There is something incredibly satisfying about amalgamating genres into ridiculous, Frankensteinian combinations, and there is no portmanteau more appropriate, nor more divisive, than blackgaze. Mixing the distorted, incessant tremolos and harsh vocals of black metal with the ethereal, swirling sensibilities of shoegaze, blackgaze has been simultaneously embraced and maligned by various factions from both the metal underground and the sunbathed mainstream.
Over six LPs and numerous EPs, splits and demos, France's Alcest (the brainchild of scene-progenitor Stéphane Hugues Norbert Paut, aka. Neige) have carved a luminous, brutal and transcendent place for themselves in metal. Although their earlier albums were uncompromising affairs much more indebted to black metal — in particular Écailles de lune and their first EP, 2005's Le secret — others have swerved heavily into more subdued territory, exploring dream pop, post-rock and ambient, focussing more on textures than transgressions.
While both black metal and shoegaze can feel performative, even insincere, replete with pageantry, pretension and posturing, Alcest's music has never approached these unbecoming definitions. Neige feels like a singularly earnest composer, funnelling his influences and interests in singular — and disruptive — ways. After 2019's relatively inert Spiritual Instinct, on their seventh and latest LP, Les Chants de l'Aurore, Neige and drummer Jean "Winterhalter" Deflandre have crafted another sprawling work of big emotions and even bigger dynamics. While it still falls short of some of their most celebrated works, the album is gloriously cinematic, although never really surprising.
"Komorebi," the exultant opener, sways and grooves, its steady rhythms and wall-to-wall guitars conjuring up images of smoky, sweaty rooms, aglow with the flicker of lighter flames. At this point, it's practically blackened-dance, with very little dread or dissonance. Winterhalter's drums are the real MVP here; his rolls, fills and swishing cymbals balance out Neige's buzzing guitar lines. The chorus of voices at the end reminds you of metal's classical aspirations, a fitting end to a positively triumphant track.
For all intents and purposes, Les Chants de l'Aurore is a celebratory — and relatively pure — affair. Although the lack of harsh vocals is always a bit of a letdown (Neige's scream is one of Alcest's most powerful elements), his potent, clean vocals are both soaring and understated. While some fans and pundits will undoubtedly argue that the band needs to be left to their own devices and that listeners need to get past the lack of blast beats and shrieks, that's also where the band's strengths lie, and why fans have been aching for a return to their explosive, contradictory roots.
Nevertheless, throughout Le Chants de l'Aurore, Neige's high pitched screech makes a few sudden — and thus exhilarating — appearances, particularly in "L'Envol" and the sublime, scorching "Améthyste." While the latter is the most traditionally "blackgazian" song on the album, it is also, unsurprisingly, the best. With its shimmering, starlit passages, bone-chilling shrieks and furious, cascading riffs, it's easily one of Alcest's most memorable tracks on this or any other album, proving unconditionally why they're so damn good at this.
At times, it feels like Alcest are doing their best to distance themselves from the genre they helped popularize in the late 2000s and early Aughts. While songs retain some of the instrumental qualities of black metal — a double kicked section here, an extended scream there — they feel like references, wistful reminiscences of a past long since left behind. "L'Enfant de la Lune" aims for the lofty, expansive heights of post-rock, its huge ending bursting and surging on a torrent of distorted guitars, while album closer "L'Adieu" is a fragile piece gliding on light electronics, acoustic guitars and Neige's hushed voice. While the promise of a loud, relentless ending feels inevitable, Alcest subvert these expectations by presenting us with the sound of rising, glacial guitar noise, before abruptly stopping in favour of twinkling piano and Neige's soft coos. While some of Les Chants de l'Aurore is a bit too alt, a bit too post-, when Alcest reaches those celestial heights, we're reminded of their power and their creativity.
Neige's constantly evolving approach to songcraft means that Alcest's music, for better or worse, will never be what it once was. While Le Chants de l'Aurore doesn't reach the same heights as some of their previous works (particularly the intricate Kodama or the aforementioned Écailles de lune), the album is still awe-inspiring.
Although Alcest seem to have transcended the dark parts of their musical Chiaroscuro, those shadows are necessary for balancing out the light — too much time in the sun and you risk washing out what makes art, and life, so beautiful.