Once, when I was grappling with the greater mysteries of life, I started reading a book called ‘Straw Dogs’, wherein the author – a British philosopher called John Gray – contended that humans are no more than deluded animals with no real worth or value in the greater scheme of things.
Despite our pretensions to grandeur and an innate sense of self, we are a destructive, arrogant, fluke of a species, falsely believing that our ability to use language and reason grants us an elevated status and importance. Ultimately, the grim reality is that we are no different from apes, fish and dung beetles.
The human race essentially comprises walking, breathing piles of shit and our actions, thoughts and emotions are meaningless anomalies of the human condition. Everything we do is pointless. There is no victory at the end, only death and oblivion, the same fate that awaits every living thing.
Realising that there was no actual point or purpose to anything I do, I never finished the book – a conscious decision that is highly apt, in the humble opinion of my ego.
Mgła have a similar outlook on life. Their music bristles with negativity, nihilism, apathy and a sense of hopelessness. According to these justifiably-downbeat Poles, our very existences are a waste of time – exercises in futility. This is a stark, undeniable truth and the rather alarming subject matter helps to elevate Mgła to the higher echelons of modern art, never mind the Black Metal underground.
This is another astonishing volume of work from one of the truly great acts of our (waste of) time. And I had no problem getting to the end of the record.