Numbness, disbelief, denial, anger, and rage—a
whirlwind of five emotions that barely begins to encompass the tumultuous,
world-shattering doom represented on ‘The First & Last Days of Unwelcome’,
the debut from one-off project Lumbar featuring artist/musician Aaron Edge with
additional support and camaraderie from Tad Doyle and Mike Scheidt. The seven
tracks of ‘The First & Last Days of Unwelcome’, entitled “Day One” through
“Day Seven”, chronicles the visceral reaction to the sudden and unexpected onset
of life-altering events, namely Aaron Edge’s diagnosis of multiple sclerosis.
While it’s difficult to ignore the context in which Lumbar was ultimately
conceived and formed, the album stands on its own merits though is made more
poignant with proper perspective and understanding. ‘The First & Last Days
of Unwelcome’ is an uncompromisingly heavy sonic journey—both thematically and
musically—that is as ugly as it is cathartic.
Beginning with a sample from The Twilight Zone episode “The Little People”, “Day
One” seems to suggest the miniscule place that man occupies in the cosmos and
how, as a species, humankind is at the mercy of chance and chaos. This futility
and helplessness is echoed in a sound bite from the opening sample, “And if
you've got tears to shed, you save them for bedtime and weep them into your
pillow; don't spray them all over me! It's a waste of time, and it's a waste of
effort; it's also dull, and it's tough to live with…And while you're dwelling
on it, you might count a few blessings.” In other words, you had better look
deep within yourself to find the strength to stand up to the forces beyond your
control, or succumb to those forces by choosing to curl up and die. This
sentiment contrasted with Edge’s lyrics of loss and numbness found on “Day One”
seems to stand as the inciting incident and impetus for crafting ‘The First
& Last Days of Unwelcome’. Despite the lyrical bewilderment and associated
numbness of “Day One”, musically the song has an ethereal beauty unmatched by
the remaining six tracks.
If “Day One” represents the loss of
innocence and the lingering splendor of the not-too-distant past, then the
remainder of the album is the exacerbation of neurological symptoms and the
associated turmoil on body and mind. What began on a note not completely devoid
of beauty—perhaps related to the incomprehension of the severity of a
diagnosis—even if in passing, turns woefully sour as time progresses.
“Day Two” is the antithesis of shock and numbness as it channels pure
hate and rage—a trend that spreads like disease through the remaining six
tracks. “Day Five” in particular is a seething, atmospheric beast that
acknowledges the severity of illness from the depths of a heart of darkness.
With lyrics consisting of only two words over the span of four lines,
“Careless/Cureless/Cureless/Cureless”, it represents the harsh reality of a
severe, progressive chronic illness and the despair associated with that
realization.
While the album can essentially be characterized
by rage—a smoldering rage that questions the quality of and potential for a
future—the album is also underscored by a glimmer of hope, of overcoming
adversity no matter what the struggle. And pain. Incomprehensible and
overwhelming pain that few people can truly understand, but thought processes
and emotional turmoil that some may identify with. The overall sound is what
you would expect from the union of Edge, Scheidt, and Doyle. ‘The First &
Last Days of Unwelcome’ is a wounded monstrosity of rumbling bass tones and
crushing, heavily distorted guitars. Though all of the instruments were played
by Edge, the stylistic execution coupled with vocals provided by Scheidt lands
‘The First & Last Days of Unwelcome’ somewhere between Yob’s ‘The Great
Cessation’ and Scheidt’s work with Middian. Unfortunately, this is probably the
only release we’ll see from Lumbar, but the band’s sole album, despite its
overall themes of loss, pain, and rage, will stand as a beacon of hope and
inspiration for those willing to defiantly look catastrophe and affliction in
the eyes and say, “Fuck you”.
Words: Steve Miller
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