M8L8TH - "Scent of Blood/Rehearsal" (2003)
Fragment of a review from a friendly resource:
Those glorious times have passed and few people remember them already, however, it was then, in 2003 – more than ten years ago that wonderful group was born that bears the name MolotH which has lived for its 12 years a history that holds a lot and not every formation can be compared with her in it. 4 still very young young people decided to light the fire of hearts in other people. This is how the first demo tape of 2003 appeared.
From the very first seconds, a very specific atmosphere is felt: specific by its recording, filing, time. And while the tape stretches the music covers and does not release. The huge energy sometimes splashes in such a way that the heart shudders – the melody with the expressive vocals merge into one, creating a stream of emotions that is comparable when listening only to the epoch-making Russian classics. There is even some romanticism in the music on the demo tape, it has wide Russian arms, sincerely suffers and inspires, and it is impossible not to empathize with it. Even then, the musicians managed to very technically convey their idea, this is not characteristic of every group in their first rehearsal works, and sometimes to no one at all. On this tape, MolotH set a very high bar for their creativity and in subsequent releases it was never lowered. The material is so unique for the Russian BM scene that it was reprinted many times and was honorably listed in one form or another in subsequent releases of the group.
Scent of Blood
The red sun, the black sky
Burns my back, ears and eyes.
The wood grants me the cold and luxury,
Blood is granted to me by the night dew.
Night’s shine of the stellar sky,
The moon tears my soul apart,
By one more night of a bloody snow
The twilight in the wolf land will be filled.
I was just a human one year ago,
But god-werewolf presented me the force of woods,
I knew but didn’t trust that
I’ll stay in the pack of wolves once and forever.
Blood’s smell lights up the road for me.
I try to appease my thirst.
I come back to the native threshold in darkness,
Just to fall on it and to sob.
But nobody will see my tears already,
I’m running in the dark not feeling my foots.
I cry with the blood when I just recollect the one
Who has taken out the blade from a stub at that night…
By the Wing of Black
The sun shines as fire on chain armours,
And morning air is crystal-clear.
Bloodred boards will block this field
Under a rustle of trees and the singing of wind.
Trees will cover our backs with foliage,
Without fear we wait, when the moment will come
When the sky will call for our souls,
And clear morning will present us eternity.
Our enemy is insignificant, dammed by the sky,
Empty souls are standing in front of us
Now I see the gloom of your eyes
Gloom that hides in souls for years.
Sights are full of destructive will,
The confusion fills your hearts,
The body will be filled with a burning pain,
The pain will finish it all
“I see a raven, he had waved by the black wing
And had risen above white eagle.
I see how they had risen to the sky,
How feathers strewed, how claws were plaited
Eagle wings are stronger than raven’s ones,
Eagle claws are sharper than raven’s.
And the raven falls, the eagle wined,
He sat on a rock and praised the victory
But the raven had recovered, had soared up on a rock
And he inflicts well-aimed impact to an eagle
Raven’s beak – the warrior’s sword,
He cuts down a head from the eagle’s shoulders.”
The warrior falls into embraces of death,
Sing the song and only white smoke,
Aspiring to heavenly open spaces,
Ascends above him smoking silvery.
He’ll soar up to heavenly halls,
Where the fathers meet of sons,
Having left the burning down world behind a threshold,
The left world of extinct fires.
And warrior, having embraced the Land parting,
Will merge with the sky, will fall asleep by eternal dream,
and the gloomy wanderer, a dark raven
Will close his eyes by the wing of black!!!
Sons of Russland
We were taking off an armour before the fight
And bit shield in rage.
Seeing those who brand crosses
On our land with red-hot iron.
We slaked our thirst with beer,
Dreaming to slake it with enemies’ blood.
To become a wolf in time of death,
And to become the horde of wolves together with all.
We are not afraid of death now,
We thirst for a blade’s jingle only
Fearless soldiers of Russland
Became the wolves of ancient gods.
There, where a hall of gods,
We will be there soon
Having risen in a flesh of darkness,
We shall march in the fight again.
Under the Falling Star
In darkness of night where all burns in dream,
I hear their steps in each spring…
And our dreams are broken
As the splinters of a falling star,
That lights a way to me,
My gloomy way in Darkness…
Under the Falling Star!
The One Inspirinf with Fear
I don’t see the eyes; I don’t see your world,
I don’t ever know what your light is.
Time has stiffened in a stone, the night eternal.
I will never see the Dawn.
I don’t see you and you can’t see me as well
But I feel the world in the encirclement of shadows,
The world where exist not only ourselves
The world of other woods, rivers and fields.
Faces of those dark stars melted off,
Those I have lit behind this window,
Feeling in a twilight of the flaring eyes,
That are speaking to you about that –
How flaring by sensual flame of Knowledge
These Forces were absorbed by me,
Towering above herd of silent worms,
Accepting this fear from fire by myself.
They hated the Flame that’s living in hearts,
But kindled fire under me.
The smoke dimmed my blind eyes,
Blind eyes will take you with themselves away.
I lit those houses by reciprocal Fire,
Where the lie installs to the souls of worms.
The hatred revived of ones burned down completely,
Hatred burns stronger from within.
The one inspiring by fear.
Hatred, Horror, Death.
Guardian of the Forest
The forest keeps silence at night
Of fire, that was lighted with a wise hand
Of guardian of the forest of Ancient Rus’.
Who does not allow to extinguish it.
He never sleeps at night,
Nobody never saw him there,
Where the moon lights a moss on a glade,
Which has covered ancient gods.
Here, among thick oaks,
Birches, aspens and free winds
Where a thousand years passed as a moment,
He is the same grey-haired old man.
Deathly pale light of the moon,
Lights scattered boulders,
Spills eternal darkness,
Covering ground with silence, and to him
Is intolerable to see dead trees,
About which in legends were spoken,
That was sung by those dead people,
Who considered themselves as nature’s children.
He never sleeps at night…