��Another blast of low-fi, noisy black metal filth from Dungeon Tapes, A Corpse, A Temple is a new CD reissue of the first full-length album from Portugese carrion creeper Black Cilice. This reclusive one-man band has been putting out a bunch of terrifically skuzzy recordings over the past few years, short blasts of blown-out graveyard delirium drenched in intensely raw and noisy blackness, usually issued in tiny editions on 7" or cassette on labels like Discipline and Cocainacopia. On A Corpse, the band's raw, cave-dwelling vibe continues unabated, screaming out of the shadows with all of the urgency of a raw four-track hardcore punk demo recorded on some beat up four-track in 1982. Take the opener "The Gate Of Sulphur", a tumbling mess of hyperfast drums thrashing so furiously that they become a blur of cymbal hiss, the singer's lunatic howl echoing madly in the shadows, as everything becomes swept up in a furious blizzard of tiny low-fi black metal. When the song downshifts into a passage of rocking mid-tempo propulsion, that black echo-laden buzz shifts into a primitive off-kilter chug, transforming into a vaguely punk-rock style stomp that surges out of the swirling clouds of EVP-like static. As the album goes on, that seemingly wordless, inchoate howling is smeared over the bleary melodies of the guitar, and the cavernous low-fi recording casts the whole thing in a strange dim haze that feels like this was recorded in some crumbling, abandoned chapel. Those rapidly picked tremolo melodies are one of Black Cilice's distinguishing marks, the tinny speedfreak melodies taking on an almost Mick Barr-like quality as they race around the primitive blackness, frantically fluttering within the murk. The songs often drop into pounding, primal rhythms, the drums like bones banging on coffin lids while regal frostbitten melodies curl into the air like incense smoke, all while werewolves sing in the encroaching twilight gloom. There are moments on A Corpse where things become a kind of discordant, stumbling dirge, wrecked and wretched and almost Jandekian, like the warped shamble of "Blood To Murder" before that song takes flight into blackened buzzing noise. And there's a couple of moments of regal beauty, such as the aching, dreamlike melody that surfaces on "Resurrection Of Dead Curses". Like all of the other recent Black Cilice releases, this is some fantastically harsh, noisy low-fi blackness that can sometimes be reminiscent of some of those old Les L�gions Noires outfits, the music teeming with unearthly shrieks lost behind the curtain of night, wailing voices weeping at their newfound comprehension of the immanence of the void and the inevitability of rot.

�� Comes in digipack packaging.