Boris - Flood 감상평

It is widely known that snipers may wait hours, even days, before setting their eyes on the target. What appears to be an abrupt outbreak—like a tsunami—can, from the perspective of Mother Nature, be nothing more than the meticulous pull of a trigger. It waits endlessly for the right occasion to knock down rows of fragile, miserable dwellings—for reasons unknown. The only truth we can assert with any confidence is this: we do not know where the top of the tsunami is.

And so, as we wait, just like the sniper did, aware that we are on the other side of the scope, we turn our heads toward the familiar: our families, our smartphones, a glass of Coke. The roaring of tides colliding becomes a white background noise, something we’ve trained ourselves to ignore. But you know, and I know, that after this endless wait, a new world order will emerge.

After the nasty, heavy debut that was Amplifier Worship, Boris undergoes a process of abstraction with Flood. Where their earlier work was earth-shattering and Melvins-worshipping, Flood strips away all decorative excess, leaving behind a triumphant, skeletal giant. The band doesn’t just move away from sludge—they transcend it.

Musically, Flood is minimalistic in its composition but maximal in effect. Structured around transcendence and devastation, the album loops its motifs like spiritual mantras—sometimes in the airy style of Brian Eno’s ambient music, other times in the coarsely ground repetition of early Black Sabbath. It’s a dance between serenity and doom.

The use of distortion is especially telling. Unlike the heavy-metal crunch of their debut, the distortion here creates an atmosphere more akin to shoegaze. Each guitar tone is omnipresent, casting a thick, foggy haze over the mix—less like a wall of sound and more like a mist hanging above a colossal waterfall. You don’t feel overwhelmed by the weight—you’re suspended in it.

In its formal structure, Flood toys with the idea of delayed gratification—or perhaps the complete absence of it. There are no hooks, no choruses, no conventional catharsis. Each movement unfolds with agonising patience, often taking 15 to 20 minutes to achieve what might appear to be the subtlest change. And yet, these changes matter deeply. The transition from clean to distorted tones in Movement II, for example, lands like a tectonic shift precisely because of the restraint preceding it.

Flood is more than a stylistic detour—it’s a redefinition. It is the cornerstone of Boris’ discography, a moment where the band proved they could shape greatness into something uniquely their own. Through slowness, repetition, and atmosphere, Boris crafted not just an album, but a phenomenon—one that creeps, consumes, and never lets you go.