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Meandering in the cloud vapours of the silver skies, comes that strangest and most enigmatic of Swedish spectres, that which is known only as the Lord of the Cumulo, the one they call Wagner Ødegård. In those early days of this phantoms hauntings across the shadowlands of forlorn remembrance, only the ambient spellcraft of folkish leaning could please the ears of the helmbearer of this hoary entity, Magnus Eriksson, who here used not one ember of his raw black molten fury, and instead rides these aforementioned essences entirely. Ur Törnedjupen was the fourth of these eldritch grimoires of poetic whispers and sombre forms, in which, for the first time, has now been pressed with the finest craftsmanship, into the deep wax grooves of true vinyl artefact, only made possible by the oath sworn gloom of GoatowaRex iron leaf admiration. High esteem for that which gnarls root of rusted iron under earth; each creep, and crawl, of swallow by mouth of dirt another consecration cast down from steely firmament above and below.

Brimming with a collection of odd, melancholy, and truly sincere sorrowspells—Ur Törnedjupen is akin to losing oneself in a medley of memories that rise up from the very soil itself, a collective consciousness of shades whom have long since spent their mortal coil and returned to that from which they came. Haunting passages of warped piano melody, as whispers and cries from an ancient past rise up from distant orchestras of astral lamentation, lonely tunes to forever wander until slam of wardrum bellows creak of wooden door and phantasmal synthlines dominate once again the hulking black between the stars. It is through this method of jarring those experiencing Ur Törnedjupen, with shift of tone and reversal of melody, that Wagner Ødegård strikes best its fulminations in shadiest of sounds—shifting the very planes of existence from underneath its acolytes feet, and taking them to places unknown and unheard, laying prostrate before that howls from within the luna edifice and slathers beautiful doom upon us all. From milk of cloud, and honey of earth, cuts deep the blood of ages, dagger of iron forever aloft in the sickle of night sky.

Description text scribed by @neheroth