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The Shadow Tradition

by Mala Suerte

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Fernando
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Fernando Jumping from a great Celtic Frost homage to the sludge grounds of High on Fire, the music would be enough reason to respect this album, but on top, there's the lyrics. Favorite track: The Way of Reversal.
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    Comes with three-panel fold out of the complete "The Shadow Tradition" triptych artwork by Mala Suerte vocalist, Gary Rosas, and full lyrics.

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1.
We congregate here in the underground To impose our will through use of cryptic sound With ritual chanting and sonic sorcery We evoke the forces of occult entities We've left the drone masses behind And let our faith set us apart Unified here in this lodge Behold our lifeblood, this Black Art We carry the torch of the gods of yore And continue in the vein of those that came before We commit ourselves to cabbalistic sect And harness these skills until we are adept Our flock convenes here in this room Electric Church, Temple of Doom We've let our faith set us apart Behold our life's blood, this Black Art With undying lust we hone our mystic craft And we shan't be done 'til our dark spell is cast We vow to keep this cult alive For our tradition to survive We've let our faith set us apart Behold our lifeblood, this Black Art
2.
Arise children of nocturnal sight Senses awaken with approaching night Fellowship of solemn neophytes Gather together for this evil rite Away from prying eyes in the woods Fires burn with veils of smoke The feast is set, the pagan god evoked Wine like clotted blood Flows like a crimson flood Here before the altar raised Bestow infernal praise Communion of revolt Subvert the Holy Ghost Submit to blasphemies And engage in revelries Here the devil's bride with vervain crown Above her brow waits for death As the witches laugh, dance 'round and 'round Upon the cross merrily For the awaiting host propose a toast As god appears as a goat She gives herself to him Absorbing breath, soul, life and all he provides Thus is the nature of our black fraternity In acceptance of all foul indecencies We make a mockery of your reality Excess; the rule of orphic community Wine like clootted blood
3.
Back in the eighteenth century A dozen dissolute gentlemen Devoted to debauchery Formed a club of hellfire Sir Francis Dashwood founded this In the Medmenham Abbey Upon what once was hallowed ground Lubricious and decadent proclivities thrived there Sanctimonious and salubrious tendencies died there Lascivious and forbidden activities flourished Lecherous and degenerate immoralities were nourished In those halls all wanton lusts and greed were fulfilled From the gentry they drew their members And for their orgies, the finest maidens In blasphemy they were united Through impiety they lived unfettered Wearied with the commonplace all desire ran rampant Within that church their lust continued undampened Hidden deep behind chapel walls They engaged in acts of the most obscene sort To insult the sacred principles of the Christian God In emulation of Christ's disciples Twelve men joined and formed the Superior Order For their initiation they were rebaptized And made to mock the faith and it's intent And with sufficient gusto and wit The Eucharist of Hell was celebrated by each and all
4.
The Hound 08:02
In my tortured ears I hear the sound Of the faint and distant baying of a hound 'Tis not a dream I fear, nor am I mad For so much has happened that I know that I am damned I alone know that St. John is now a corpse And my fate lies upon the same ill-fated course Ennui from normal pursuits And jaded sensibilities Finally led us to this Morbid practice of grave robbing Pale autumnal moon casts long shadows over graves Where within the earth hides the secrets which we crave Digging through the ground we struck something as hard as rock And beheld a mouldy and rotting oblong box There in that Holland churchyard we found our doom Buried for five centuries evil was entombed And as we gazed upon skeletal remains We spied the pendant of a hound carved from the greenest jade Seizing the green jade object, we closed up the grave and sailed on to England Though the sound returned and the distant baying of the fiendish hound nearly drove us to madness Then on one dark night when St. John returned home he was torn to shreds by some unknown being Thus commenced my dread and the thought to return this cursed amulet to the grave where we found it So I might save my soul So at last I stood again in that unwholesome churchyard Where the sullen leafless trees droop to meet the cracked slabs Excavation was quick as my sanity took leave For within that coffin was something I'd not conceived For that charnel thing we'd robbed there in that box underground Released a deep sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound Though I escaped hysterically, my days are now filled with dread The only comfort left for me will only come when I am dead I only wish I was dead I only wish I was dead I only wish I was dead I'll put a bullet in my head
5.
6.
Occult manifestations in the coven of the dead Ritual abominations at the altar of bloodshed Blasphemous defilement of the consecrated host The coven laughs in merriment and forsakes the Holy Ghost In outright parody of the Christian faith They commit vile heresies in the most wretched ways Demonology and magic is the source of their beliefs Luciferian religion provides the answers that they seek Acolytes come to celebrate their corrupt perverted habits Sacrilegious acts of worship culminate here at the sabbat Through complete inversion of all normalcy They will make the conversion to iniquity Through elaborate pageantry the ceremony thrives On outrageous indignities unholy passions rise Zealous defilement of all good things gets initiates high Every sort of profanity will be explored tonight Occult manifestations in the coven of the dead Ritual abominations at the altar of bloodshed In outright parody of the Christian faith They commit vile heresies and follow the ancient ways
7.
8.

credits

released July 18, 2009

Recorded 2008/09 at John's House. Engineered by John Petri and Tony Laughlin. Mixed by John Petri and Mala Suerte. Mastered by Jerry Tubb at Terra Nova Digital Audio Inc. Austin, TX.

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Mala Suerte Austin, Texas

As the anno domini 2012 lurches closer to the horizon, so does the 13th year of Mala Suerte's bleak-as-fuck existence. Austin's alchemists of abjection are no strangers to harsh times, neither is the "joke" lost on them. Plagued by constant line-up shifts/drop outs, personal strife, and overal neglect, this coven of the black sun trudges on. ... more

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