Jucifer
Cathartic Screaming
I have a good friend, 46 years old, who listens avidly to Jucifer—with their intense, brooding sound and themes that plunge into the darker aspects of existence. He asks me if there’s anything “Whiteheadian” about his musical taste or if Whitehead’s philosophy is strictly about “sweetness and light.” For my friend, Jucifer is a plunge into the visceral, an embracing of the dark, an immersion into emotions that are otherwise unbearable.
I ask why he immerses himself in these unbearable emotions and he says:
"Because facing them makes them real—and, strangely, bearable. In listening to Jucifer, I’m not running from these emotions but giving them a space to breathe. There’s something cathartic about acknowledging the darkness instead of pretending it doesn’t exist. This music resonates with a part of me that feels raw and real, unfiltered, and somehow, that gives me strength. It’s less about finding answers and more about feeling understood, like the music’s heaviness holds a mirror to my own struggles. Maybe if I face these feelings in this intense way, they lose some of their power to control me.”
He pauses, then adds,
"I don’t think Whitehead would approve. His philosophy feels so focused on harmony, on the beauty of connections, on the gentle side of things. Does it really have room for something as dark and uncompromising as Jucifer?"
*
I think of Whitehead’s insistence that philosophy must embrace the full scope of experience, including its dark side. In Process and Reality, he writes:
“Philosophy may not neglect the multifariousness of the world—the fairies dance, Christ is nailed to the cross.”
Whitehead's point is that any philosophy worth its salt must acknowledge both joy and suffering, the miraculous and the tragic, light and shadow. Understanding the world, for Whitehead, means recognizing that the beauty of life is interwoven with its pain, violence, and absurdity.
Of course it's one thing to think about the doom in an abstract way and another to "feel" it musically.
What strikes me about Jucifer and other forms of sludge metal is how intense and bodily they are. Whitehead believed that, at every moment, we aim for an intensity of experience, and that even God aims at intensity. God wants to feel something. Whitehead also emphasized that this drive toward intensity, in human life, always includes a bodily component, which he referred to as "the withness of the body."
In Jucifer’s immersive sounds and raw power, it’s as if the body itself is drawn into the act of listening, allowing listeners to embody emotions often buried or repressed and creating a heightened awareness of presence in a world that isn’t always harmonious or gentle.
I wonder if Jucifer, at least for my friend, offers a way to confront the raw textures of life, emotionally and even spiritually. It is a kind of visceral reckoning with suffering and intensity, mirroring Whitehead's view that reality encompasses all aspects of experience.
*
Admittedly, Whitehead does not think that doom is the whole story. He invites us to recognize the full weight of suffering while holding open the possibility for love and creativity to emerge from it. In Whitehead’s terms, life is not about bypassing suffering but about integrating it into the broader movement of existence, a process of “weaving” that leads to something he calls tragic beauty. This weaving is cosmic as well as personal. It is happening all the time in what Whitehead calls "the consequent nature of God." A defining characteristic of this side of God is tenderness. God, understood as the living whole of the universe, shares in the suffering and weaves it into whatever beauty is possible.
For my friend, sludge metal is a sharing in the suffering, giving it space to breathe. The space is, for him, cathartic.
In process philosophy, catharsis can be understood as a transformative release, where intense emotions are not merely discharged but integrated into a larger, evolving experience. Whitehead’s concept of "concrescence"—the process by which each moment or actual entity gathers past experiences and shapes them into a unified, novel whole—can be likened to catharsis, as it involves taking in and transforming the fullness of life, including painful or intense emotions. This process leads not just to relief but to a renewal, where the depth of feeling contributes to the next stage of becoming.
In traditional Aristotelian catharsis, emotional release is a purging, often felt as the resolution of pity and fear. In contrast, process thought suggests a catharsis that doesn’t simply expel emotion but rather weaves it into the fabric of experience. This approach is resonant with Whitehead’s idea of “tragic beauty,” where suffering and joy are integrated within a broader aesthetic experience. This “weaving” is not about erasing pain but incorporating it in a way that deepens and enriches experience.
*
Catharsis in this context serves as a form of healing not by forgetting or bypassing suffering but by embracing it as part of an experiential flow. This involves “the consequent nature of God,” a divine presence that absorbs and transforms the experiences of all beings, holding even the harshest realities in a larger, compassionate whole. This perspective offers a nuanced catharsis: it allows for both a sense of relief and a constructive transformation, where even painful experiences contribute to a more profound, compassionate understanding of life.
So, process philosophy reimagines catharsis not just as an emotional purge but as an opportunity for deep relational healing. It transforms pain by giving it a voice, integrating it into a continuing journey where growth and understanding arise through the entanglement of all emotions—intense and serene, painful and joyous.
*
Is this what is happening in my friend as he listens to Jucifer? Does it resemble something that might be happening in God, too? Might God, too, scream?
I ask why he immerses himself in these unbearable emotions and he says:
"Because facing them makes them real—and, strangely, bearable. In listening to Jucifer, I’m not running from these emotions but giving them a space to breathe. There’s something cathartic about acknowledging the darkness instead of pretending it doesn’t exist. This music resonates with a part of me that feels raw and real, unfiltered, and somehow, that gives me strength. It’s less about finding answers and more about feeling understood, like the music’s heaviness holds a mirror to my own struggles. Maybe if I face these feelings in this intense way, they lose some of their power to control me.”
He pauses, then adds,
"I don’t think Whitehead would approve. His philosophy feels so focused on harmony, on the beauty of connections, on the gentle side of things. Does it really have room for something as dark and uncompromising as Jucifer?"
*
I think of Whitehead’s insistence that philosophy must embrace the full scope of experience, including its dark side. In Process and Reality, he writes:
“Philosophy may not neglect the multifariousness of the world—the fairies dance, Christ is nailed to the cross.”
Whitehead's point is that any philosophy worth its salt must acknowledge both joy and suffering, the miraculous and the tragic, light and shadow. Understanding the world, for Whitehead, means recognizing that the beauty of life is interwoven with its pain, violence, and absurdity.
Of course it's one thing to think about the doom in an abstract way and another to "feel" it musically.
What strikes me about Jucifer and other forms of sludge metal is how intense and bodily they are. Whitehead believed that, at every moment, we aim for an intensity of experience, and that even God aims at intensity. God wants to feel something. Whitehead also emphasized that this drive toward intensity, in human life, always includes a bodily component, which he referred to as "the withness of the body."
In Jucifer’s immersive sounds and raw power, it’s as if the body itself is drawn into the act of listening, allowing listeners to embody emotions often buried or repressed and creating a heightened awareness of presence in a world that isn’t always harmonious or gentle.
I wonder if Jucifer, at least for my friend, offers a way to confront the raw textures of life, emotionally and even spiritually. It is a kind of visceral reckoning with suffering and intensity, mirroring Whitehead's view that reality encompasses all aspects of experience.
*
Admittedly, Whitehead does not think that doom is the whole story. He invites us to recognize the full weight of suffering while holding open the possibility for love and creativity to emerge from it. In Whitehead’s terms, life is not about bypassing suffering but about integrating it into the broader movement of existence, a process of “weaving” that leads to something he calls tragic beauty. This weaving is cosmic as well as personal. It is happening all the time in what Whitehead calls "the consequent nature of God." A defining characteristic of this side of God is tenderness. God, understood as the living whole of the universe, shares in the suffering and weaves it into whatever beauty is possible.
For my friend, sludge metal is a sharing in the suffering, giving it space to breathe. The space is, for him, cathartic.
In process philosophy, catharsis can be understood as a transformative release, where intense emotions are not merely discharged but integrated into a larger, evolving experience. Whitehead’s concept of "concrescence"—the process by which each moment or actual entity gathers past experiences and shapes them into a unified, novel whole—can be likened to catharsis, as it involves taking in and transforming the fullness of life, including painful or intense emotions. This process leads not just to relief but to a renewal, where the depth of feeling contributes to the next stage of becoming.
In traditional Aristotelian catharsis, emotional release is a purging, often felt as the resolution of pity and fear. In contrast, process thought suggests a catharsis that doesn’t simply expel emotion but rather weaves it into the fabric of experience. This approach is resonant with Whitehead’s idea of “tragic beauty,” where suffering and joy are integrated within a broader aesthetic experience. This “weaving” is not about erasing pain but incorporating it in a way that deepens and enriches experience.
*
Catharsis in this context serves as a form of healing not by forgetting or bypassing suffering but by embracing it as part of an experiential flow. This involves “the consequent nature of God,” a divine presence that absorbs and transforms the experiences of all beings, holding even the harshest realities in a larger, compassionate whole. This perspective offers a nuanced catharsis: it allows for both a sense of relief and a constructive transformation, where even painful experiences contribute to a more profound, compassionate understanding of life.
So, process philosophy reimagines catharsis not just as an emotional purge but as an opportunity for deep relational healing. It transforms pain by giving it a voice, integrating it into a continuing journey where growth and understanding arise through the entanglement of all emotions—intense and serene, painful and joyous.
*
Is this what is happening in my friend as he listens to Jucifer? Does it resemble something that might be happening in God, too? Might God, too, scream?