By Christian Schaeffer
By Daniel Hill
By Joseph Hess
By Joseph Hess
By Allison Babka
By Gina Tron
By Kelsey McClure
By Roy Kasten
Marduk is, nominally, a Swedish black-metal band. Guitarist Morgan Hakansson founded the group more than 10 years ago with a single purpose in mind: "to create the most blasphemous music ever experienced by mankind." With a demo titled Fuck Me, Jesus and an ensuing body of work containing songs such as "Slay the Nazarene" and "Fist-Fucking God's Planet," Marduk might strike some as cartoonish, the aural equivalent of pro wrestling. Marduk is hellishly loud, demonically fast and capable of making both secular and parochial blood boil at 200 yards just from the palpable waves of virulent, head-snapping fury that emanate from stereo speakers when you play their albums.
But somewhere in the past 10 years, Marduk surpassed Hakansson's initial idea of blasphemy for blasphemy's sake. Marduk today is something more than a hissing, raging inferno of sacrilege; there is a saturnine, almost regal beauty in the band's crushing assault. Its overwhelmingly violent roar comprises dozens of streams of sound, some melodic and symphonic, most abrasive and discordant. The whole is savage and ugly and simultaneously arresting and fantastic. Marduk's blasphemy is to promote evil, and to do so they wage a war of art and ideas; wielding taboos and mores and religion like hammers, they batter their enemies and then smash their weapons into meaningless shards under a hail of guitars and drums and guttural shouts. Marduk wants to destroy contentment and conformity and safeness. They're the animalistic, protean force that lurks on the shadowed periphery of civilization; they're untamable, unbreakable and unrepentant. In every way, Marduk has become more like the wolf that appears on every album and less like a mere band.
Unfortunately, as a band they continue to battle, and lose to, an all-too-civilized foe: bureaucracy. For the second time in five months, the members of Marduk have been denied entry into the United States, forcing the cancellation of their U.S. tour (which means they will not be at the Creepy Crawl on Feb. 9 as recently advertised). Piecing together the whys and wherefores of this turn of events involves phone calls, e-mails and a whole lot of waiting, and at the end of January, the only certainty is the message posted by Marduk's vocalist, Legion, on the band's Web site: "The U.S. tour has been canceled. The embassy left the following message: No visas will be issued in at least 7-14 working days from next Monday since the documents they are waiting on has not showed ... We had an amazing time on our May 2001 tour and loved every minute in the States. Unfortunately, some U.S. authorities do not love us back."
In a phone interview a few weeks earlier, Legion was much more hopeful about Marduk's chances of making it into the country but admitted that a fairly large obstacle stood in their way: "The thing was, me and Morgan had criminal records, and because of that, when the big one hit New York and Washington [on Sept. 11], all of a sudden the embassy changed their policies and we had to start reapplying. It was so messy ... we had to work with three different authorities. The [U.S.] Traffic Control Group, they've been very nice, they have approved everything for us. But then it's up to the embassy, because they can check up on everything on us here in Sweden ... they only have phone hours, like, four days a week, two hours a day, and it's always a busy line. So your only chance is to travel to Stockholm, which is two hours away, and persuade the guards to let you in so you can talk to the ambassadors. It's kind of tricky."