wiacek
Rock n’ roll, hardcore punk and black metal: a recipe that should promise some dirty, crusty, sweaty shit to fill my ears. Unfortunately, Splid, the latest outing from Norway’s Kvelertak, comes across as way too sterile, well-kept and calculated. Ever since the band’s (excellent) 2010 debut, they’ve accumulated a lot of clout from goodwill and networking. Converge’s Kurt Ballou has produced a majority of their records, John Baizley of Baroness created the cover art for their first two, they hang out with some OG 90s black metal musicians, and they have Norwegian song titles - they must be a cool band. But now, these guys sound like if Turbonegro and Fucked Up had a shameful one night stand fueled by alcohol, with blast beats and tremolo riffing added to “spice things up.”
Not to say Kvelertak doesn't deserve the respect they’ve received. They still employ 70s rock dual guitar noodling effectively, and their attempts to make some fist-pumping rock anthems in 2020 are at least admirable. The underlying problem with their music, however (which has remained prevalent since their debut), is that they stick to major-chord, upbeat, mid-tempo, down-picking riffing that gets so old, so fast, with no distinctive vocal lines to carry the songs through. This is the band’s first run with new vocalist Ivar Nikolaisen, and it’s a turn for the worse – his vocals lean on the more generic “hardcore shout” style. They’ve doubled down on that “happy punk” sound, forgetting the black n’ roll sound that made them interesting in the first place.
Additionally, it’s baffling that three guitarists can’t come up with more compelling riffing than what’s going on for most of the run time. Pick a lick - any random one on this album - and try singing it out loud without feeling embarrassed. Nearly every song ranges from 5 – 8 minutes with the same “fist-pump” tempo. You could easily enjoy these songs a few beers deep, but what music can’t you say that about?
Let’s take a moment to specifically call out the unsolicited audible dick pic towards the end of lead single “Bratebrann.” The song rides on two riffs and a lick for five minutes, until the band drops out and the vocalist, in a nasally and subordinate manner, shouts “air guitar, c’mon!” This is followed with the most limp of guitar solos – are you fucking kidding me. When people say guitar music is dead, this is a convincing argument for that.
Splid isn’t a complete misfire. The middle section of “Fanten ta dette hull!” goes from an epic, traditional heavy metal riff a la the 80s that naturally transitions into a vicious thrash break, then comes into its own with a ripping guitar solo. Now this is a section that warrants “air guitar, c’mon!” The vocalist’s aggression sounds more convincing here than at any other point of the record, too. Kvelertak finally sounds locked in, pushing themselves to innovate more than any other point here. Alas, they then squash any reinvigorated hope with the next song, containing the most upbeat and poppiest of grooves, once again asserting their new alignment of fist pumping, happy sunshine punk. Bleh.
Splid ultimately is a regression for Kvelertak. What once was an exciting blend of aggressive styles and accessibility, now sounds way too comfortable and safe. It seems as though they wanted to deliver a non-stop thrill ride, but nothing here genuinely rocks; it only drags on in failed ideas for nearly one hour of runtime. In one sentence: this is way more “air guitar? C’mon” than “air guitar, c’mon!”
BOPS: "Necrosoft," "Fanden ta dette hull!"
DUDS: "Tevling," "Bratebrann," "Crack of Doom"
