Mortiis, real name Håvard Ellefsen, is often mythologized. As a pioneer of dungeon synth, a founding member of Emperor, and a sharp visual aesthetician, the adolation he receives is usually reserved for fictional characters. His return to dungeon synth, including his 2020 LP Spirit of Rebellion and last year’s tour with Mayhem, reinstated him as an Odin-like figure in the subgenre. However, this myth downplays Ellefsen’s place within Mortiis, a role that became more pronounced and, in some ways, vital on 2001’s The Smell of Rain.
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Within Mortiis canon, The Smell of Rain sits as his only Era 2 album, sandwiched between the ethereal and groundbreaking 90s works of his Era 1 run and his later industrial rock releases that constitute Era 3. It’s a time capsule of 2001. Its sandy cover (a theme more ubiquitous than you remember), goth-pop sensibilities, and Ellefsen’s shy vocals are all relics of the early aughts, though they also reflect a growing pain that’s as rare within the Mortiis catalog as it is charming. Ellefsen himself calls the record a happy accident, as he was growing disillusioned with his 90s output and entering a deep depression. This, along with his proximity to the industrial scene, pushed him to experiment, even if he had no clue what he was doing and no nearby mentors.
“I was listening to Enigma, Skinny Puppy, Nine Inch Nails, Iggy Pop, everything,” he says. “I was just branching out as a fan and influenced by a lot of these artists and bands. But I didn’t know how they did it. I come from a small town and the only other alternative people that were from there were into black metal. You couldn’t ask them how that was done. They didn’t have a clue. So I was just listening to those records on repeat and trying to figure it out and, of course, completely failing, and that became The Smell of Rain.”
Most indicative of this are Ellefsen’s vocals on The Smell of Rain. This was the first time he assumed lead vocals, and while his pale delivery suits the leather-bound and stitched-together production, it was less a conscious decision and more a byproduct of nerves and subpar recording tools. “The reason that my vocals are so mellow on that record is because I really wanted to do the more aggro industrial singing, something more dynamic, but I was too scared. I always wanted to be harder and angrier on that record. But that never happened.”
Ellefsen also opted not to demo his vocals on The Smell of Rain as he didn’t have a practice studio. His recording studio didn’t offer much help, either. There was little to be done to punch up his voice as he worked with Pro Tools 4 and a four-track capacity. As he puts it, “It was a weird, weird atmosphere and then, just trying to understand the equipment, I didn’t really have a clue about mic preamps and microphones and mic placement and all that stuff.”
It’s surprising, then, that he elected to sing rather than bring in a guest vocalist, as he did with Sarah Jezebel Deva on The Stargate. Retroactively, he claims his vocals better suited The Smell of Rain’s personal lyrics, which go from Trent Reznor-like bleakness (“Everyone leaves. In the end. Everyone dies. In the end” from “Everyone Leaves”) to Mortiis-appropriate mythologizing (“They love their parasite god, yet they crucify me” from “Parasite God”). It’s hard to disagree with Ellefsen as his presence, shaky and frail, humanizes the dystopic tundra on the record.
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Despite his inexperience being set to tape, Ellefsen holds The Smell of Rain dear, with many of its sloppy production and mixing choices strengthening its identity. To fixate on these would be akin to envisioning past high school embarrassments and chastizing yourself for a lack of eloquence, forgetting that the missing decorum was a sign of freedom. As Ellefsen puts it, “You just have to appreciate it for what it is. It’s a snapshot of the times, and it’s probably unfair of older me to go back and kind of yell at younger me for not realizing certain things that I may be realizing now. Once you can accept that, you just got to look at it for what it is. I mean, there are things that I wouldn’t do today, and that’s fine. Otherwise, you’re just gonna kind of die a bitter, regretful old man. It’s just not a way to live.”
Both Ellefsen’s nerves and vocals would improve throughout Mortiis’ Era 3 run, stretching between 2004’s The Grudge and 2010’s Perfectly Defect, and not just because he didn’t drink as much when recording. (Ellefsen recounted his time making The Grudge as such: “Someone told me that Morten Harket, the singer from a-ha, takes a shot before singing. Not that I sing like him, but he’s a very good singer. So I figured, ‘He takes a shot of whiskey or brandy to warm up his vocal cords? Then I can do that too,’ except I drank a bottle and a six-pack of beer.”) In a non-dungeon synth move, he assembled a full band, began touring, and slowly phased out his prosthetics. Don’t hypothesize that this represented an internal growth, becoming comfortable with oneself, and stripping down all that protected the ego. Something Ellefsen implies during conversations is that these narratives are all constructs. Occam’s razor is his guiding principle. When asked if the prosthetics helped him with his anxiety, he flatly replies, “no.” What sharpened his nerves and vocals was the years of practice he had doing live performances, and what pushed him away from prosthetics was the long application time necessary before every show.
With that newfound assurance, he would revisit his second record, Ånden som gjorde opprør, at Cold Meat Industry’s 25th anniversary show in Stockholm in 2017. He’d then make peace with his dungeon synth work and reflect on it with the same grace that he did The Smell of Rain, eventually returning with The Spirit of Resistance, his first record in the style in over 20 years.
It’s unclear if The Smell of Rain will be reassessed by fans in the same way that Mortiis’ early work was, but it’s unlikely. Though dungeon synth has evolved beyond Mortiis, much of its visual and auditory language acts or reacts to the template he laid, and that’s to say nothing of the otherworldly feel of Ånden som gjorde opprør or Keiser av en dimension ukjent. The dilaptidapted medieval fanfare crossed with nostalgia for a realm that never existed, ironically, comes off as prescient. Meanwhile, The Smell of Rain is of its time, a portal to Y2K, though that doesn’t undermine its quality. Ellefsen was correct when he said he knows how to write catchy music. The Smell of Rain is his most danceable album and its faith in itself, in spite of Ellefsen’s inexperience, gives it a brashness that can’t be replicated. Ellefsen himself doesn’t think he could remake it, though its influence lingers in his mind. A quarter century later, he’s still finding pieces he could build on, which is why he said of his upcoming record, “I think this album has definitely more in common with, for example, The Smell of Rain than it does with any kind of dungeon release that I’ve done.”
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