The Apocalypse Sounds Like This: Decoding Boards of Canada’s *Inferno*
There’s something almost sacrilegious about listening to an album like Inferno in a church. Yet, that’s exactly where I found myself last weekend, surrounded by a few hundred fellow devotees at Judson Memorial Church in New York City. The occasion? The global playback of Boards of Canada’s first album in thirteen years, an event that felt less like a concert and more like a ritual. As the Byzantine-style rose window loomed above us, a cluster of fiery hexagons burned on the screen, setting the stage for what would be a deeply unsettling yet profoundly beautiful experience.
A Hell of Our Own Making
Inferno isn’t just an album; it’s a map to the hell we’ve created on Earth. From my perspective, what makes this particularly fascinating is how Boards of Canada (BoC) manages to weave hope into the very fabric of their despair. The album doesn’t just wallow in doom—it confronts it, dissects it, and somehow finds glimmers of light in the wreckage. This isn’t your typical end-of-the-world narrative. It’s a post-psychedelic trip through the ruins of modern civilization, a sonic exploration of what happens when the fire we’ve kindled consumes us.
One thing that immediately stands out is the album’s opening track, ‘Prophecy at 1420 MHz.’ It’s a serpentine meditation that coils around you, blending Phrygian flutes and hazy guitars before tightening into a clockwork groove. But what many people don’t realize is the track’s hidden depth. The vocoded voice, which one YouTuber aptly called the ‘final boss of the BoC universe,’ speaks for exactly 72 seconds—the same duration as the Wow! Signal, a mysterious narrowband transmission recorded in 1977. This isn’t just a coincidence; it’s a deliberate nod to the unknown, a reminder that even in our darkest moments, there’s still a universe beyond our comprehension.
The Void Between the Tracks
What struck me most during the Inferno Sessions was the silence between tracks. It wasn’t just quiet—it was sacred. Each pause felt like a vigil, a moment to reflect on the weight of what we’d just heard. Personally, I think this is where BoC’s genius lies. They don’t just create music; they create space. Space to think, to feel, to confront the apocalypse that’s already here.
Tracks like ‘Naraka’ and ‘Into the Magic Land’ exemplify this. ‘Naraka’ is a sonic maelstrom, blending bone-needle percussion with a sampled chorus of Hare Krishna adherents, creating a sense of relentless pull. Meanwhile, ‘Into the Magic Land’ feels like a voiceless Western ballad, its clean-tone guitar chiming in a world of permanent detours. If you take a step back and think about it, these tracks aren’t just music—they’re emotional landscapes, each one a different facet of the hell we’re living in.
Nostalgia vs. Hauntology
Boards of Canada has always been associated with nostalgia, their sound rooted in lo-fi aesthetics and analogue synthesizers. But Inferno transcends that. In my opinion, what this album really suggests is that BoC isn’t just rehashing the past—they’re reclaiming it. The hi-fi clarity of the album allows their sonic gods to shine in full refulgence, while still distilling the vintage influences that made them iconic.
However, Inferno isn’t just a nostalgic trip. It’s a rejection of ‘hauntology,’ the idea that we’re forever haunted by lost futures. Instead, BoC confronts the cosmic and chthonic forces that precede human inscription. This raises a deeper question: What if the apocalypse isn’t just about destruction, but about revelation? What if, in the ruins, we find something older, something more fundamental?
Love in the Ashes
Perhaps the most surprising aspect of Inferno is its underlying message of love. It’s easy to overlook in the brothers’ work, but it’s there—in the ‘I…love…you’ sample from Music Has the Right to Children, in the fractured agape of ‘Father and Son,’ and in the heartbeat that closes ‘I Saw Through Platonia.’ This isn’t just an album about the end of the world; it’s about finding love in the ashes.
As the final tracks played at the New York gathering, the burning hexagons gave way to home movies of children playing. Was this a longing for innocence? A farewell from the Sandison brothers? Personally, I think it’s both. Inferno is a farewell, but it’s also a promise—a reminder that even in hell, there’s still love.
Final Thoughts
Inferno is more than an album; it’s a mirror. It forces us to confront the hell we’ve created, but it also shows us the shards of heaven that remain. From my perspective, this is what makes Boards of Canada so essential. They don’t just soundtrack the apocalypse—they challenge us to find meaning in it. And in a world that feels increasingly like it’s on fire, that’s a message we desperately need to hear.
