If you seek a battlefield of woes and think yourself a valiant knight worthy of the throne, this is an album of your labours. White Flag by Nemesea is a straightforward bridge of life or death, and those caught in between. To be released in 23rd of August, the work contained episodes of wicked heroes and honourable villains spoken in alternative rock and the like. There is a release of human emotions in the cringing of guitars and clashes of drums and sticks. The voices kept a soul in them and may very well steal yours.
At the frontline was The Storm. Immediately it painted in me a picture of the movie Suckerpunch. It had this legitimate steampunk smell. I can almost see airships and zeppelins engaged in a conversational but habitual enough warfare. The tanks are these animated giants and machine guns are part of the daily camouflage fashion. There was a futuristic taste to it all. I was in the middle of the ruins of Athens and this soundtrack was enthusiastic in its rebellious tone. It was a place polluted by this punk atmosphere.
Kids With Guns was a music-borne disease. I was infected by this syndrome and was dying for a combat. The vocals were polished. It was well-suited for the genre. Some angles in this song reminded me of From The Inside by Linkin Park. Nevertheless, it paints a realistic image.
It was a rainy eve in White Flag. It was like shooting an MV down the street. Everything was in emo hues. It had a lenient message and melody. As the title suggested, it was an encouragement to no surrender and keep life at all times. The guitars brought adolescent emotions and overall was like mini transitory stages of life.
Sarah was how to bewail in narrative form. Percussions were relaxed and in pulses. The piano invites autumnal rain. The vocals were satisfyingly clean in execution of higher ranges. The piece tells a solemner story. It was somehow like a watered-down pop and more stimulated rock of an Avril Lavigne.
Things were less mellow in Don’t Tell Me Your Name. The vocal sustains kneaded the song alongside the guitars. The purpose was to free these bottled up chaos in one’s chest. It was a genuine means of catharsis.
Fools Gold was a feminine anarchy. There was an evident character even in the synapses of vocals. So far, this sort of music was one easy to understand. It requires no quizzes but simply to exchange a chestful of words. To broadcast the inner man inside a man. It was a parade of electronica emotions— wrath, pride, misery, disgust. It’s a goddamn party of hideous organisms.
Ratata was to provoke. It came with this underground air that completes your armour. It manipulates your monstrous version of selves. Is it a threat or a temptation?
There were more colour from the guitarwork at Nothing Like Me. It sounded like a melodic complaint. A slight egoistic, but sunnier than the previous song.
Lions was a ballad. The drips of piano are the opposite of homelessness. It was a comfort. It was a bedroom in a sleepy tune. The falsettos sung little lullaby spells and sweet dreams. It resembled Sans Toi of Sarah Warne in some corners.
This one came as a caution—Heavyweight Champion. With the distorted quality of bass and the metal clankings, it introduced almost a prison cell. It was behind sinful bars. Yet, the solo opened a window of hope after all and sunlight spilled high notes.
Rise was an insistent electronica elements on repeat and thuds of guitar at first. Then came the glissando so genuine of whatever they spoke of. It taught of how to rise again on whosoever’s ground and however damaged, stand proud against the same sun. Provoke the odds and turn the tables.
Let This Be All was a favourite. In metaphors, it was like a glass of water after a tiresome sleep. This is when you draw the curtains to a place of tomorrows. The song was lyrical. The piano breathes life. Time is on pause and the rest of it can knock after this therapy. The world is only this sacred space. This windowsill. This room.
A fighter heroine is what you become at Sayonara. It was speed. We are back to the battlefield and must unsheathe our weapons — ourselves.
Dance In The Fire was a death march. An encouraging warcry. There were footsteps of bass and stumble of a chorus. It was simply the release towards nirvana. This is the war of archivals.
White Flag in the end was a 14-chapter lesson. It was an uncivilised age of metamorphoses. It teaches us the beauty in corruption. The flaws of our nature. Nothing is unlawful in these phases. Freedom can take many forms. This album is a war. There might be glory in a past life or victory in the next death.
Review by Estefan Malgret.