After years of struggling in the trenches, Enter Self delivers Agony to the nation
by Mike Gibson
It's a macabre vision of singular affect that adorns the cover of death metallions Enter Self's new CD, Awaken in Agony, on Lost Disciple Records. A creature of terrible beauty, a ghoulish angel—sleek-limbed and marble-skinned—fairly bursts from the center of the jewel box, engulfed in consumptive flame. Pupils vacant and ghastly white, face frozen in the aspect of some unspeakable agony, the creature bleeds from its eye sockets as it seeks respite from the purple and crimson inferno that holds it in thrall.
That image only begins to speak to the travails of this long-suffering local band and its efforts to break through in the strange and insular community of impossibly heavy music. The very existence of that CD, released nationally in June, is a testament to the mettle, as well as the Metal, that has seen the unit through some nine years of trial, hard work, and oft-dashed hopes.
"I think we're fighting for Oldest Band in town now," laughs guitarist Tym Walker, from the comfort of a sofa at his Seymour home. "It's been a tough road; we put out demo after demo after demo. We've probably given out 2,000 of 'em since 1994."
Born in the early '90's as a collaboration of high school pals, Enter Self spent years mining the metal circuit for opportunity—bashing out demonically-titled demos, lobbying notoriously crusty metal 'zines, manning the barricades onstage at mega-band metal-fests, and seedy urban beer bunkers all across the States.
One such gig, at infamous metal stronghold Harpo's, strategically located in the worst section of Detroit, was only the second show for new vocalist Kirk Black, who replaced long-time lead wheezer Geezer Simms last year.
"It stunk; garbage piled up like this," Black relates, holding his hands near waist level as he describes the toxic litter of bottles, hypodermics, and crack pipes that choked the entrance to the club. "It's like Hell, only with the flames put out," adds rhythm guitarist Wes Lequire.
Through it all, Self have endured a series of potentially fatal membership upheavals, including the departure of Simms ("He just burned out," says Walker) and the addition of new drummer Scott Harwood, also last year.
But perhaps the band's sorest trial came in 1999 when, just as all the years of toil in the death-metal trenches seemed on the verge of paying off, their impending deal with Chicago's Pulverizer Records vanished into thin air.
"They [Pulverizer] knew us through our networking, our shows at the metal festivals, and they had called us up wanting to give us a deal," Walker explains. "We finished the entire record and called their offices in October and the phone was disconnected. No one knew where they were."
Despite the loss of both the deal and a lead vocalist, Self pressed on, shopping the completed record to other metal specialty labels. Their efforts struck paydirt last December when a copy fell into the hands of a rep at Lost Disciple, who promptly gave the band a call.
"There was no deliberation; he said 'I'm interested in signing you now,'" says Walker. "In the end, it worked out pretty well for us, because Lost Disciple gave us a much better deal."
Black's addition was almost as serendipitous as the salvaged record deal. A long-time fan, friend, and regular at Enter Self practices, Black had no singing experience when, on a whim, one of the band members encouraged him to take a turn on the mic. The demonically resonant utterances that issued from his virgin throat were enough to convince the band they'd found their singer. Black played the next Enter Self show in Spartanburg, S.C., scribbling the lyrics to six new songs on the back of a car floormat on the way to the gig.
"He just grabbed the microphone and started growling and shit," Walker remembers. "We all just looked at each other; 'Goddamn!'"
What comes next for Enter Self may be no less taxing than that which has already taken place; the new record will require plenty of tour support (Self has a prime slot in the upcoming Milwaukee Metal Fest, the band's fourth appearance at the event), and members now must grapple with a daily onslaught of mailings, answering machine messages, and cell phone calls.
"When you finally get this in your hand, it's hard to put into words; it's such a relief," says Walker, fondly cradling a copy of the new CD. Then he adds, with a world-weary chuckle, "Then all the real stress begins."
July 20, 2000 * Vol. 10, No. 29
© 2000 Metro Pulse
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