LOMA VISTA RECORDINGS, 2026.

Mastodon have done very little to impress me since 2009. And even that LP, Crack The Skye, fell short compared to the first three ‘proper’ LPs.

The sheer wide-eyed wonder I experienced when I first heard March Of The Fire Ants (and even better, Emerald, by Thin Lizzy, an extra track on an already flawless Deluxe CD) made Remission a key LP for my peers and I.

The jump to Leviathan was considerable, but at the foot of that ramp, you could still get to see them in little clubs in the UK. But not for long. It was a bit like a minor-league Nirvana-type-thing. Almost ten years earlier, pre-empting Nevermind - you KNEW they weren’t going to be just ‘yours’ for long…

Then Blood Mountain, which I probably go back to most these days, if only for astonishing opener The Wolf Is Loose, which is possibly still unrivaled as an injection of adrenaline to kick off a major label Metal LP. And don’t get me started on Colony of Birchmen…

Their third album seems to get overlooked compared to the first two and the one that followed it but, for my money, it reigns supreme. Most days, at least.

That first trilogy is pretty much unimpeachable.

Then Crack The Skye came out. It was fine but felt like a turning point that veered the band away a little bit from the albums that came before.

It was almost too pro. It was definitely too prog. Not that that is (occasionally) a bad thing, but the riffs felt a little more contrived and commercially… resonant. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a solid LP and one I go back to comparatively regularly - the concept is particularly appealing - but it felt like a minor drop compared to what had come before.

It always surprises me how it is often held up as the iconic Mastodon record. It’s most assuredly not that.

From there on in, each successive release lost me, piece by piece: The Hunter, from the appalling artwork (after such consistent stylistic brilliance from Paul Romano in each preceding record) to the half-arsed song-smithery, they suddenly became cheap and lost their well-earned identity.

Everything they stood for changed with that record, for me.

Curl The Burl?

Purl-ease.

Then a string of fine but not particularly notable releases, all of which sound great if you listen to them with no expectations but try to listen to them without the “baggage” of back catalogue brilliance.

In which case, they fall slightly flat.

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2014’s polished and cosmic One More ‘Round The Sun was only a moderate improvement on the career low of The Hunter. Again, shit artwork seemed to dilute the band identity and epitomise the drop in artistic standards that had been so high ten years earlier.

It was three years before Emperor Of Sand came out and by then, I was totally out of the Mastodon orbit. I wouldn’t have gone to see them if you had paid me to. It felt like by then that they were serving a lowest-common-denominator festival audience, which was depressing, disappointing and dire.

However - my mistake - because I picked the LP up in a sale bin a while after its release and was pleasantly surprised; it was more consistently diverse than the previous couple of records which just felt like mixed bags of directionless claptrap. It had an engaging theme, artwork and production and unsurprisingly, Brendan O’Brien producing it, for the first time since Crack The Skye.

They’d sharpened their edge. It was still no Blood Mountain, but it was the closest they’d been to that high-water mark for the better part of a decade.

In 2021, the band released Hushed and Grim. Although the writing was mature and dark - aspects that I was pleased to hear again, it wasn’t memorable. And the double LP lasted nearly an hour and a half. The band weren’t editing themselves and so created a meandering tome of tasteful but forgettable songs which would have had ten times the impact as a single, sub-50-minute album. More on that later.

As a result, Hushed and Grim is a pointless milestone in their catalogue. It raises a “can’t be arsed” attitude in me because it’s such a mammoth undertaking to listen to properly, without the reward of slack-jawed engagement. It negates its own existence.

So, it’s fair to say that I was checked out from Mastodon.

And with the sad death of Brent Hinds last year; who I considered to be their cornerstone writer and personality, there really was no anticipation of anything impressive licking its lips for Marrow Deep.

I’m overjoyed to say my preconceptions were made void within three songs.

To my ears, Marrow Deep is the best thing to come from the Mastodon ice-cave since Blood Mountain. It looks good, it sounds good and it is addictive. The band are revitalised.

Brann Dailor, Troy Sanders and Bill Kelliher are supplemented with new (amazing) guitarist Nick Johnston and the charismatic João Nogueira on keys. And it really feels like this is the lineup to take the band into the future for whatever remains of their career.

They’ve released an album with bite, innovation, power and control.

It is considered, deliberate and eyeballing you as you listen to it.

Marrow Deep is a return to form.

Which makes me wonder how counter-productive Brent Hinds was to the band retaining the heaviness and boldness that made then so engaging in the first place.

Not to speak ill of the dead, but retrospectively it now reads like Brent really had checked out a couple of LPs ago. He was less involved in Hushed and Grim than he had been on previous records and his dissolution is well noted, but it’s apparent from listening to Marrow Deep, that the band needed him to leave so they could move forward with more power, strength and coherent imagination.

There’s nothing dialed in about the new record.

Many column inches are given over to the guest appearances that have graced so many Mastodon records, and Marrow Deep is no different. In fact, there are more guests in here than usual. Josh Homme and Neil Fallon make a return, but also Nate Newton (Converge, Old Man Gloom, Jesuit), Randy Blythe (Lamb of God), Ben Koller (Converge), Joe Duplantier (Gojira) and Geezer-Fucking-Butler all play a part in enhancing the power of Marrow Deep’s sales pitch.

I say “sales-pitch” specifically, because I don’t believe the album would be any weaker if the guests weren’t present. They don’t need to be here. I suppose it’s nice that they are - camaraderie, and all that; tributes to lost souls, talking points etc., but their presence is neither here nor there for me.

Apart from Nate Newton, who strengthens every song he touches.

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Furthering the Converge connection, it’s a stroke of genius to have Kurt Ballou produce the record. It’s undeniable that he has a God-given-gift that adds bite, grit and compulsion to whatever he records, and Mastodon have benefited from that. It’s brought their snarl back. Made them exciting again by not polishing out the corrosion in the writing. He’s got a lot to answer for in whatever success of Marrow Deep ultimately achieves.

The artwork feels like a return to form too. It’s a psychedelic feast for the eyes, recalling the depth and iconic nature of those early sleeves.

The early taster songs were okay but didn’t necessarily sweep me away individually - but if you felt similarly, I urge you to listen again in the context of the full album.

They hit differently, especially Your Ghost Again and In The Ruins, which initially felt weaker to me than Snakes For Dinner. I swear that when you play the record through, they take on a more profound sound and stature. They become high points in a consistently stratospheric lineup of new songs.

My one criticism of Marrow Deep, and what stops it being a 9/10 for me, is the duration.

It’s a personal thing, of course, but at 65 minutes, it feels a bit bloated by the time you’re in the final furlong. That isn’t helped by the last two songs on the record - that total nearly 15 minutes – and which are, by some stretch, the weakest of the record.

As much as I love Neil Fallon - and I do - his performance on The Three Fates feels excessive, unnecessary and wasted. He’s got the single best line in Mastodon’s history, FFS – he was responsible for the enigmatic “Split your lungs with Blood and Thunder when you see the white whale!” - so giving him a clichéd role to play of Southern Preacher feels a bit predictable when everything else on the album is the opposite of that.

The Three Fates doesn’t land with me until literally the final riff of the song (and LP), which is fucking brilliant.

Likewise, preceding track The Vanishing just goes too far down the prog tunnel for me.

Now; I love a bit of progression as much as the next fan, but The Vanishing lays on the analogue synth licks too heavily. Rick Wakeman is a dinosaur for a reason. And while the rest of the song is engaging in its way, it’s anticlimactic in the position it holds in the running order. It just feels heavy-handed and trope-laden. Otherwise, new ivory tinkler, João’s playing is a tasteful additive to the sound of Marrow Deep.

Losing both of those tracks would bring the LP into a far more acceptable and “punchy” 50 minutes, which would suit my engagement levels better and up the ante on the whole album’s post-performance impression.

Because as it is, you tend to think of the record as a long one that requires dedicated time to indulge in.

If I was being really bold, I might even lose A Vampire’s Demeanor, too; there’s nothing wrong with it per se, but the song before it, Moth and Bone, would be a more powerful ending to the record.

And in that case, the album would be pretty much flawless for me. With enough spare material for a strong refresher EP in time for next year’s touring schedule.

Mastodon do really well for me at the 45-50-minute mark for an LP. Their music is intricate, busy, exciting and diverting but that all takes energy to focus on, that can become exhausting if it goes on for too long.

In the spirit of my overall positive impression though, this is a minor quibble, but a necessary one. I can see myself playing the first record more often on its own instead of both together, for a punchier experience.

It’s worth noting though, that digitally, the whole flow works really well in the car on an hour’s drive. I bought it again, digitally, for that reason.

So, there’s that.

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Barbarians Blood launches Marrow Deep and it begins with a cool tom-driven beat and evolves into an absolute slammer for the second half of its duration. It’s an anthemic and accessible start to the record that, when hitting its stride, gives you an excuse to pull a stink-face as the D-Beat-ish section kicks in. Which accompanies a perfect riff and mentally addictive vocal line. That surges towards the end of the song before refraining the early riff and ending on a mega-melodic and stumbling two-fer. Cor.

Poisonous Weapons gives no indication of compromise. How could it, when it starts with a sample of Dennis Hopper, screaming “I never felt so fucking alive!” from super-cool 1986 teen murder movie, River’s Edge?

The song has crushing riffs aplenty; so much so that they recall Leviathan and even Remission in places, albeit with a more modern, dense sound to them. It’s vintage Mastodon and is bound to be a live favourite.

Just like Your Ghost Again, which follows it.

It’s easy to see why this was the first track the band released to show off what they’d been up to. It exemplifies what they were going to reveal in Marrow Deep; a collision of old-school Mastodon trademark riffs, layers of progressive depth that are added by the inclusion of the keys and Skye-era vocal stylings.

As a stand-alone song, it may have been interesting to hear, but sat where it is on the record, it picks the pace up perfectly, and its super-cool, mega 70s bridge is suddenly really exciting rather than too easily dismissed as trite, which I almost did when I listened to it in isolation.

And from there we go to Snakes For Dinner, which is an immediate killer track - so much so, in fact, that I can’t help thinking it would have been a perfect opener to the record. It is classic Mastodon in every way; killer, awkward and twangy riffs, huge anthemic choruses, inventive drum patterns and an impossibly dominant and dense whole.

Yum. That chorus is so good.

And thus, ends Side One.

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Out Like A Lamb has an excitable intro riff that leans into a shuffling swing and a spacey keyboard solo that suggest the second side will be just as anthemic as the first one.

But so far, this is the most “conventional” sounding song on the record and perhaps, therefore, the least engaging, but not by much. Its cousins on the flip were really strong.

There just isn’t a particular “Wow!” moment to point to on Lamb like there has been on every other song.

In The Ruins might be my track of the album. It’s easily the softest and most proggy so far, a bit Baroness-y, but Mein Gott, there’s a distinction to the playing and composition that just makes me want to play it again immediately after it’s finished.

It’s so rich and intricate - and when it really launches, it breaks orbit and nothing can stop it.

It was a pre-release song that closely timed with the album launch, so I didn’t pay a lot of attention, knowing that the LP was round the corner. Therefore, I can’t really comment on its identity away from the LP itself, but within the run of an album, it’s a massive high-point, elevating the entire flow and drive of Marrow Deep as it unfurls before you.

The coda riff is magical; uplifting and sorrowful in its repetition.

Helpless. Like me, at the knees of In The Ruins.

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They’re Coming For You brings Side Two to a close in a wonderfully frenetic, skittish, WTF-was-that? manner.

Musically it’s all over the place, unified by straightforward vocal passages. Brann’s drumming stands out, despite its comparative lack of busy-ness. The cymbal work especially is so well played, mixed and positioned that it draws attention to itself in an entirely non-dramatic but very satisfying way.

It’s such a perfect match of sludgy riffing, repetitious gang vocals and OTT musicianship that it’s impossible to deny The Might Of The Mastodon.

“King of the liars, king with a crooked crown

Becoming the jackal, the jackal, the jackal

Cunning in treachery

The jackal, the jackal, the jackal

Deceit and betrayal!”

Wünderbra.

Side Three begins with Golden Spires. It could come off Blood Mountain. If they forewent the muso guitar solo, which keys it in as a more recent song, with tropes the band didn’t include in the same way back then.

It’s a strong start though, especially lyrically.

“Free yourself to live

All I know; free yoursеlf to live…

The darkness always wins

Thе time is less than what you think

Let go of the plague you call faith

And fly when sparrows take you away!”

The darkness always wins.

It would be good on a gravestone.

Moth and Bone begins in super-smooth fashion, with a snazzy, skippy lead-line atop gently picked clean guitars. Until almost exactly halfway through, when the song bursts from the speakers with bellowing vocals, crashing cymbals and a hooky rhythm that seems to trip you up a little more as each bar is delivered.

Which means when it comes together in a straightforward 4/4 for the bridge, it drives like a fucking juggernaut, before jack-knifing in the final off-beat and chaotic refrain.

This is where I would have been bold and finished the record.

The last line, “Let it go!” would have been iconic too - it feels written to sign off an LP!

Instead, we have the final run of A Vampire’s Demeanor, The Vanishing and The Three Fates, as mentioned earlier.

Interestingly, where the lion’s share of guest appearances lie.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s NOTHING especially wrong with any of these songs. A Vampire’s Demeanor, especially, has some absolutely banging riffage and bellowing within its composition, but the three together take me over the bridge, from the county of Buzzing to the plains of A Bit Bored.

Which is a bit of a shame.

On the whole though, Marrow Deep is fucking great. It’s a life-affirming return to form that engages, inspires and delights in equal measure.

At least, it does for three of its four sides.

You are left feeling like Marrow Deep is the missing record between Blood Mountain’s refined sludge and Crack The Skye’s more proggy aspirations.

Admittedly, the focus on keyboards in places - and the sounds that are chosen - give it an overtly 70s vibe in places; more-so than Crack The Skye had, but the tone of the whole, it’s energy and grin-inducing writing feels like it belongs at that special point in Mastodon’s timeline.

If, like me, your attention has waned over the years where Mastodon’s output is concerned - or actually - if you’ve never really listened to them and need a decent start point that exemplifies what the band are about, I’d argue that Marrow Deep is it.

I can easily see this being on the top of a lot of rock and metal end-of-year lists, and justifiably so. It’s the best the band has been for years.

What fun.

Welcome back, boys. It’s nice to have you.

Ave, Tuskers!

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ME SACO UN OJO, 2026

I don’t know if you’ve ever visited, but Berlin is a spectacular city.

Its storied history has played a part, of course, but some of the finest music of our era has come from first, the divided urban fortification of the years following World War Two and, secondly, from the liberation of its unity since November 1989.

The city’s sense of artful individuality spawned unimpeachable musical quality at one time - and I’m not thinking of Tangerine Dream, Heroes, Low and The Idiot, for fuck’s sake - I’m thinking of the first incarnation of The Bad Seeds, Einstürzende Neubauten, DAF and Atari Teenage Riot.

But since then, the city has seemed to lose hold of that steering wheel of confrontational darkness. It all went a bit quiet in the new millennium.

At least; it did for me.

But lo and behold, in the new age of Berlin, one fuelled by its multicultural identity more than its monstrous appetite for debauchery and heroin, Teratoma stride onto the screen; a ramshackle posse of immigrants, originally hailing from Brazil, Chile, Italy and Germany itself.

They have one mission; old school Death Metal. They have an arsenal of weaponry; groove-laden, nagging riffs, immaculate playing, a fucking filthy tone and an addictively horrible, primitive bludgeon.

They genuinely take no prisoners and don’t seem to give a fuck what you think of them. They deliver one-of-a-kind, seething modern old-school Death Metal better than almost anyone else I can think of.

They are the anti-heroes of the picture. The glorious bastards.

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They weren’t immediate for me, though. I first heard their latest LP, Longing Voracity, out since March on the enigmatic Me Saco Un Ojo Records, upon release, and it left me cold.

It felt a bit harsh, a bit generic, a bit forgettable.

All I can say is I must have been in a really shitty mood. A cloth-eared cunt, at best.

Motivated by the plaudits the record received by reviewers far more knowledgeable than I, it became clear that I’d dismissed them inappropriately. Upon revisiting the album, my conversion was immediate. The revelation profound. The obsession complete.

I should never have doubted Berlin.

Teratoma, at heart, are simply really exciting. They’ve got the charisma and energy of youth with the skills and foresight of experience. They are inspired by the old but sound entirely new. There is absolutely nothing nostalgic about them at all.

The band was formed in 2020 and released their debut LP, Purulent Manifestations, on Italy’s Unorthodox Emanations, a subsidiary of world-renowned Avantgarde Music.

It’s a great Asphyx-inspired album. It is short, punchy and cavernous. The band’s potential is clear and for a first mini-LP, it really works.

But this year’s Longing Voracity is where all that potential is fully realised, and much of it is apparent because of the improved production job. I like a muddy riff as much as the next fan, but when it is muddy because of the recording rather than the tone, it can become wearisome, leaving me slightly hollow at times.

But from the off, Longing Voracity shows that you can have a deliberately foul guitar tone that is defined, balanced and well-recorded, that facilitates power without losing half of it to hiss and reverb.

There’s nothing clean about Longing Voracity. It is just tighter sounding, which reveals detail and space that in turn, gives the riffs a platform to perform from.

Likewise, the drums are tougher, clearer and more readable. The whole band sounds mightily evolved from the debut - which is how it should be - but it is the recording that enables you to realise how far they have come.

The playing is remarkably in-line with what was birthed with Purulent Manifestations. Guitars chug and thrash, as anticipated - at a mid-pace, generally - with a more-than-welcome melodic shine, alongside unexpected rhythms, which makes the band stand out from the mire of other Death Metal bands plundering similar territory less compellingly.

Every song is laden with riffs, but more importantly, hooks. And it is these rusted barbs that snag your jeans and keep you dangling. Refreshingly free of faff, even the solos seem to be designed to augment the songs rather than to add ostentatious tinsel.

Thank God.

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Vocally, Dani’s voice is low and growling without being bowel-crushingly subterranean. It’s perfectly audible in the mix and again, is balanced to be bright in as many places as it is dismal.

It marries perfectly with the guitars; a dynamic mid-range hitting just as hard as his formidable baritone.

Caue’s drums are varied and powerful; as often delivering high-end texture on the ride bell as sphincter-gaping tom-slams. I’d have loved to be in the studio when the drums were recorded. The patterns and textures are inventive and engaging enough to be magnetic, in their own right. It would have been exciting to see them laid down.

Of course, there’s a ton of double-bass-peddling thunder-pat, but there are layers of versatility on top of that, bringing energy, detail and interest without feeling too busy.

The guitars work as a barrage of groove; Glacamo’s bass is so down-tuned it genuinely shakes your bowel, but (again) not so low that it loses definition and becomes subsonic. Your sphincter ripples but never loses its structural integrity.

You can hear every foundational note that’s being played.

Rolo and Sandro play off each other’s guitar work with finesse and confidence, but never unnecessarily. They harmonise, sweep, divert, accompany and battle throughout each song, darting about like bi-planes at an air-display, but don’t get in the way of the tune. There are more than enough hooky descents and unexpected flourishes to keep your ear drums beating - especially on headphones, where every pincer-movement of one player is anticipated and headed off by the other with absolute clarity in a wonderful dog-fight of sonic artfulness.

Wünderbar.

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Ten tracks. 46 minutes. Kick-off is served by Exordium, a moderately unnecessary, minute-long atmospheric intro that is inoffensive but would be better skipped, IMHO, because why would you postpone the listener from getting to the ‘real’ first track, Longing Voracity, itself?

It’s a mega (real) start to the album with a supremely catchy lead riff and some great vocal grunts and yelps from Dani. As the song picks up pace, there are some fantastic thrashier motifs that create a bed for an old-school guitar solo to dance over - but I don’t know if that comes from Rolo or Sandro.

Either way, it’s the kind of passage that slaps a shit-eating grin across your face and makes the song feel half the length that it really is.

Howling harmonic squeals and trilling tremolo rhythms launch Chaotic Bewilderment, which slips seamlessly between Trad-Death and a doomier pace with remarkable ease and prowess.

Some the LP’s greatest, greasiest chugging resides midway through the track, and sheer joy breaks orbit when some stumbling, off-beat grooves herald the song’s bridge and solo. This time the centre-piece is a bit more ROCK; more inspired by AC/DC than Slayer, which is odd, but interesting. The song crashes with repetitive and powerful slams to its end and you’re left breathless. Stunning.

The journey continues with Ravaged and Absorbed, a very melodic, slow-starting anthem that feels like it should be the last song of the record, before it picks up pace and sinks its petrified maw into your flesh with some of the most addictively picked lead-lines and fucking magnificent chord-driven riffs.

The drums march, the guitars chop and wind and the vocals roar over the top of the well-crafted density. It’s hands-down my favourite track of Side A, for its variance, its power and its muscularity. I love it. There’s even some beautiful guitar harmonising that occurs before the down-played bridge.

The song benefits from an equally insular guitar solo that mirrors the pacing of the bridge it whines against. More drawn out, bent notes than rapid-fire attention-grabbing showmanship.

The tom-tom pattern that leads into Perpetual Anguish has such significant reverb on it that it sounds like the footsteps of ten-feet tall, cyclopean cannibals approaching. Huge. Scary. The dropouts to lone bass and drums are brilliant and spacious.

The naggingly simple and moreish guitar lines cement the tune in your brain and lull you into a false sense of security, so that the incoming tempo changes and textural movements catch you be surprise, disrupting your riffy reverie. The casual aplomb with which the music is delivered belies the agency and intelligence behind its construction…

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As Perpetual Anguish fades to silence, slightly disappointingly - I hate a lazy fade - disharmonised guitars drag Circle of Perdition, and Side B, to life. It’s a sluggish track of doomy power and thudding bass drums.

It’s also the only moderately by-the-book affair on the album. There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with it - some of the chugging is stupendous - but equally, there’s not much that it brings to the table that isn’t better served by other songs on the record.

Interim follows, and it too is slightly skippable. It’s an instrumental lull for two minutes that includes Spanish guitar, Panpipes and a drawn out solo, as well as a baritone chamber choir. All well and good but dispensing with this track and Exordium at the start of the record wouldn’t reduce the impact the LP has; it would enhance it.

Cut, cut, cut. I don’t want the filler.

We’re back on track though, once Festering Realm’s winding intro riff introduces the excited pace and chugging thrash of the most solid track of the side. There’s a yearning futility to the power delivery, which sounds like a contradiction until you hear it and think about it. It feels oddly sensitive and, therefore, surprising. It’s a masterwork of structural engagement as the song swings from doomy bends to majestic tremolos.

The final charge is heralded by the pure Heavy Metal of Spewing Atrocities which, to me, feels like its melodies could sit somewhere in the realm of NWOBHM once they get there, as disguised as they are beneath the death-thrash-doom of everything else that’s going on.

But just try not to bang your head once you get halfway through.

I’m not joking. Just try.

The song is perfectly positioned on the record. It’s a high that raises the trajectory of the LP as it draws focus on the horizon of its conclusion.

Which is ably served by the blistering fun of Stertorous Whisper.

Pure, unadulterated Death Metal.

If one track epitomises Teratoma’s dedication to the old school, it is this. What a way to end the record. Impactful speed, filthy heaviness and no-bull, violent, bludgeoning heft. Perfect.

In no small way, the sense of immense satisfaction, enthusiasm and righteous vindication that you feel once the album is done, is down to Stertorous Whisper. It epitomises Longing Voracity.

The minor quibbles regarding the soft instrumentals aside, Teratoma have delivered a first-class record that is very difficult to criticise.

It deserves its accolades and I guarantee that it will be well represented on end-of-year lists. The band deserves to grow their audience on the back of the hard work they’ve put into it.

I hope I get to see them live at some point in the near future, because until then, I can only imagine the glorious might of these songs performed in-person.

Longing Voracity is superb.

Finally, Berlin is back in play!

Ave, Feeders!

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CONTEMN LIGHT, 2026

Pay attention, 007s. Otherwise, this one will flit under your collective radar and you’ll miss out on something really rather special…

Take some Converge (dis)chords. Add some Human-era Death riffs. Season with modern tech/prog Death Metal flavour - I dunno - some old Tomb Mold, for instance. Maybe some of Hyperdontia’s grumbling muck. Mix in lashings of raw Black Metal vocals and some Portrayal of Guilt unpredictability. Bake on a low heat for 60 minutes.

The brittle-yet-chewy Brownie of Noise that you are going to chip from the pan is Shabti. A mentally great export from combustible Portland, Maine on the east coast of America. And like Ænigmatum, from the other Portland, 3000 miles away to the west, in Oregon, they present the absolute best of what complex, progressive and dynamic Blackened Death Metal can conjure in 2026.

A Shabti is an ancient Egyptian funerary ornament. A proxy for the dead; something that takes on the burdens of the afterlife in the stead of the mummified corpse it is buried next to.

A handy inanimate object that’s got your back in the void. A tiny claustrophobic sarcophagal shroud.

Shabti, the band, are neither Egyptian nor dead. They are not ornamental or inanimate. What they are, though, is incredibly versatile and articulate musicians who craft engrossingly deep, detailed and layered music that catches your ear immediately and feeds your brain successively.

It’s really clever.

The one thing they have in common with their namesake is the sarcophagus.

Not that Shabtis are actual coffins, but the band functions a bit like one. Kind of like a riff-driven sensory deprivation tank. You lose all sense of the world around you when you listen to them, such is the level of immersion conjures by their intricate tunes.

I totally forgot about everything else while I was engaging with Haze, Cacophony and White Light. It’s a health and safety nightmare; supper was burning, the dog became momentarily malnourished, and tomatoes were parched in the garden once I lifted my head out of its aural Shabti.

The members of the band play in several other underground metal acts. Not least of all the live incarnation of premier US atmospheric Black Metal band Panopticon, and masters of Black Metal momentum, Obsidian Tongue, whose LP from last year, Eclipsing Worlds Of Scorn, comes highly recommended from me despite it being a bit clean in places for my tastes.

Check it out. There’s a lot going on there, too:

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If you listen to either of those bands, they’ll point you vaguely in the direction of Shabti but only tell half the story.

The awkward Death Metal aspect of their sound dominates The Black. The tremolos fill between darting jazz chords and off-beat rhythms. The chugging Death-riffs wind their way through every moment that’s not fizzing with Second Wave guitar tropes. The vocals switch from harsh Death Metal barks (not guttural growls) to throaty, hissing, Black Metal screeches.

It’s a compelling mix that balances differently with Shabti than it does elsewhere. This is because of the dynamic rhythm timings, odd chord choices, obscure phrasings and sheer über-competence of the playing.

It’s really satisfying to listen to.

Again, like I waxed on about regarding Ænigmatum, the band works to serve the songs. The writing might be complex, progressive and difficult, but it doesn’t ponder. It never stroke its own chin. The band has a knack for crashing back together under a straightforward and easily grasped motif before dancing off tangentially in odd directions.

Album closer and preview track, Rise of the Shabti, is a great example of this. There’s a central, almost-punk, chord-driven mega-riff that sticks its hooks in your ears and catapults you back into coherence when the band reunites under its banner throughout the composition, having wandered off on some kind of Heavy Metal Walkabout in the meantime.

It’s an accessible anchor point between the sheer madness of the experimental lead-lines, drum patterns and vocals of the rest of the musical Outback.

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The cacophonic chaos of album opener Ambrosia and Lamb’s Blood is immediately compelling and grabs your attention. But it is in a confusing way; you’re engaged, but you’re not sure why. It’s enticing. It’s only on successive listens that the power of the layered riffing and adventurous, colliding cadences become familiar enough to be translatable.

There’s an adrenalised urgency to the track that feels uncomfortable but entrancingly addictive. A siren-song; something forbidden that you know you need but you can’t quite grasp. The power of discordance is both formidable and mysterious.

Epic second song, A Weary Creation, is when the true might of Shabti’s writing is initially revealed. There’s almost a classic rock(!) feel to the song’s introductory riffing that’s instant, but not in a cheesy way.

It’s almost what the lads from Lynyrd Skynyrd would have sounded like after the plane crash.

It’s really cool. But it’s just a phase, because the song leaps from that fucked-up Southern Rock descent to full on off-kilter Death Sludge, without losing an ounce of musicality.

A Weary Creation is nearly ten minutes long but feels no lengthier than the rest of the tracks, that tend to land at around the six-or-seven-minute mark. The variety in the writing keeps your attention and engagement high. Alternate bars seem to introduce something new - or, importantly - return to something familiar. It’s kinda breath-taking.

The third track, Blood for a Blessing, raises the game even further. If the first song had echoes of Converge about it, the second some rotten and morally collapsing Sweet Home Alabama, then the third elevates to nasty, thick and pure discordant death, with squeals and trilling, melodic leads that connect the lumber-dots that the bass leaves behind.

It is here that the chugs hit awesome and the screeches go nuclear.

On the previous track the great bass playing has space to wander. This time around, the structure’s way denser, but somehow Brendan Hayter still manages to bring unique, slaloming melodies into the weight that holds down the maelstrom(s).

There’s some bloody lovely fast chugging in the second half of the song that releases into open chord majesty that I find absolutely thrilling. And it’s emphasised by the musicality of Hayter’s wandering bass.

Maybe, in the wake of Blood for a Blessing, you could be forgiven for expecting follow up Haze, Cacophony and White Light to provide some kind of respite from the intensity.

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You could be forgiven, but it wouldn’t change the fact that you’d be wrong.

The title track has an elegant Black Metal riff as its spine, with discordant, unexpected and staccato riffs hanging from it like shards of a broken and bloodied rib cage.

Its repetitive bludgeon swaps with blasting tremolos, swaps with highly musical - even anthemic - lead-lines, swaps with four to the floor propulsion, swaps with sorrowful, mourning descents. It’s all over the fucking place - but uniquely coherent at the same time. It never feels muddled, confused, messy or unnecessary.

The recording is great. Aaron Charles did a great job of capturing the band’s sound. You can hear everything clearly thanks to Dan Lowndes’ mastering - and yet it feels filthy as a bloated bison’s butthole.

So good.

Penultimate track, Sojourner, continues the drive of quality, heavy-as-fuck, unique-sounding extremity. It almost calls back the Lynyards at one point, before transmuting from the southern states to the foothills of Carpathia, with a momentary nod to Transylvanian Hunger.

Or so it seems.

Maybe it’s my song of the album. But it’s hard to pick one. The whole caboodle is remarkably consistent.

Shabti have done fuck all as a band since 2019’s brilliant Trembling and Shorn sophomore LP. They rarely play live, by all accounts. Their attentions lie elsewhere with other commitments.

And although I applaud their other work, I can’t help feeling seven years between recordings is wasted time. By rights, they should be slapping us round the chops repeatedly with shit like this.

Shabti are exciting - when so little else truly is.

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Ray Capizzo’s drums are powerful and inventive throughout and marry perfectly with the aforementioned bass-playing of Brendan Hayter.

It’s ludicrous to think they’re just a trio, but Rob Cook’s guitar and vocals are literally the only other elements that round out the band’s massive sound.

The band clearly don’t give one flying fuck what anyone thinks or what the prevailing wind of faddish genre preferences calls for this year. They just care about the riffs, the songs and the density. And it’s to their credit.

In Haze, Cacophony and White Light, Shabti have created one of this year’s standouts.

Annoyingly, it’s only scheduled to be released on a limited run of 100 tapes alongside digital downloads and streaming. Maybe a CD, like the last one.

I hope they change that, because I want this on record.

A real vinyl record.

One with grooves, artwork and engagement that mirrors the songs.

You do, too.

Ave, Cacophonists!

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ÆNIGMATUM: INFINITUDE’S PASSAGE

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Portland Tech-Death savants Ænigmatum release their third LP: Infinitude’s Passage. 42 minutes chock-full of adventurous riffing, time-changes and intricate experimentation framed upon a cohesive but broadminded Death Metal canvas. Sean Millard puts down his brushes, squints his one good eye, strokes his chin and considers the band’s own unique perspective and how that affects his own.

This type of stuff isn’t typically covered in the press anymore, but I’m hoping to change that. At LTW, at least. Because to my ears, Black and Death Metal, in all its wondrous forms, is where many of the real treasures lie in contemporary music. Trouble is, those genres are too easily dismissed or overlooked as serious contenders for The Good Stuff because of their unappealing reputation(s) to the average discerning listener. But it’s not all church burnings, gorefests and unintelligible vocals. I promise.

So; I’ve taken it upon myself to unsheathe the Sacring Bell I stole from the still-smoking-ashes of my local All Saints Church, and begin tolling it from within, at anyone who’ll listen. I stand, like a leprous Town Crier, complete with hessian hood and meaty complexion: “Here ye! Here ye! Come far! Come wide! Come back, dammit! Because there’s some cool shit to listen to here that you almost definitely will have ignored otherwise!”

Call me naïve. It’s probably much deserved, but Ænigmatum had entirely escaped my attention until a serendipitous sweeping review snagged my ever-lovin’ ear holes on YouTube recently. And from that moment… well; colour me hooked.

This much I know: Ænigmatum is Latin. It translates as “of enigma”; of puzzles, mysteries and riddles. I like that. It conveys their musicality well. The four-piece band formed in 2017 and hail from Portland, Oregon. That’s in the Ununited States of America. Go west, young man. Don’t stop ‘til you hit landfall. And then keep going.

The band comprises of the following members: Kelly McLaughlin, Vocals/Guitar. Previously involved with Blood of Martyrs, a particularly obscure US Black Metal band from the noughties. Check out their debut, Ex Nihilo, on YouTube. You won’t find it anywhere else. It is something of a lost banger.

Eli Lundgren is the other guitarist, Pierce Williams the drummer, and Brian Rush, who appears to be an incredibly busy boy, on bass. He’s involved with tons of bands, not least of all, once upon a time, the rather special Skeletal Remains. He has even helped out live with Incantation, according to my Mum. But you can’t always trust your Mother, as Lou famously quipped in 1989 regarding a different type of leviathan.

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Infinitude’s Passage is their third full length LP. 20 Buck Spin snapped them up following the (very) cult success of 2019’s self-titled debut. They then released the wonderful Deconsecrate in 2021. So; Infinitude’s Passage been five years in the making. I don’t know why it’s taken so long. They’ve been pre-occupied, presumably. But this surprise release has got everyone buzzing.

There’s something immediately different about Ænigmatum. It’s how they caught my attention so quickly and, if you’re even remotely interested in Death Metal, I’m sure they’ll do the same for you. Their approach feels more compelling and refined than most. Their playing is intricate, complex and engaging, without being flamboyant and ostentatious. The soloing is kept to a minimum. They focus more on time changes, cadence switching and the nuance of the riffs.

They’re also not so deeply Death Metal that they’re constraining an audience to just the hardcore. There’s a bit of Black Metal in there; the vocals aren’t Cookie Monster growls; they’re more mid-range than that. They forego the bludgeon of brutality for a dancing and darting musicality that continues to deliver unexpected auditory gifts after repeated listens.

It’s accessible in its own way and is progressive without being prog. It’s not aimed at musos. It is complexity delivered in a way that makes you grin, not stroke your chin. What Mastodon do for more conventional Metal, Ænigmatum do for Death. For me, at least. They’re not showing off, they can just really play and obviously love creating challenging riffage.

Spending a little time – well, at least, the first few hours of what is bound to become a long-term dedication to the Ænigmatum’s back catalogue – and it’s easy to hear the evolution of the band’s sound across all three of their LPs. The songwriting has become more coherent and driven, with skronky prog stuff finding a more discreet place to sit within the compositions, meaning it underpins and supports, rather than dominates proceedings, which could, for me, become quite off-putting.

I fall on the side of quite intensely disliking the latest Tomb Mold stylings, for instance. They’ve cleaned up and now they meander too much. They have lost the Death Metal cool that I found attractive in their earlier work. It’s not what I go to them for. Ænigmatum find the perfect balance between progressive playing and ear-worming coherence. It’s a rare thing to pitch well and they pull it off with aplomb. Which is a relief. They have managed to achieve what Tomb Mold failed at.

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Balance is a useful way to approach what makes Infinitude’s Passage so successful. The songs are darkly melodic without being sickeningly saccharine. You barely notice how tuneful they are; sometimes an even slightly over-melodious approach can completely annihilate a record for me, but Ænigmatum strike a balance that really fucking works. The album is addictive and compulsively tuneful; it doesn’t get so brutal that your attention drifts away and it doesn’t get so light that you switch the damn thing off.

The musicians are so skilled and aligned on what they are trying to achieve that another way the writing is balanced is in its complexity. Every strike of a string or beat of a skin seems layered in nuance and non-repeating depth. Yet the complexity is never baffling or over-whelming. It always serves the songs.

Even the solos, which traditionally I am no fan of, especially in Tech-Death as a genre (they can often feel shoe-horned and flashy for the sake of it), are tasteful, augmentative and rich. In the main. Of course, I’ll always say I can do with less of them, but the record is not overwhelmed by solos or ego-driven passages designed to astonish, thankfully. God knows, that would be a deal-breaker.

The songs are busy without becoming untidy. The band balances a skittish absurdity against translatable convention. The album has a continuous momentum without ever feeling monotonous or repetitious. In fact, I like the fact that the band haven’t included an instrumental atmos-piece like so many other records in the genre do. There’s not even a tedious intro composition to get through at the start of the record; it slams (almost) straight into the action.

My point is, simply, that this is song craft. It is meticulous in its attention to detail and nuanced decision-making. It is accomplished in performance, but also in its origination; the band are clearly aiming for something unique and they manage to achieve it. Everything feels intentional and is as designed. It’s fucking great actually. And nothing short of a revelation.

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An escalating, electrified whine launches the first song and the LP, introducing a sense of apprehension and wonder that will continue for the next 40-odd minutes. Just as it reaches its fizzing peak, Pitiless Mechanism slams in, with an immediately attention-grabbing riff that genuinely caused my head to turn as it crashed into my eardrums.

It’s a simple rhythm on the guitars that is amplified and joyously confused, tenfold, by the busy-ness of the drums. More or less as soon as the vocals kick in – that are gruff and roared, but definitely NOT inaccessible or laughable Cookie Monster humpty-flumps – the rhythms all change to an unexpected off-kilter pattern.

A few bars later, the riffs morph up again into full-blown “WTF?” territory, dancing across your mind’s eyeball like a tiny parasitic worm, wearing microscopic tap shoes on every one of his millions of tickling toe-toes. The riffs never stand still. They drop down, jump up and fling themselves from one side of the sound-stage to the other like a Heavy Metal Legs & Co. Marvelous.

The complexity of the playing hits you in the chops but increases your engagement. I don’t find myself drifting away for a moment.

Inseverable starts off a bit more flashily, with a widdly solo. I know, I know. But hear me out: SOMETIMES a guitar solo can be additive. It doesn’t ALWAYS have to be an ostentatious space-filler. And on Inseverable, Aenigmatum hit the that sweet spot.

Much longer, and they would risk losing me, but as it is, the solo at the start is short and well-written enough to augment the song rather than “polish” it, so it works well.

The rest of the piece demonstrates an off-kilter and discordant bludgeon, with some REALLY satisfying off-beat punctuation that is only one small step away from jazz-kind. Then it slips back into coherent, four-four time more slickly than cat-shit on linoleum. The contrast snatches your rhythm bone and makes your head bang with a grimace of awe on your face. It’s ace! Honest. Some of those chords and their placement are bloody magnificent. What a choon. The awkwardly timed ending just serves to curve my grin upwards.

Architects of the Fated follows, and its Modus Operandi seems to be to make you think that the flow of the record is dropping to a skittish lull. For now. The guitars are being played slowly; sensitively picked; but the drums… Bejesus. The double bass drums are pattering away like the wings of a ladybird, accompanied by the shimmying waspy rasp of the high-hat. It feels like a battle of friend and foe amidst the nature of my back garden. Again, this lends a fresh take on what could be dismissed as a tired genre by those unfamiliar with it.

The middle of the song goes full Mastodon, if a broader comparison is required (again). Like one of the darker passages off Remission. There’s magic at work here. The band’s sheer musicality and conception of what composition can mean takes my breath away.

A Tarnished Nexus is the fourth track and, I’m guessing, will open Side B of the vinyl record once it’s out. Compared to Side A’s opening salvo, it is more subdued and atmospheric. It lumbers into step with compellingly repetitious riff work before picking up pace, with an engaged time-change that is signified by an opening and closing high-hat pulling you up to speed and retaining you in the centre of the pack.

An immediate momentary stop to silence changes the pace. The music returns more quickly and returns to an augmentation – or echo – of the earlier riff and an entrancing lead-line. Then it dynamically comes back again to a more coherent riff for a verse before leaping into an abyss of chaos once more. It’s delightfully breathless.

Nocturne of Ageless Reverie is the penultimate track of our odyssey. And that’s what it feels like, to me; this has been a rollicking great epic adventure, thus far. Aenigmatum are musical tale-tellers, and their character arcs, narrative pacing and creative worlds of wonder leave me considering if anyone else really does A Heavy Metal Story At Bedtime like they do. No one springs to mind. Just FYI.

And as I ponder that, Nocturne of Ageless Reverie exposes its withered genitalia in the most glorious way. So far, every song has been ace, so the last thing one expects is to have the song of the album reveal itself at this late stage of proceedings.

But it does. It’s the most driving track so far; perhaps the (marginally) least busy and straightforward, but I’m not entirely convinced by my own words. I would say though, if you’re going to give one track here a go as a taster, Nocturne… would be a good choice. Here’s the frantic proof:

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The epic conclusion to Infinitude’s Passage is the title track and, for me, it’s the one song to criticise. Bear in mind, this is purely personal, but it would be remiss of me not to mention it, regardless. I caveat the following with the fact that I’m not arsed about gently-picked clean intros and soloing. It is almost always too flamboyant for my taste – and thus far, we’re barely a minute into the song and I’m already getting pissed off with it.

Once all that fluffy shite is out of the way, the band return to their awkward best with a curling main riff that pipes itself out like a dog with an upset stomach. And that continues to one of the best passages on the record; the central part of the composition has my near-favourite riff or two of the LP on it, so the start of the song is fully redeemed.

Until we are dealt the crushing blow of the climax. Now; it’s fair enough to say that everything I’m about to convey forms just three minutes of the album. There are another 38 or 39 minutes that should not be tarred by this brush, but I have to say, it takes a lot of self-discipline to remember that.

Let me explain. The song drops back to the clean stuff of the intro which, on an album of incessant highs, feels like an odd choice. It doesn’t provide the relief from the maelstrom as is presumably intended; it is a frustrating diversion from it. So, there’s that – but get this – because it’s so out of place that I fear it might become the post-release cornerstone of the album’s reviews – they then bring in a SAX.

Not a skronking, honking, dynamic and (almost tolerable) chaotic sprinkler of spice, but smooth and wallowing sax, like some hideous and entirely unnecessary tribute to fucking Careless Whisper. It is so vile, so horrible and so disappointing I skip to the end of the record now from halfway through the song. WHAT THE FUCK WERE THEY THINKING?

Why is this so important to mention? Because sans sax, the album is a solid nine out of ten. Maybe even higher. Because of the sax, it drops to an 8.5. And then, because its inclusion makes you concerned for the underlying taste of the musicians themselves and fear that something similar, previously undetected, could reveal itself at a later date, betraying your trust in Aenigmatum as a whole, it drops further, to an 8.

On one hand, I applaud their confidence. It’s a bold move, if a tasteless one. On the other, I don’t ever recall feeling like what I need in my life is a spattering of Gerry Rafferty in my Technical Death Metal. It’s abhorrent to my ears, but again I insist, it’s a personal thing. One man’s meat… etc. You might love a wispy blow on a horn and, if so, more power to you. Let me know in the comments.

That gripe – which I hasten to add, despite the space I’ve given it – is very minor in the flow of any otherwise almost flawless record.

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I can genuinely see a world where Aenigmatum reach beyond their own insular scene in the same way that Mastodon have. Sorry to use that same reference again, but it’s an easily translatable comparison. And I’m lazy.

I actively encourage you to not only take this LP and run with it, but to dig deeper into the band’s back catalogue too, because that really is a treasure trove. And a great gateway into the more technical and articulate side of Death Metal.

So; a quick din-dong of my bell and a “Hear Ye!” one more time: if you’re in the mood for a challenge that might just broaden your taste, understanding and love for music in general and metal in particular, you could do a fuck-load worse than picking up Infinitude’s Passage. It’s awesome. Highly recommended.

This is what Metal sounds like in 2026 and it’s really bloody exciting.

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DARK ESSENCE RECORDS, 2026.

Somewhat frustratingly, Taake can often be overlooked when discussions regarding true Norwegian Black Metal are being had. Although they were formed almost contemporaneously, in 1993, they didn’t release their debut LP, Nattestid, until 1999.

They’re sometimes passed by because of that when I think they should really be spoken about reverentially, alongside Darkthrone, Immortal, Enslaved, Gorgoroth etc.

Hoest, Taake’s vocalist, writer and (almost) sole musician, at least on the early records, was living and breathing the culture when it mattered, in Bergen, when churches were aflame, murders were occurring and scandals were being initiated.

It just took him a while to put something out.

However, where Taake might have mistimed their launch, they have more than made up for it in the strength and consistency of their releases since then. (Almost) every song is addressed in Norwegian too, which might also account for their lack of attention outside Scandinavia. This dogmatic principle feeds into their self-acclaimed position as representatives of historically important and pure Norwegian values.

What doesn’t make sense, though, is that regardless of all that, the music, the quality of which is beyond debate, never really cut through to the extent it should have, beyond Norway. Those that know, know every Taake album is of a truly high standard, that hammers home a relentless atmosphere, stalwart integrity and unique melodicism, all of which, the other original bands have foregone to greater or lesser degrees.

And it’s not as though Taake are entirely obscure, but I can’t help feeling they don’t get the recognition they deserve.

I really appreciate their consistency. Their albums always take my breath away and they always release records that slowly reveal hidden depths through successive listens. They stay with you.

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Hoest hasn’t had a career bereft of controversy, but show me a Norwegian original that has… and Hoest is articulate, intelligent and bold enough to own any inappropriate actions from his past, so there’s no need to dwell on easy headlines created by a base-level, scandal-pedaling press.

Even the artwork of the records is consistent; the Taake brand centres around Hoest’s mysterious and horrific stage visage, and it is powerful imagery. The music, across every release, shares a foundation of “traditional” Black Metal tropes with an exciting and progressive twist that can take the shape of unexpected instrumentation, incredible melody, lengthy songs or multiple movements within an epic structure, as easily as punching in a dynamic “single” that will nag your ears for weeks after the first listen.

There’s a lot to love about Taake, and very little to disregard. Hoest is an interesting, outspoken personality with strong values and clear objectives that he resolves with his elegant, articulate, compelling and dynamic music.

Over Bjoergvin Graater Himmerik (or just … Bjoergvin …) was released three years after the debut in 2002, with a full band playing under Hoest’s guidance, and the third part of what has become known as a trilogy, Hordalands Doedskvad came out in 2005.

Doedskvad received an elevated reception, partly for its inclusion of Nattefrost from Carpathian Forest as a guest vocalist on some of the tracks, but all three LPs in the trilogy are essential, flawless and come highly recommended by me for anyone looking for great examples of rich and adventurous Black Metal to listen to.

In 2008, the band’s self-titled LP was released and in 2011, the immutable Noregs Vaapen came out, which again included guests - a stellar lineup - Demonaz (Immortal), Attila Csihar(Mayhem), Nocturno Culto (Darkthrone) and Ivar Bjørnson (Enslaved).

Noregs Vaapen is generally considered the band’s masterpiece; even worthy of its own multi-disc box-set. It resonates particularly for the inclusion of Myr, Taake’s own “Ace of Spades”, and one of the few tracks from Norwegian Black Metal acts to include Banjo and Bluegrass stylings as a signature motif.

Novelty aside, it’s an amazing song and deservedly has a reputation as a classic.

Although it should be noted that no Taake LPs are rubbish - the first five though… perfect.

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Stridens Hus was released in 2014, the moderately lacklustre - if any of them are - Kong Vinter in 2017, Et Hav Av Avstand in 2023 which, I admit, I need to spend more time with (where have those three years gone?) and now, in 2026, En Skog Av Nidstang, the band’s ninth LP - which might be hailed as the band’s best work in 15 years.

Despite the drum stool being filled by a few different tub-thumping butts over the course of their career, current drummer, Rune, has been in place since 2019 and the rest of the band (V’gandr on Bass, Aindiachaí on one guitar and Gjermund on the other) have been present since 2007 and the recording of the self-titled LP.

That long-term familiarity is immediately clear when listening to En Skog Av Nidstang. I’m assuming that the members all played on the recording and that they’re not just a live band. The record sounds very much like a full-band enterprise rather than a solo project, anyway.

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Much like 2023’s Et Hav Av Avstand, the new LP takes the format of four lengthy songs, spanning a little over half an hour of music; a little shorter than Avstand, but not by much.

In fact, if there’s one criticism of the new LP, it’s that I’d have liked it to have been ten minutes longer.

This is an odd response from me; I’m a big fan of an LP coming in at less than 40 minutes. The closer to 30, the better in general, but En Skog Av Nidstang feels like it’s barely gets going before it draws to a close.

The writing makes the songs feel half the length they are, and although a positive result of that is that it’s easy to go straight for a replay, it still feels a little less immersive than it could be.

Which casts no shade on the songs, it’s because they’re so good that I want to hear more of them.

Sound-wise, the new songs could almost have been recorded in the same sessions as the previous LP. The balance is about the same; the intent similar.

As part of writing this piece, I’ve bedded down more deeply with Avstand and it’s an equally rewarding listen. So; for En Skog Av Nidstang to feel a bit like a sister piece to that album is no bad thing either.

And apparently, 20 songs were recorded in 2023 for Avstand, so perhaps it’s not such a stretch to identify a relationship between the two records. They even got released in the same way, with a preview at Hoest’s hometown of Bergen’s Beyond The Gates festival, though Nidstang was actually released over the festival and Avskand came out a month afterwards, in September 23.

I feel confident that existing Taake fans will love this new LP as much – or more - than the last one, but I really recommend playing both LPs back-to-back, because they make a (rare) perfect double LP.

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The opus begins with some grumbling sampled vocalisations, followed by the key lead riff of Einstoeingen Og Eg, that sounds perfectly trve.

That’s followed by a flurry of anguished whirling; hung chords and rattling high-hats, addictive single-note lead-lines, more samples, an awkwardly-timed principal riff that becomes incredibly addictive over multiple listens, adding depth and nuance to the more straightforward instrumentation elsewhere in the first movement of the ten-minute song.

As we pass through several differing atmospheric phases of down-played spangle, with more speech samples, the song’s mid-paced and meandering aesthetic becomes a powerful four-to-the-floor march, over-layed with a delicate and sorrowful guitar motif that is surely going to be a live highlight of any performance on their forthcoming tour in support of the record.

The song climbs and climbs; the emotion grows as the guitars tremolo in ever-more heart-wrenching ways to the song’s fade; a rare case of not sounding like an ending that lacks imagination; the opposite, in fact… it gives the listener the sense that the march and emotion continues into infinity, that suits the epic essence of the track.

In direct opposition to that, Et Dyr Tok Min Hud crashes into action; the shortest song on the LP at (almost) eight minutes, but it flies by in what feels like four. It’s a pacey anthem; Hoest raging his vocals over the top of incessant drums, winding lead-lines and even a solo that’s not cringey.

There’s blasting, there’s hiss, there’s fizz and there’s grain, all contributing to a wonderfully old-school feeling of pure Blackness. Again, the emotive impact of the simple, repetitive leads is astonishing and really cements the value of the work into your heart as well as your head.

It’s powerful stuff, with its epic nature emphasised by occasional bouts of choral backing vocals.

The folk influence, that Taake is renowned for, kicks off Engler, with a single bowed Jaws-style drone, followed by an interestingly awkward intro rhythm. After that, the song develops into most Trad Black track on the LP and, coincidentally, the most addictive and immediate.

This, for me, is Taake in their element. The melodies soar, the screams wail, the passion reaches for the stars. The textures prevent the song feeling too simple or disposable; there’s so much going on within its own constrained framework that it is continually enthralling.

The drum fills stutter unexpectedly, some of the guitar lines feel almost commercial in essence – I mean, they’re definitely not – but there are some chugs and syncopated slams that wouldn’t feel out of place on LPs with a far larger audience than Taake has.

This alone exposes the band’s capabilities and writing prowess and somehow feels all the more admirable that they choose not to show it off more regularly.

That willfully obscure nature at the heart of Taake is something I can’t help but adore about them, whether it’s their secretly clear compositional strengths or their refusal to communicate outside of Norwegian for the multi-cultural audience they now have.

It’s an enticingly stubborn and principled stance to take.

True art, I suppose.

Anyway; Engler is a great song and the cornerstone of the record. It’s nigh-on ten minutes of beautiful, passionate, climactic and huge songwriting that soars with the winding, final lead-line that takes us out to dismal creepy samples before a momentary, soothing silence.

The LP closes with Av Guds Ville Nadde. At this point, it feels crazy that we’re 25 minutes into the record; it’s gone by so quickly. It begins with tom-slams and clean baritone vocals, which I’m rarely a fan of, but somehow Hoest pulls off in a way that doesn’t make me burp sick up or make my sphincter twitch inside out with cringe.

Thankfully though, the cleanliness doesn’t last long, before the song crashes into a maelstrom of frenzied roars, off-beat fills, repetitious keyboard motifs, double-bass-drum anthemic bludgeons and ever-rising guitars.

Of all the songs on the record, this is the most rousing; sliding from chest-thumping self-righteousness to grunted, off-kilter movements that seem to struggle to suppress a raging tsunami from breaking, through to massive blasting stretches that release all the tension that’s been constrained.

It’s another huge song; the scale of these pieces swiftly becoming the theme of the record. They are epic, without feeling pompous or flamboyant.

If there’s such a thing as to-the-point-grandeur, then En Skog Av Nidstang epitomises it.

Ultimately, I’m really chuffed with the record.

It fulfills everything I wanted and, yet again, goes beyond expectation by delivering surprise after surprise, within the context of a digestible structure and the broadest stylistic tropes that Black Metal provides.

Taake are the hidden heroes of an entire genre, but they are there, in plain sight – you’ve just got to pick them up and play their records.

There’s nothing stopping you; I guarantee your existence will feel more rewarding if you do. There’s a whole catalogue for you to get your teeth into and absolutely none of it disappoints. En Skog Av Nidstang is as good a place as any to start.

Don’t sleep on it; it’s worth your attention.

Taake FTW.

Ave, Legion.

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IT ALL SOUNDS THE SAME…

To some, mostly precious gatekeepers, it is a sign of laughable ignorance.

To others; myself, included, it is an understandable and genuinely curious question from the uninitiated.

I’ve been asked a few times in recent weeks “What’s the difference between Death Metal and Black Metal? It all sounds the same!”

And fair enough; if you’re not used to listening to extreme music, I can totally see how one barrage of screaming banshees can sound like another blasting wall of unintelligible percussion and growls.

First encounters with the genre almost always feel baffling; the music being too fast, chaotic, abnormal and incomprehensible to be anything other than a significant culture shock, at least, compared to more conventional, mainstream and easily accessed ‘normal’ music.

I totally get it. We all felt like that when we were first smacked roundly about the chops by it. The only reason we’re not feeling like that anymore is because of a familiarity that is fueled by curiosity and perseverance.

Because you do need to persevere to get under the skin of Black and Death Metal, and all its glorious sub-genres and nuanced incarnations. And that’s not for everyone.

Indeed, many will justifiably ask why anyone should have to persevere to be entertained. Again, another fair question.

The answer though, is that for those willing to persevere, to dedicate huge portions of their time to the cause of understanding extreme metal and enjoying it, it is far more than entertainment. It is, quite genuinely, a way of life; a necessary sustenance that you engage with far more deeply than as a passing interest.

This is why the fanaticism at the heart of it often stays with listeners forever; it instills values, expectations and a sense of discovery and motivation that goes far beyond the music itself. It is the root of the kinship that can be found in any extreme Metal gig. Despite appearances, Metal fans, especially, are some of the most welcoming, calm and trouble-averse people you’ll ever share a performance space with. I’m 56. I’ve been listening to this music (and related genres) all my adult life. I have never - not once - witnessed any concerning antisocial behaviour at a gig.

At least, none beyond the odd incoherent drunk; annoying, but basically harmless.

Yet on the streets outside the venues, I have been accosted many times by incoherent “normies” who take offense at long hair, tattered jeans or other non-conformist elements of the typical extreme metal visage.

So; who’s the problem?

The point is simply that perseverance leads to passion, leads to hardcore fanaticism, leads to lifestyle, leads to lifelong involvement. It’s more than music.

Once the threshold is crossed, the door rarely opens again to the outside world.

More than a clique. More like a family.

So; what’s the difference? It all sounds the same.

To best explain it, I’ll give you a potted history.

I stress that it is a history as I understand it, fact-checked to a certain extent, but equally, applicable to my own experience and biases. It’s exclusively my interpretation of significant elements, artists and events.

It’s fine to disagree with me; it’s a personal thing.

But one thing’s for sure…

As with so many things in life, it all begins with Motörhead.

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IT’S ALL MINE

In 1980, I bought my first record. Antmusic, and a door of perception was blown open in my mind. I realised, after the first ten years of roaming anonymously through life, not knowing what I was about, in an instant, what my purpose was.

What was MINE.

I remember the moment as clearly as breakfast. That little seven-inch single changed everything about my world, and the damage it did has sustained me for close to fifty years.

The tribal drums of Kings of the Wild Frontier were endlessly exciting, infinitely engaging and extremely motivating. They were delivered to me on the cusp of great change; a few months later, away at secondary school, I lent on music for comfort, inspiration and companionship. I was immediately under the influence of my elder peers, who happened to mostly be obsessed with the burgeoning NWOBHM and rock scene. Bands like Saxon, Rainbow, AC/DC, Magnum, Thin Lizzy, Tygers of Pan Tang and, of course, Iron Maiden.

The last band being the most significant by some margin, they were about to release their career-defining Run to The Hills single and third LP, The Number of The Beast.

But before that, I heard Running Free, from their debut, self-titled album.

The drums on that track are significantly tribal to my naïve ears, that connected the dots between them and Kings of the Wild Frontier immediately.

My mind was broadened beyond pop.

I gobbled up rock and metal in all its flavours, from Richie Blackmore to Tony Iommi to Angus Young to Fast Eddie Clarke.

Except I didn’t. Fast Eddie Clarke, Lemmy and Philthy Phil ‘Animal’ Taylor – the three members of the classic Motörhead lineup – eluded me. I didn’t get it. It was such a racket; it was so fast, so rough, so dangerous. The drums were insane. The guitars beyond comprehension. And as for Lemmy’s vocals… my evolving 11-year-old brain just didn’t understand them. I couldn’t see what was going on at all.

It was enticingly intangible.

It took me two or three more years of occasional dips in and out of their discography before the penny truly dropped, and it wasn’t with a record by the original three amigos.

By 1983, the original lineup had split, and Brian Robertson had taken over on guitar from Eddie. The resulting LP, the much maligned (at the time) Another Perfect Day, was the result. It was more melodic, more coherent, more accessible.

At least, it was to me.

No Sleep ‘til Hammersmith had kind of cut through, as had the singles. Indeed, Iron Fist was the track I kept returning to on a Heavy Metal compilation LP I had received for Christmas.

So I was perfectly positioned to be manipulated by the new Motörhead album, despite dismissive responses from my peers, who shared an equal disdain for Motörhead as they did for punk. Inept playing, apparently. Just a noise. No artistry.

Nevertheless, Dancing on Your Grave was the third track on Another Perfect Day and I couldn’t get enough of it.

I played and replayed it.

And I never went back.

The unique thing about Motörhead is how they were so wonderfully genre-less. They bridged the gap between Punk and Metal. Lemmy famously always insisted they were neither; they just played Rock and Roll. Pull the songs apart and the resulting component pieces confirm his statement but put them all together again and it is a grotesque, misshapen and entirely individual interpretation of such a standard descriptor.

The earlier, cooler LPs had defined their entirely new sound; Overkill, Bomber and Ace of Spades, followed by the aforementioned landmark live LP, No Sleep…, are rightfully considered the band’s greatest works by most fans. Fair enough.

And those records also had the most profound effect on music, more widely, too.

The two sides of Motörhead ended up dividing attention and spawning greatness that would resonate down the years and end up defining Black Metal, Death Metal, Hardcore Punk and every other fiendishly noisy subgenre of music.

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NWOBHM GOES STATESIDE

In Newcastle, UK, Venom were formed on the basis of taking Motörhead’s sound and adding a mix of punk rock sloppiness, with a dash of evil, Satanic terror to make them even more dangerous.

What started as a joke got taken seriously by a thousand Scandinavian metal-heads, including Quorthorn, who simultaneously created Bathory in their wake; a band that fundamentally inspired the Swedish and Norwegian ‘Second Wave’ Black Metal bands that still reign today.

In Stoke-on-Trent, coincidentally, Lemmy’s hometown, Discharge took Philthy Phil’s drum intro to Overkill and created a career from it that continues to this day.

In Discharge’s wake, an entire D-Beating genre has been inspired to do things themselves, from Sepultura to At The Gates to Wolfbrigade; all on the record as citing Discharge as a fundamental influence on their conception.

In San Francisco, an NWOBHM-obsessed drummer, Lars Ulrich, recently arriving from Sweden, would hook up with guitarist pals and form Metallica.

Not far away, on a very similar timeline, and arguably more importantly to this story, Slayer would form, with a darker tone and a more threatening countenance, directly adapted from Venom as well as the early Motörhead records.

They took those bands’ sound and made it faster, harsher and even scarier.

Slayer would become a foundational inspiration for Death Metal; a genre that was formed almost immediately behind them and a genre which, in turn, would form the anti-inspiration for the tidal wave of Norwegian bands to create modern Black Metal, a few years later.

So, you see? Without Motörhead, none of this would have happened.

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USDM

Down in Florida, Tampa became an easy site to call an HQ because the Morrisound Recording studio was situated there that created the defining sound for Death Metal in the 80s.

It was such an important element of early Death Metal, that bands would move to Tampa in their droves to take advantage of its facilities and the growling scene that was forming around it. Rather like a small-scale pre-emptive behavioural strike that simulated what would happen a few years later with Grunge and Seattle, Tampa became (and is still) associated with a multitude of different bands inspired and motivated to play in a style, evolve it and take it further with each subsequent gig and release.

Starting with Death, who are often credited as kicking off the genre by naming a demo in its honour, despite ‘Death By Metal’ coming out in 1984 at a similar time to Possessed’s ‘Death Metal’ demo too, on the other side of the continent.

Who’s responsible? You decide.

Death remain the kings of classic Death Metal. Bandleader, songwriter and all-round Godhead, Chuck Shuldiner’s death in 2001, from complications related to a brain tumor, secured their legendary status, as if their definitive evolution wasn’t enough on its own.

As well as traditional Death Metal, they also introduced the concept of Technical Death to the world and, as their instrumental skills continued to grow, so did the expectation of what Death Metal could represent; in speed, technicality, emotional resonance, popularity and, importantly, progressive impact.

More importantly for me though, in 1987, Deicide were formed.

They have a different take on Death Metal and one that resonated more with me than Death did. It wasn’t technical. It was just full-on. It still is.

The complexity and attraction coming from the speed the band plays, but also from the catchy and rhythmic way that frontman Glen Benton delivers his scathing sermons against organised religion.

He went so far as to burn an upside down crucifix onto his forehead in 1989 which I remember being so scarily extreme it made the band instantly notorious.

His character as a frontman and lyricist – as well as bass player – and his relationship with lightning fast drummer Steve Asheim – has meant that Deicide perpetually release engaging records. THowever, it is still their first four LPs that are generally regarded as their strongest records.

That said, I firmly believe that there are no shit Deicide records, but I am biased.

Elsewhere in Florida many other bands were forming. Of course, many were lost to time, but still, several created some hallmark LPs that remain cornerstones of the genre. Bigger names include Morbid Angel, Atheist, Cynic and Obituary, among many more.

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While all this was happening in swampy Tampa, other Death Metal bands were forming and delivering their own take on the Florida blueprint of blasting drums, bellowing death growls, complex, dive-bombing solos and light-speed performance.

In New York state, Cannibal Corpse, Suffocation, Immolation and Mortician plied their wares; often foregoing speed and technicality for a more atmospheric, muddy approach and, in Mortician’s case, a bed of horror movie samples, too.

The more ‘Caveman’ approach still resonates with new bands, worshiping at the altar of Suffocation et a, forming and recording new examples to this day.

There were, literally, hundreds more American Death Metal bands, throughout the 1980s and ‘90s, that grabbed what the genre had to offer and took it in new directions.

One that particularly resonates with me is Exhumed, from Wisconsin, who developed the Gore Grind scene along with several other bands from all over the world… but there’s something about Exhumed, especially, that never gets tired.

They’ve been releasing great records, all the way to this year’s Red Asphalt, which, no doubt, will be among my favourites of the year.

Skinless, Devourment and Malignancy are other names associated with Brutal Death Metal, closely related to the technical bludgeon of Suffocation; focusing on a barrage of groove and intricate, incessant pummel, rather than subtleties of melody and catchiness… and subsonic vocal tones.

As time went on, Deathcore eventually became a thing, where bands like Job For A Cowboy, Whitechapel and Despised Icon forged a marriage between Hardcore breakdowns and vocals, with Death Metal riffs and complexity.

Those bands are an exception, but generally, it’s a genre that’s lost some of its sheen in recent years, with a reputation for the facile fashion of band members, who can convey a clichéd image of tattoos, eyeliner, manicured haircuts and piercings that seems to outweigh the intensity of the music.

Style over substance that can be accused of flying in the face of what Death Metal stood for in the first place.

But Deathcore is also a great gateway into the wider aspects of the Death Metal genre so, for me, it serves as a vital lifeline for the music, even if it’s easy to sneer at it.

But if North America has always felt like the natural home of Death Metal, it doesn’t mean the genre didn’t stray further afield too.

Much further.

EUROPE AND THE UK

Death Metal quickly became a truly worldwide draw, with bands like Death/Grinders Wormrot, from Singapore, Gorevent (and this year’s incredible Invictus) from Japan, Australia’s Disembowelment, Fossilization and Krisiun from Brazil, Katelpsy from Russia, Suffocated from China and Botswana’s Overthrust proving that every continent on earth - barring Antarctica - is represented to greater or lesser degree.

And let’s face it, at its most populace, Antarctica has around 5000 people living there, which is not a huge market for Death Metal to thrive in.

But it was the UK and Europe where the Death Metal scene really flourished in response to everything that was happening in North America in the 1980s and ‘90s.

The UK bands had a skewed take on its interpretation.

Discharge had played a bigger part in their culture, as well as the underground crust movement with bands like Deviated Instinct, Electro Hippies, Extreme Noise Terror, Amebix, Doom and Antisect straddling the gulf between hardcore and metal, creating a hybrid form that was far more rough and ready, less flamboyant and much more politicised.

By far, the band with most renown is Napalm Death, who introduced Grind to the world, before doubling down on their own moral, punked up and visionary take on Death Metal tropes.

A purer take on genre tropes evolved from Napalm’s Grindcore influence with the magnificent and timeless Carcass, who seemed to redefine their sound and the definition of Death Metal with each revolutionary new release.

Bolt Thrower erm… threw… Warhammer 40K into the mix and resonated beyond the confines of the tiny scene because of it. Bands like Benediction, Cancer, Paradise Lost and My Dying Bride each brought a unique vision to the genre - from NWOBHM stylings to gothic Doom.

Dewsbury, a small market town in the North of England, situated between Sheffield and Leeds, was the home of Peaceville Records, who played no small part in cementing the UK scene as an engaging, diverse and open-minded interpretation of what a Death Metal influence could really mean.

The modern day UK scene feels more vibrant than ever. Bands that continue to fly the flag for Death Metal, in all its guises, include Cryptworm, Slimelord, Vacuous, Brainbath, Consecration, Coffin Rot, Party Canon, Grave Miasma and Cryptic Shift.

All of them raise the bar of expectation in their own way.

The UK scene continues to flourish, often seeming to centre around the prestigious London label and distro, Me Saco Un Ojo for pioneering new flavours.

On mainland Europe, the Netherlands gave us Asphyx, Gorefest and Pestilence, while France and Germany added the technical refinement of Gojira and Necrophagist to the mix, respectively.

Amongst a ton of other bands, obviously.

And so, the pus-ridden plague spread. These days, Copenhagen, Denmark is something of a hub for Death Metal, with the label and distro Extremely Rotten Productions not only responsible for a network of players in bands like Undergang, Phrenelith and Hyperdontia but also for celebrating the form with festivals and gigs throughout the year.

SWEDISH DM

But going back to the 90s, Scandinavia - and especially Sweden - created the most fanatical following for Death Metal in all its forms, outside the USA.

Still evergreen today, the hallmarks of the Swedish Death Metal that spewed forth from Nihilist’s demos, before the band became Entombed and released Left Hand Path in 1990, which is generally regarded as the finest example of the form, are prevalent.

That landmark LP was closely followed by Carnage’s Dark Recollections; a band who mutated into Dismember, who released the equally formative Like An Ever Flowing Stream, in 1991.

But Entombed, Carnage and Dismember weren’t alone; the immaculate Grave, though slightly on the fringes geographically, still reveled in what would become known as the “Stockholm Sound”, which revolved around a recording style that came from the city’s Sunlight Studios and was very much Scandinavia’s Morrisound Music.

The hallmark revolved around the bands’ use of a specific type of guitar distortion pedal; the Boss HM2 Heavy Metal.

When Nihilist were in the studio, one of their guitarists, Leif Cuzner (RIP), “dimed” the pedal for the recording of their seminal Premature Autopsy demo.

He maxed out all the settings and unwittingly created a crushing guitar tone that would echo down the decades as a trademark of an entire scene in the process.

Vastly overdriven and repulsively noisy, the sound of a flat out HM2 is ferocious and immediately identifiable. The “Swedish Buzzsaw” is still the torn out spine of the subgenre today, and it has ended up becoming a worldwide phenomenon of its own, with bands like Entrails, Fuming Mouth, Nails and Black Breath perpetuating its iconic sound in modern Death Metal releases.

Beyond the Stockholm sound, Gothenburg, 300 miles away, on the opposite side of Sweden, was interpreting Death Metal in its own way, too.

A more melodic way.

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The ferocity of Entombed and Dismember blew a generation of underground metalheads away, but the bands of Gothenburg mixed it with traditional Heavy Metal elements and again came up with a new interpretation; retaining guttural growls, chugs and distorted ferocity, but adding in twin guitar leads with an emphasis on Iron Maiden-inspired melody.

‘Melodeath’ grew from At The Gates’ early, dirty, work on Peaceville to their monumental fourth album, on Earache Records, Slaughter Of The Soul, in 1995.

Justifiably hailed now as a metal classic, it inspired the New Wave Of American Heavy Metal - bands like Shadows Fall, Killswitch Engage, God Forbid and Darkest Hour, as well as a multitude of other bands worldwide, equally informed by other Swedes, In Flames, Soilwork and Dark Tranquillity.

Elements of the Stockholm Sound have since filtered across the entire subculture of Heavy Metal, with the pace, drum-style, staccato vocals and lead guitar attack now being as much a fundamental to broad swathes of all sub-genres of Metal as doom-laden Sabbath riffs.

Sadly, in September last year, Tomas ‘Tompa’ Lindberg, vocalist in At The Gates and cornerstone personality of Extreme Metal, died from cancer.

A huge loss, and At The Gates followed his death with their final album with Tompa, the blistering Ghost of Future Dead, in April this year.

Many of the songs’ vocals were recorded shortly before he went into hospital for surgery, sadly never to recover.

Rolling back 35 years again to 1991, and Sunlight Studio was earning its reputation for enabling the sound of HM2 Death Metal and all that that entailed.

This was very much down to the skills and passions of its owner and producer, Tomas Skogsberg, whose work was fast becoming legendary in the underground.

So much so, in fact, that a young Death Metal band from Oslo, in neighbouring Norway, recorded their debut LP (again, for UK’s Peaceville label) in its hallowed halls, in 1991.

And this is where the roads converge between Death and Black Metal.

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Darkthrone had recorded several Death Metal demos since their formation in 1986, as mere pups, obsessed with everything that was happening in Florida, New York, Bay Area and Sweden. Their primitive, extreme but accessible songwriting resulted in signing to Peaceville Records, recording at Sunlight Studio and releasing Soulside Journey in 1991.

However, by the time it was released, Darkthrone were already on the turn.

TRUE NORWEGIAN BLACK METAL

Another band from Oslo, with more renown at the time, Mayhem, had created a stir with their anti-music.

Lead band member, record store and label owner, scene Godhead and soon-to-be murder victim, Euronymous, had declared Death Metal over-indulgent, too polished, popular, commercial and sold out to be relevant.

He declared, instead, that the only true metal was as rough as a badger’s arse, dedicated to a DIY aesthetic, original, Satanic and vile.

The worse it sounded the better.

Anything that could be done to make it repulsive, shocking and as defiantly unpopular as possible was the only way forward.

Anything less was for poseurs.

Mayhem had released the transitional noise-fest mini-LP, Deathcrush, in 1987, but it was their in-concert bootleg, Live in Leipzig, that had been circulating between tape-traders since 1990 that was causing bands to re-think their approach.

And that definitely happened to Darkthrone - with drummer Fenriz and vocalist/guitarist, Nocturno Culto, in particular.

Soulside Journey had been received quite well and Peaceville were keen to follow up and build on its underground success, but Darkthrone had other plans.

A now familiar story for Darkthrone; their career continues with the recent release of their 21^st LP, Prehistoric Metal, and they’re constantly evolving and devolving their sound, constrained by nothing but their creativity.

So retrospectively, it’s no surprise that the band went into the studio (the tiny Creative Studio in the band’s hometown of Kolbotn, a suburb of Oslo) and turned Peaceville’s expectations on their head.

Unbeknown to Peaceville at the time, the band had taken Euronymous’ manifesto and run with it. They agreed that Death Metal had become bloated, over-produced and lost its niche attraction.

It had become – shock – popular.

Death Metal also didn’t reflect their story. A lot of it was crafted in the swampy climate of Florida and, in a twisted way, the sound and the content reflected that. The bowel-wreckingly low vocals, the bass-heavy soundscape and the flamboyant soloing and technical intricacies suddenly felt entirely inappropriate to them.

They decided to take some of the songs they had already written for their sophomore Death Metal record and convert them to their new vision, supplementing them with a couple of entirely new songs that were written with a new style in mind.

That style retained elements of the Death Metal they had once adored; the blast-beat drums, the indecipherable vocals, but warped everything else away from what anyone would expect to hear.

Instead of a full, meaty, gore-infested production, they developed a sound that was as fragile and cold as their own environment was; there was very little bass in the mix; everything was high-pitched; all treble and a bit of middle.

Instead of the typical grisly-gore subject matter, Darkthrone drew more on the heritage of Norway, combining it with a heavily pagan element and, importantly, a recognition of nature in all its formidable, freezing forms.

Instead of vocals that were designed to resemble the release of post-mortem gas from a bloated corpse, their take on unintelligible violence was banshee howls that suggested, instead, imps, trolls and demons in legion.

Likewise, their guitars were excrutiatingly trebly and tremolo-driven, with simple riffs that doubled down on repetition to bring a trance-like mist into the ears of the listener.

They created something so cold you could see your breath when you exhaled while listening to it.

Even the LP’s artwork forewent the gaudy colour and horrific abstractions that Death Metal records had made staple. Instead, a blurred, lo-fi black and white photograph of their guitarist, Zephyrous, hurdling a wall in an overgrown and forgotten stretch of woodland.

With A Blaze In The Northern Sky, Darkthrone established every rule that the genre would follow, and many of which that are still stalwart cornerstones to this day. They defined an aesthetic that underpins a genre in a multitude of ways, and a big part of its inspiration was their objection to Death Metal and what it would become.

So as understandable as it is, that a listener who is unfamiliar with the music might think it all sounds the same, the truth is, in many deliberate ways, Black Metal was set up to be in direct opposition to Death Metal.

Death Metal reveled in the production. Yes, ‘murky’ was often the result, but the intended destination was (mostly) hi-fidelity. At least, in the 1990s. If not hi-fi, then cavernous.

Black Metal aimed for murky in the first place; ideally an ice-cold murk, where what you COULDN’T discern was probably more important than what you could.

It was lo-fi, DIY at its very best; unbridled creativity, freedom to experiment and the courage to do so. In many ways, it could only have happened at that precise time, in that precise place. The second wave of Black Metal’s inception is undeniably a product of its environment and the people so immersed in the nuances of its meaning.

The conserrvative christian cultyure of Norway at the time fueled the rtebel;lion in the artists that lived there. They church and its tyrannic over-zealous wiping out of Norway’s pagan heritage inspired hateful creativity and A Blaze… was the first ‘proper’ example of it.

Peaceville were pissed off.

They originally said they wouldn’t release the album. It sounded worse than the band’s cassette demos.

Darkthrone stood by their art. If Peaceville didn’t want it, Euronymous would release it on his own label, Deathlike Silence Productions.

Peaceville conceded.

A Blaze In The Northern Sky became one of the best-selling releases of the label’s catalogue and, in conjunction with the two LPs that swiftly followed, 1992’s full Black Metal opus Under A Funeral Moon and 1993’s timeless Transylvanian Hunger, the Unholy Trinity dwarfs the sales of any other artist or collection of records on Peaceville to this day.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Norway, Mayhem’s ramshackle anti-influence - and now Darkthrone’s too - was heralding a brief period of seismic creativity across the country.

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Perhaps, most famously, a loner with dodgy political opinions, Varg Vikernes, from Bergen, on Norway’s west coast, set a string of controversies into action with his debut self-titled release, Burzum.

He took Darkthrone’s template and simultaneously created a one-man version of it; perhaps even more raw and with a lean into pagan nationalism, lo-fi inventiveness and DIY determination that shames many of the other Black Metal bands of the period.

Varg soon became the poster child of Norwegian Black Metal; more for controversies than the music, with arrests, church burnings and abject racist rhetoric his calling card.

As vile as his politics is, there is no denying the power of his music, which rarely ventures beyond the atmospheric/Tolkien-eaque historical fantasy in subject matter. The sketchy stuff was mainly conveyed in interviews rather than (ahem) on the record.

Anything for some publicity.

While one could never forgive the politics, it is equally clear that Varg Vikernes remains a somewhat autistic teen-minded, RPG playing geek with a drive to shock and cause a statement.

I’m not justifying anything; just simply reminding us all that teenagers revel in pissing off the establishment in ever-more extreme ways and, although he still spouts his moronic nonsense these days, it’s hard not to see him as a railing idiot still dining out on controversial “glory days”.

The very definition of the need to separate the art from the artist, I’m personally willing to make that effort. I know that my life would be that much more bereft of inspiration without Burzum’s music in it.

Vikernes pioneered several different aspects of Black Metal, particularly elements of the sound; vocals at one point were screamed through a helmet comms microphone to give them an extra shitty tone. The drums were ineptly self-played, emphasising enthusiasm over nuance; Vikernes is clearly not a drummer.

The repetitious riffing was firmly established by him as a cornerstone of the style. The pagan/Satanic angle, alongside the high fantasy, cemented as core lyrical content. This aspect alone pushed the genre further forward, especially apparent in the mature fourth Burzum LP, and undeniable classic of the genre, Filosofem.

Equally, the one-man-band studio project, a necessarily symbolic and practical solution to writing and recording such niche, self-centred music, is still a pillar of the genre’s aesthetic, and was given validity as the ultimate misanthropic pariah statement for the music’s creation and “brand” integrity.

Furthermore, when Vikernes was incarcerated for Euronymous’ murder in 2004, circumstance (solitary confinement, limited resources beyond a PC and an old synth) proved a creative instigator for a sideways move that developed a whole new sub-genre, Dungeon Synth.

Designed as a way to soundtrack tabletop RPGs with appropriate music, the mainly instrumental music didn’t exist before Varg and Mortiis simultaneously - and independently - brought it into being in the mid 1990s.

What had previously been used solely for atmospheric intros on Black Metal LPs with the odd track on Burzum’s - still comparatively obscure - albums, now delivered stark, medieval, lo-fi and simplistic album-length atmospheric content in its own right.

Mortiis had been the bass player in Emperor, another Norwegian band present at the start of the genre’s second wave. Emperor came from Trondheim, a way north of Oslo, and swiftly forewent the lo-fi abrasion of their early demos for richer, more progressive, synth-driven orchestration with lush production and epic scope, further extending the boundaries of what the Black Metal genre could accommodate.

Dimmu Borgir worked in a similar area to Emperor, but their work was moderately less epic and slightly more pompous. They became one of the most successful Black Metal bands of the 90s and noughties; their drama and accessibility carving a unique spot in the upper echelons of the genre’s commercial hierarchy.

As well as Burzum, Bergen also birthed the incredible Immortal, whose self-effacing take on the dour-faced imagery of the genre’s protagonists is still compelling, thirty years on. They had recruited a young Vikerness on guitar in their previous Death Metal incarnation, Old Funeral.

A little later, but no less impactful, Taake came down from the hills surrounding the city and, along with the hyper-Satanic Gorgoroth, created a scene on the icy coast easily as hard-hitting as the one in the nation’s capital.

Oslo’s Ulver and Haugesund’s Enslaved shared a Viking fascination that further established the genre’s roots in historic pride, folklore, legend and atmosphere.

Satyricon, also from Oslo began as trad Black Metal but ended up bringing Black ‘n’ Roll - more swinging and bastardised sub-genre - to the (black) masses.

I’ve always found them somewhat nondescript and uninspiring, but there you go.

So; all these early bands were instrumental in defining genre archetypes and, against the more rigid boundaries of Death Metal, established Black Metal as a subtly more stylistic broad-church.

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EUROPEAN BM

And the vision(s) spread; first across Scandinavia: Sweden’s Dark Funeral, the dogmatically wonderful Marduk and the hyper-melodic and politically controversial Dissection represented ABBA country perfectly.

Finland’s flawlessly tuneful but politically abrasive Horna, Sargeist, Behexen, Beherit, Satanic Warmaster, Impaled Nazarene and Archgoat.

The UK took its piece of the pie, with the pomp shock of Cradle of Filth and the epic nature of Winterfylleth, but despite there being many low-tier Black Metal bands, few broke out from the underground like they did elsewhere.

Blood Countess remain one of the most exciting UK bands right now, though, and certainly have the potential to resonate beyond the hardcore in the future with their traditional take on Black Metal with a high concept of Elizabeth Bathory’s vampiric crimes and compellingly screeched female vocals, courtesy of The Cuntess.

As the years passed, Europe became a hotbed of distinguished bands, many of whom emphasised their own take on the defined sound of Black Metal.

In France, Les Legions Noires established itself as a black circle of misanthropic, lo-fi disgust, with bands like the long-serving Mutiilation, as well as Peste Noir waving the flag for lo-fi Trve Kvlt activities. Blut Aus Nord, Deathspell Omega and Alcest all added Franco-progressive elements to their sound, which ensured complexity, subtlety and depth were just as vital to the genre as shit speakers and inept timekeeping.

But French favourites of mine are Nocturnal Depression, whose mournful take on melody helped to establish Dark Suicidal Black Metal as yet another differentiated sub-genre of Black Metal.

Eastern Europe tends to deliver ultimate anthemic melody, with Poland’s Mgła, mainstream B-list celebrities Behemoth and up-and-coming ear-wormers Piołun all representing their country well.

Neighbouring Ukraine has a notable scene, led by the atmospheric Drudkh, and related groups, including Hate Forest and Windswept. 1914 are more bombastic and are thematically rooted in the trenches of the First World War. Their paeans to human cruelty take on a special resonance now that their country is under incessant bombardment from Russia.

And then there’s the morose mortality of Blade and Bath…

Switzerland originally birthed the genre, in many ways, with Hellhammer/Celtic Frost, and it still delivers exciting and groundbreaking music today, in the form of Vìgljós Paysage d’Hiver and Bölzer.

Germany offered us Bethlehem to start with, but more recently Mgła-inspired mysterions Groza and more WWI enthusiasts, Kannonfieber, who all continue to bring new elements into the global scene.

Likewise, Greece, Turkey, Italy, Iceland… all have their own unique scenes, each individual and very much motivated by creatively interpreting the genre’s boundaries that were set up so long ago in Norway.

For me, the most interesting of the European scenes stems from Portugal, where another Black Circle evolved, and has its hallmarks in anonymity, total raw and obtrusively lo-fi recordings, often as solo projects or via shared line-ups. Black CiliceCandelabrum, Consummatio and Irae all come highly recommended if you’re looking for some challenging music that rewards in the long run.

Of course, I’m not even scratching the veneer of the worldwide scene; I’m just name-dropping some favourites that I think are great examples of an incredibly varied form.

Black Metal has reached every lonely corner of the globe; partly due to its themes of isolation, sadness and misanthropy, but equally because the one-man-band cornerstone of the genre really has enabled the music to be created anywhere, by anyone.

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USBM

Special mentions, naturally, go to the bands from America, who took the Black Metal ball and really ran with it, from north to south, east to west. Some of the most respected names in the genre - and the most atmospheric, engaging and inventive - come from the huge continent to our west.

North America alone brings atmosphere in abundance from Wolves In The Throne Room, Panopticon and Canada’s Nordicwinter.

Vaste swathes of wilderness are inspiring, obviously.

Elsewhere in the states, Lamp of Murmuur, Lamp of Murmurr, Judas Iscariot and Inquisition all provide some of the world’s most naggingly anthemic anti-anthems, while Leviathan and Xasthur more than represent the one-man-band-depressive-BM quota.

I am less familiar with South America’s contributions, beyond originators Sarcophago and genre-hopping experimentalists, Invunche.

Meanwhile, heading north; Canada, particularly Montreal, has the most engaging current scene from across the globe, to my ears.

The Metal Noir Quebecois scene just keeps revealing more bands that specialise in a hyper lo-fi melodicism that is both enigmatic and addictive.

Forteresse are the uncrowned kings of a scene that, as well as sharing a melodic aesthetic, generally espouses a nationalist independence, steeped in years of oppression by America and Canada. It conveys an indomitable spirit.

To that end, many of the bands vocalise solely in French-Canadian and are politicised in an anti-authoritarian way; nothing to do with race, mind you. The scene’s nationalist pride has far more to do with the fight for integrity than anything resembling racism.

Alongside veterans Forteresse, Spectral Wound have become enormously successful in recent years. Their three fantastic LPs testament to the power of righteous melody and soul-stirring emotive hooks.

More underground but no less important are Conifère and Vespéral, who share members and deliver punked-up Black Metal anthems with simple single-note synth lead lines.

There are none more addictive.

Sorcier des Glaces, Délétère, Csejthe, Crépuscule and Gris are further recommendations that barely scratch the surface of what Quebec has to offer the global Black Metal scene.

COMPLIMENTARY OPPOSITES

So you see - although Black and Death Metal are easily dismissed as sounding the same, there’s much more to it ; not just in the sonic hallmarks, but the intent of the musicians and the credos of the cultures themselves.

In many ways, they couldn’t be more unlike each other… but they belong together.

My journey with Black and Death Metal began in the early 1990s but didn’t become fundamental until 1997/98. Since then, both broad genres, but especially Black Metal, have become a spine from which hangs my passion for the tunes, the culture, the personalities and the sheer inventiveness that still, thirty years on, shows no sign of abating. As the original artists get older, they somehow become more interesting. The youthful naivety and vigor may fade, but the passion and creativity remain – and the driver to create, be original and inventive – still fuels their fires.

Death Metal has become a genre I love, especially the newer bands inspired by Old School fundamentals. The bands on labels like Me Saco Un Ojo, Dark Descent, Nuclear War Now, Invictus and Everlasting Spew all share a drive and aesthetic that is utterly compelling.

While perhaps not quite so individual or creatively ambitious as Black Metal, at least to my ears, Death Metal nevertheless provides a seemingly unending well of inspiration to me, for different reasons. It’s more fun and sensational than Black Metal. Although I really enjoy the “Caveman” riffs of the more primitive-minded bands, the genre also offers more complexity and intricacy than most Black Metal does.

So each side of the coin scratches a different itch.

Hopefully this piece has helped differentiate the two genres and has delivered some leads that you might follow and become just as excited as I am. There is a wealth of material out there waiting to be discovered. I hope you find something worthwhile.

Until then, ave, Frostgore Demons!

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Dominance of Darkness Records

Darlington is a market town situated in County Durham, in the North East of England, close to its border with Yorkshire.

It has no particular claims to fame, beyond those linked with steam train history; the first passenger locomotive and railway opened there in 1825.

Otherwise, three pertinent facts emerge about the place through cursory research. I particularly enjoyed the stipulation of specific detail in this first one, taken from 2016’s uSwitch Quality of Life survey:

“In 2015, Darlington was selected as the 7th best place to live in the UK. This decision was made based on the low house prices and rental fees, low unemployment rates, mobile phone signal and high-speed internet.”

Well done, Darlington.

Vic Reeves, absurdist comedian and UK National Treasure, grew up there. He is on record as stating the following, as a core memory of childhood:

“I once found a stick in Darlington and I carried it all the way home.”

Lastly, Daniel Defoe, journalist, merchant, spy and masterful author of Moll Flanders and Robinson Crusoe, two of the greatest creative achievements of early 18th Century literature, recalled that in Darlington, he found:

“Nothing remarkable but dirt.”

Most generous.

We can fairly safely assume, therefore, that Darlington is one of those places that impresses almost entirely because of how unimpressive it is. And that’s just fine; God knows, we don’t need accolades from the ‘high and mighty’ to justify the existence of anywhere special.

My point is just that not much appears to happen in Darlington.

It’s almost its own USP.

The bright lights of Middlesborough are but thirteen miles to the east. Newcastle, just 45 minutes north. The options for anyone feeling stranded within the town boundaries sound virtually endless. And for those even more desperate to escape, Teeside International Airport is just fifteen minutes away.

I say all this with affection, originating as I do, from the similarly claustrophobic small-town voids of North Norfolk.

I wonder if this sense of being by-passed in favour of more ostentatious achievements in other towns and cities plays a part in creativity?

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Suffolk is similarly detached from the nation as Norfolk is, and in the 1980s and 90s it spawned its own vibrant sub-scene of hardcore, noise and otherwise subterranean musical activity; The Stupids, Extreme Noise Terror, Optimum Wound Profile, Deviated Instinct (from nearby Norwich), The Adicts and later, Cradle of Filth, along with a raft of other underground artists (of lesser renown) spawning in their wake.

Two of these later arrivals; Eastern Front and Daemona, feature Nina, now known as The Cuntess, frontwoman of Blood Countess, in their ranks.

At some point after Nina’s operational duty in those bands came to an end, she ventured north, directly or not, to Darlington.

This is where Blood Countess were spawned and where she married guitarist, songwriting partner and all-round Black Metal sage, Steve Blackwood, the man behind Blackwood Productions, who orchestrates the infamous Blackwood Gathering festivities in Cumbria. He also lends his talents to seemingly innumerable other musical projects, including: Peasant, Arcane North and the particularly ace, Wynter Myst.

The pair of them are UKBM royalty. Our very own corpse-painted Posh and Becks.

Indeed, the ranks of Blood Countess swell with UKBM luminaries: Átok (Guitar), Darianth (Bass) and Nachttyrann (Drums), as featured in bands such as Tyrant, Angerseed, Necro Ritual and Sathamel.

My point is that Blood Countess are Black Metal veterans and know exactly what they are doing. So; it should come as no surprise that they are delivering some of the best, most addictive and highly accomplished traditional Black Metal in the UK.

And I just wonder, even though I’m sure they don’t all come from Darlington itself, how much small town England has to do with their dedication, energy, motivation and, ultimately, their success?

Probably not much, but speaking as someone who grew up resenting the lack of obvious things to do in my vicinity and having to find my own entertainment, I understand how that frustration can lead to a space for dedicating yourself to something specific, such as making music - but also as a motivation to get out, change things and, importantly, do it yourself.

They say, don’t they, that punk really happened in the provinces. The touchpaper was merely lit in the cities. Its undying longevity has been fueled by estranged teenagers needing inspiration and rebellion in an otherwise conservative middle England or A. N. Other grey and listless suburb.

A demand for voices that are unfamiliar, exotically unsanitary and shocking.

I think the same applies, broadly to Black Metal. At least in the UK.

Maybe it even works the opposite way – it certainly seems to in Norway. The isolation becomes something they kids crave and specifically move towards, rather than run away from.

I’m looking at you Nocturno, Gaahl and Ildjarn.

Just a thought.

Regardless, for whatever reason, Darlington has been good to Blood Countess. The unique combination of like-minded souls that have come together within its perimeter have forged an undeniably profound sound, with clear inspiration, but a bold and audacious approach to where it wants to go.

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Something of a concept band, Blood Countess’ subject matter is mostly focused around the titular ‘Blood’ Countess Elizabeth Bathory, her family and community; all of whom, as legend has it, came together to varying degrees, united under a single banner of murderous intent.

Together, they were responsible for the deaths of 80 young women across a twenty-year period, between 1590 to 1610. Four female servants were put to death for the crimes, and Bathory herself was imprisoned until her own demise, in 1614.

The Hungarian Countess supposedly bathed in the blood of her victims and went some way to inspiring Stoker’s concept for Dracula.

Grisly and grim.

The sadistic legends of Countess Bathory have served to inspire so much Black Metal that she is as fundamental to its existence as Corpse-paint is.

From the band Bathory itself, to Venom’s infamous paean, Elizabeth Bathory, via Cradle of Filth’s Cruelty and The Beast and Dissection covering Tormentor’s ode to her; the tales of the vampiric serial killer and all her perversions are part of the established lore of a genre.

And Blood Countess have made her core to their songwriting, imagery, tale-telling and shtick.

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I first listened to Blood Countess when I stumbled on their debut LP during a curious tangential wander through Bandcamp’s UK Black Metal catalogue.

It had not been out for long, and I snapped up a copy immediately, I was so taken by their sound. It feels a little bit reductive to cast such a vulgar aspersion, especially after the sad business affairs of last year, but their sound makes me think of a stripped back Cradle of Filth. Lose the pomp and the overblown orchestration, take the band right back to guitars and drums and there is a kinship there.

Equally, I hear Immortal in the mix, some Vinterland, Dawn and Dissection too - but Blood Countess are more raw than all of them - it’s just the melodicism in the guitar work that compels me to compare them.

Vocally, The Cuntess leaps with elegance from guttural growls to banshee screams to bloody wails - sometimes in a single line - and never, ever sounds weak, delicate or anything other than pure evil. Her stage presence, too, is gigantic - which, given her five-foot frame is a significant achievement.

When I saw them, she was spewing bile into the eager faces of the front few rows, staring down the adoration with the confidence and intimidating power of Attila Csihar.

Don’t underestimate the band’s might, based on your own unfortunate and inaccurate misogynist preconceptions.

You’ll regret it.

The first LP, Occulta Tenebris, is a flawless example of raw but melodic UK Black Metal. Astonishing as it is that the band weren’t elevated to Donington headline status on the back of it, it is, nonetheless, true. From barn-storming opener Storms Over Carpathia to the addictively anthemic Orgasm Leading To Death and Ferenc Nádasdy, the LP doesn’t stop beating you about the skull with chains of retribution and horror.

It’s a genuinely brilliant record.

Which might, in some part, be the reason we’ve had to wait so long for a studio follow up. In April this year though, Imperatrix Sanguinis arrived; almost exactly four years after the first LP’s release.

And it’s worth the wait, though I really hope it won’t be so long between this one and the next; it feels wasteful for the band to not deliver their solid gold songwriting more regularly. If not for me, think of the children.

No time is wasted. Chains of Misdeed opens the record in a maelstrom of blast-beats and immediately memorable guitar descents and bludgeoning riffs. Atok and Steve Blackwood harmonise their guitars in an engaging and convincing way - not to a Thin Lizzy or Iron Maiden degree - think more Slaughter of the Soul than Powerslave.

Their course is firmly set for evolution, not revolution. Imperatrix Sanguinis is very much a continuation of Occulta Tenebris’ timbre. And that is something to be thankful for; there are still depths to be plumbed and details to be uncovered in their grail-like quest for the ultimate Black Metal sound.

Sadistic Marchioness approaches Marduk levels of speed and intensity; sheer ferocity, blasting from start to end; a massive, dense wall of eye-to-eye violence. A half-time drop-out chorus riff adds compulsion and articulation to the blasting and proves, beyond any shadow of a doubt, the songwriting chops of Steve Blackwood and the musicianship of his band-mates.

It’s epic and even contains a solo that borders on NWOBHM melodicism. It’s fucking excellent and impossible not to bang your head to.

Perfect.

It is followed by the long-windedly titled A Humiliating Plea for the Glorification of Erotic Suffering. It is here that the band show some moderately progressive chops, with time and tempo changes peppering every section of the song, bouncing expectation around like a fly in a thunderstorm.

The Scavenger’s Daughter takes a while longer to grow on you. There are immediate guitar hooks, but such is the ferocity of the vocal delivery, it takes a few listens to get where The Cuntess wants to take you.

It’s a spitting, nasty, spewing and sadistic place:

“Now fear me

You betrayed me

Lowlife low class

Fear me now

I cannot wait to torture thee.”

Shackles of Sin is a short instrumental, delivering more torturous ambience, extending the whip cracks and chain rattles of the very start of the album. It only lasts for a couple of minutes before launching into Purge of Trenčin, which doubles down on the At The Gates tremolo leads and ear-worming riffs, that push the S&M lyrics through at a blistering rate.

Despite the overtly sexual nature of the writing, it feels more horrific than seedy, perhaps because of the camouflaging effect of The Cuntess’ immaculate but indecipherable howls. But it’s the anthemic guitar lines, that sweep the song to its bloody conclusion, that really make it memorable. Fantastic playing and well-conceived musicality.

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If there’s a single on the record, it’s Schadenfreude. It’s been used as a promo track a couple of times that I have seen, and deservedly so. It’s coherent, almost-singalong chorus helps it stand out from the other tracks in a way that borders on commerciality:

“Abuse me, misuse me

Exploit me, destroy me

Mistreat me, deceive me…”

I’d love to see Schadenfreude get the band some of the recognition it deserves. There are some immaculate, muscular riffs played behind the lyrics that deserve the attention of more listeners.

The album closes with Anna Nádasdy, an ode to Bathory’s daughter - who, by all accounts, called out her mother’s bad behaviour with bile and disgust.

At least, so the song suggests.

It’s a powerful one to end on, that takes the horror and flips it, introducing a sense of a broader conscience to the abominable party. Musically, it brings chugs and triumphant, circling motifs aplenty, and the incessance of Nachttyrann’s drums, on this song especially, really hammers home the epic power of the band’s writing and playing.

There’s even a little titbit of synth to end on, for those with a broader BM palette than I.

What a satisfying listen.

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I love that Blood Countess have chosen a theme and stick to it - they’re certainly all-in with a name like that - but I wonder if their chosen subject matter can genuinely support many more LPs in the future.

Assuming that the band will at least need to consider different topics sooner or later, I’m super-interested to see what they will be. Blood Countess can, I’m sure, turn their talents to any corner of the occult and bloodied mysterious history of humanity and make it shine. I can’t wait to hear their efforts.

The band are touring the UK throughout July and I believe are making the odd European festival appearance over the summer. I urge - nay - command you to see them if you get the chance to.

I can’t, for the life of me, see how anyone who would read *Expletive Deleted wouldn’t absolutely love the band. So; make the most of the opportunity if it knocks at your door.

I’m catching them (again) in Norwich and can’t fucking wait.

In the meantime, there are two studio LPs for you to embrace and bed in with.

Each is as good as the other.

With Imperatrix Sanguinis (incidentally, ‘Empress of Blood’), the band have created what I hope is NOT their Magnum Opus, because I want more and I want it ASAFP.

But even if this was all we got from them (Oh! The Horror!) it would be an enviable legacy to leave behind.

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If there is any justice in the world, Blood Countess have huge success in front of them. They have the riffs, the imagery and the style to slice through the flaccid membrane that divides their reality from a wider audience. I hope they bring out the scalpels and make the incision soon. It would be a shame to see them go, to some selfish extent, but the thrills they’d bring so many new listeners would be worth it.

I fear they’ll need a stronger label behind them to achieve all they’re capable of, though. Dominance of Darkness don’t seem to have done a brilliant job of distributing the record or pressing it up in suitable numbers.

A least, in the UK, getting hold of it from anywhere other than the minimal stock the band had on Bandcamp, has been prohibitively difficult and has artificially increased the price and collectability of a record that’s only been out for a few weeks.

That feels somewhat inept, to me - and, crucially, is underestimating the reach that the band is capable of achieving. I hope they don’t lose momentum because of what seems like lacklustre label support.

Imperatrix Sanguinis isn’t without occasional, very minor faults. The mix could be clearer in places and some of the lyrics could do with a polish pass, but these are negligible niggles.

It’s a 9.5 out of 10 from me and, I think, will be from a high contingent of listeners.

It’s difficult to see what anyone would marked it down for or why it wouldn’t be an end-of-year favourite - for those who get to hear it, at least. It will certainly be near the top of mine.

And who knows, in years to come, Darlington might have a claim to fame, after all; the birthplace of one of the greatest Black Metal bands the UK has ever produced.

I hope someone, somewhere, sometime, is excited enough to write that down and shout it out from the rooftops loudly enough for them to hear all the way away in the ‘boro.

Ave, Vampiros!

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Blood Countess Bandcamp

Dominance of Darkness Records

Blackwood Productions Bandcamp

Epitaph Records/Deathwish Inc.

Hum of Hurt is Converge’s second album of 2026. Recorded in the same sessions as February’s Love Is Not Enough, Hum of Hurt is very much the spiteful sibling.

Although it’s been specifically called out for NOT being a partner-piece, it seems ridiculous (and difficult) not to compare them.

Besides; it’s such a novelty for a band to release two albums in the space of four months, that it’s fun to think of them as a related pair.

I wrote about Love Is Not Enough upon its release, and loved it.

Hum of Hurt takes its role as truculent sibling seriously. Seemingly more obnoxious, demanding and confrontational. Where Love Is Not Enough was emotionally intense, with self-reflective paeans to disappointment, loneliness and despair, Hum of Hurt feels more directly angry; fierce. Savage. More likely to kick you in the shins, slap you in the chops and stamp on your whining face than to sit in its bedroom moping afterwards about the beating it just received from its brother or sister, which you could be forgiven for thinking might be Love Is Not Enough’s modus operandi.

Where Love Is Not Enough was wonderfully varied and unpredictable, Hum of Hurt, while equally fascinating and satisfying, doubles down on trad. hardcore intensity and Converge’s own reputation for consistent ferocity. It merges established genre tropes, such as indignant rage, bludgeoning riffs and incessant groove, with Noise Rock’s growling bass-lines, dissonant guitar tones and cleaner vocal stylings.

This all lends the songs something unique and engaging; there’s Fugazi and Big Black in the mix, alongside Botch and Keelhaul. But it’s all wrapped up in a Converge blanket of semi-familiarity, good will and awe-inspiring power.

And it never lets up. Listen for yourself:

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The album artwork is considerably less iconic, dramatic or aspirational than Love Is Not Enough. But the songs within give that LP a run for its money. Nate Newton’s bass feels louder in the mix, bringing a sludgy riffola to the forefront of the soundscape and reducing the fragile impact of Kurt Ballou’s guitars, in a positive way; the pronounced bass adds a more dynamic and tangible foundation that thuds throughout the entire length of the album. The guitars taking a clearer, glassier role; icing on the proverbial mud-cake.

Likewise, Ben Koller’s drums seem to explore more tub-thumping dimensions than usual – not that his work is ever conventional but, for instance, the tribal pounding at the heart of Dream Debris never gets tired.

Never. Gets. Tired.

There’s a ton of brutal and addictively rhythmic depth to the whole LP.

Where the band are projecting slightly differently, is in the way Hum of Hurt showcases the versatility of Jacob Bannon’s vocal delivery. The anguish is always there, and a scream is never far away, but an underplayed clean delivery becomes a standard on some songs and it gives them a brooding, apprehensive intensity that feels a little less familiar within Converge’s oeuvre. It’s always been present, of course, but Hum of Hurt seems to make it more of a motif. And there are some handsome bellows emitted that feel more akin to Isis than Converge at times.

Especially on Side Two.

To think that the band had all these songs to toy with from one big session just shows how creative they are when they come together. There’s not a ringer across either LP, which is astonishing. And I love that they released two single LPs rather than one double. Even if it punched, a double LP would have felt bloated.

All double LPs do.

I love a 35-40 minute LP and loathe an over-indulgent, hour-plus doubler.

By playing both albums together, it is easy to see how the songs of one go together better than they would have done together.

It can often sound like a bit of a shit excuse for factory-line content and contracted releases, but this time, tonally, both LPs are quite different, and it feels like a genuine division of songs has been made based on aesthetic, not quality. Any conclusions that suggest that Hum of Hurt songs are B-Grade compared to Love Is Not Enough are drawn incorrectly.

Compared to Love Is Not Enough, the songs on Hum of Hurt are more brutal and destructive. Sanguinary.

Slipped nooses, staining reds, drowning in blood, slit throats, plunging blades, dull blades, murder scenes, raging at dying light… this is the violently depressive imagery that roars straight up and out of Bannon’s chest cavity. There is animation and movement involved in Hum of Hurt’s despair. There’s less futility than that which coursed through Love Is Not Enough’s grooves.

More fight. More rage. More blood.

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The album launches with the piccolo snare roll of Slipped Noose and no prisoners are taken.

This is Converge at its most bilious and racketeering. Mathy but identifiable riffs that genuinely allow you to feel the blood speeding through your veins. It’s 1.43 of extreme intensity that cannot just be played through once. It epitomises Converge in 2026, if anything does. Doing what they do. What they have always done. But still pushing boundaries of expectation, sounding fresh as daisies and more exciting than any other hardcore/metal band has a right to assume that they do.

The punching off-beat pacing of Doom In Bloom is angular, spacious and awkward. The main riffs lurch and lumber, but with extremely sharp edges. Like twisted metal in a car wreck; abstract shapes that will make you bleed if you get too close.

There’s more texture in this one song than most LPs by other bands have across both sides. The angularity segues into drum and bass driven filth that has the nerve to call itself a verse. Fucking hell – those drums are ENORMOUS – and crashes into the full-on chorus, where everyone comes together in the glorious refrain:

“No one has the right to judge me
As I pick at open wounds
Some cuts are deeper than lifetimes
Roots that kill must be removed.”

Cor.

If the two minutes of It Only Gets Worse don’t make you recall the rush you experienced when you first heard Jane Doe, nothing will.

To me, this is archetypal Converge.

It’s all of the place in the best possible way; centred around a classic, winding, Kurt Ballou riff that jabs your brain and stays at its core for hours after the song has faded away. The benefits of the super-saturated, bass-heavy mix are clear - this is Converge at their heavy-as-fuck finest. Listen to it on headphones for the real detail.

Detonator has one of the strongest Fugazi influences of the album. A lot of the structure is reduced to just bass and drums, exercising the band’s influential loud and quiet dynamics between verses and choruses - but Jacob Bannon’s voice drips with MacKaye-esque tonality and phrasing. Especially in the verses. It’s clean, mid-pitched and delivers staccato syllables that recall the In On The Killtaker and Red Medicine era of Dischord’s Finest.

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Try to tell me that the intro riff of I Won’t Let You Go wasn’t originally written in the wake of Saint Steve of Albini’s passing in 2024. Much admired by Kurt Ballou in particular, it wouldn’t surprise me at all. It’s got Big Black written all over it. Likewise, the monotone clean verse vocals.

It all changes up as soon as the rest of the band comes in though, and then, true chaos ensues; everything jumps around like frogs on springs; wailing and whining guitars, scattershot drums and Nate’s stoic bass underpinning everything and lending the meltdowns a coherence that makes them addictive.

It’s my track of Side One, which is high praise indeed, because it’s stacked with premium content. Ballou’s guitars are so strong. It’s difficult to listen to I Won’t Let You Go without concluding that Converge are you favourite band ever.

As I’m listening to this digitally, with the vinyl on pre-order and not expected to land for another month, I’m guessing that It’s Not Up To Us concludes Side One, as I Won’t Let You Go segues straight into it.

I hope I’ve got that right, because it makes for a great side finisher; it’s a grower and a basher, with variance across its tempos and structure that makes it tricksy to pin down - and won’t start Side Two as well as Dream Debris, its follow up, would.

I’m probably wrong. The timings would be out of whack if I was right.

Oh well.

Nate’s bass on Dream Debris is subsonic, as its rolling rhythm takes longer than it needs to bring the song in. That it takes its time is a statement of the song’s confident intent and sets Side Two up for the way it really delivers on its own terms.

It contrasts quite heavily with the first side, feeling less about the bangers and more about progressive heaviosity. Ben Koller’s drums roll along with Nate’s bass; the toms echoing the depth of the four-string thrum. Vocally, Jacob slips between almost spoken word, low-in-the-mix mumbles and full frontal nudey-rudey bellows, which add a new slant to his vocal pallet. There are a few moments on Side Two where he adopts an Aaron Turner-style roar, which immediately changes the tone and intent of the “typical” Converge sound. Dream Debris is incessant. It batters you without mercy. It thuds and slams. It’s all bottom-end chug.

Which makes It Used To Matter stand out like a sore thumb in its wake. It’s a delicate and moody instrumental that has an epic feel to it that makes it more satisfying than Love Is Not Enough’s comparable, but more ambient and rambling instrumental, Beyond Repair. Time has lent a skippable quality to that, but It Used To Matter feels more integral to the flow of Hum of Hurt. It’s better situated, too; the perfect respite, lulling you into a false sense of security, before the absolutely titanic duo of Hum of Hurt and Nothing Is Over begin.

The title track is Man of the Match for me. It could easily be my favourite Converge song, let alone just of this record. My god. The riffs. The bellows. The band sounds so huge.

Those Aaron Turner tones I mentioned earlier? Here in abundance.

Ballou’s Metal-As-Fuck main riff, alongside his masterful control of feedback are awe-inspiring. His guitar wails and squalls throughout the song, only letting up to deliver the snaggiest, most addictive riff of their catalogue for Bannon to bellow over. Isis, OMG and Neurosis have NOTHING on this.

“Soul-searching leaves a murder scene
With evidence of such catastrophe
Mirrors reflect what the world doesn’t see
I’m not the man I wanted to be.”

‘Nuff said.

The whole band is on fire. Ben Koller’s drums utilise shimmies, ghost hits, thunderous rolls and crashing cymbals equally, proving that every member of the band is a virtuoso, whether they’re comfortable acknowledging that themselves, or not. It’s a substantial song, in every way possible.

Nothing Is Over (apart from the record) lurches and bludgeons its way through its five-minute runtime, almost concluding the album with a bit of everything the band has hurled at you for the last half hour.

They’re not dressing anything up at all.

They are simply motivated to beat you into submission in the only way they know how: via the power of The Titanic Riff. We get downplayed elements, screeches, howls and roars. Anthemic, held chords, intricate single note leads-lines, sampled drones, slamming and saturated bass and detailed and progressive drum patterns.

And it’s tight. There’s no room for air – forget fat.

This is what both 2026 LPs have in common – no bloat, at all.

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Hum Of Hurt is a super-satisfying listen and different enough from Love Is Not Enough to justify an entirely separate release. I like that both LPs feel related but separated and, regardless of what they’re apparently not, that they feel like companion pieces; two sides of a coin, each with their own distinct identity.

I’m really interested to see how these albums are represented in end of year lists, because intellectually, one can’t really exist without the other, so choosing a “better” belter will be a very difficult task indeed.

I can also see how some reviewers will find it hard to justify two precious spots to one band in their top ten for 2026. I’m looking forward to hearing the excuses.

For me, they will both undeniably make my top ten. Which ranks higher? I guess it depends on my mood. They both offer something quite different.

For me, Love Is Not Enough is more addictive and instant. I heard it and was immediately blown away and couldn’t wait to chase to the end to play it again.

It could easily be the band’s most electrifying release.

But Hum of Hurt is less distinct. In a positive way. It’s more consistent and considered; there’s more depth to the writing and it feels like there’s more to discover. It’s a grower. Love… is a shower.

Tonally, too, they are discreet entries into an astonishingly high quality catalogue of recordings. If Love Is Not Enough is, indeed, Converge’s most electrifying release, Hum of Hurt might be their most satisfying.

It will be interesting to see what happens over the next six months, but I have an inkling that Hum of Hurt will grow and dominate over Love Is Not Enough. We’ll see.

Either way, any self-respecting reader of *Expletive Deleted owes it to themselves to own both records. They’re lifers, without a doubt.

You can have faith in that.

Hum of Hurt won’t let anyone down.

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Feeling somewhere between an old salty sea dog and one of Starfleet’s own voyagers into the unknown, I set my bearings for the North.

Scarborough, North-East Yorkshire, to be precise.

Fortress Festival has been held there annually for a four years now, but 2026 was my initiation.

It’s a two day gathering of the Black Masses, drawn to the picturesque coast beneath the ruins of Scarborough Castle to celebrate all things creepy, crawly, screechy, squawky and 100% Black Metal.

As the festival has grown in reputation (the 1800 capacity size remains the same; wonderfully accessible, vibrant and familial) so has the enviable quality of its bill.

This year, headliners included Salt Lake City’s Gallowbraid – their first EVER live performance; a band who has been worshiped and adored by thousands since their lone album, the atmospheric Ashen Eidolon, was released in 2010.

Mortiis Himself headlines Sunday’s Dungeon Synth stage and on Saturday, Norwegian veterans, Old Man’s Child dominate proceedings.

It’s a star-studded cast, for sure, but my interests lie further down the bill…

Which is all to say that I packed my bags, set phasers to stun, and departed my dismal homestead in rural Norfolk for the Bloody North, full of trepidation, anticipation and a sense of adventure…

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EL KAPITAN’S LOG: STARDATE: 29052026

Arrived in Scarborough for the incoming weekend’s blackened festivities at Fortress Festival, courtesy of The Reaper PR Agency.

For those unaware, Fortress is an annual Black Metal festival that is held in the ornately Victorian, beachfront Scarborough Spa venue over two days.

Arriving a day early means two things; a chance to orientate; exchange tickets for wristbands and to pick up some festival merch - but also taking advantage of the free pre-fest gig at clifftop pub, The Cask and Keg.

This is a big deal, because three bands are on, including one of my UKBM faves, Blood Countess, who are opening proceedings at 7.30.

This is why I find myself, having stopped at a camping shop sale to pick up a cheap bed mat, in the back of my car with the seats down, kicking off this missive in the moments before a nap that will while away the time before the pre-fest gig admirably, in a car park just round the corner from the pub.

Large crowds are anticipated, and I’m sure as shit not going to miss The Cuntess - the charmingly monikered vocalist from Blood Countess - or the chance to pick up the vinyl version of their mega new LP, Imperatrix Sanguinis, which has been ludicrously difficult to find in the UK since its release last month. Bandcamp sold out quickly, and the band’s German label, Dominance of Darkness Records, seem to have absolutely appalling UK distribution. I hope that doesn’t affect their sales, because it’s ace. Even better than their 2022 debut, Occulta Tenebris, which is a solid LP in its own right.

I’m not staying in Scarborough. One of my dearest pals has an abode eight miles South, in Filey. I don’t drink, so I don’t mind driving back to his pad for sleeps. Hence, I’m suffering in the back of my clammy car for a few hours, rather than on a bed in an air conditioned local AirBnB.

I arrived at midday; early, to pick up my wristband. So I’ve already killed three hours, wandering Scarborough’s streets and beach. I had no idea the place was so fucking hilly. I’ve only been once before; to the clifftop castle. You don’t get an accurate idea of the town’s topography until you walk its streets, though. Still; at least I got my steps in. And while doing so, I even bumped into my favourite UK Metal YouTuber, Sean, sometimes known as The Beast, on the High Street.

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So it’s been a good day thus far. The weather’s fine, the Metallers are out in force, and I got back to the car before my arse crack became a sweaty swamp.

All’s well with world.

*

Bored with the back of the car, I wander to the Cask & Keg. Pleasant. Welcoming. Metallers. Found a spot to pitch my arse for a few hours on a balcony above the cellar club entrance where the gig will happen. At least I’m guaranteed to get in.

Glad I bought my Kindle.

*

7Doors to the subterranean cellar club open on time. I’m second through the door. Straight to the merch stand for a record and t-shirt.

Achievement unlocked.

I got Blood Countess’ first LP from Bandcamp in 2023 and have overplayed it. I’ve already rinsed the new one, Imperatrix Sanguinis digitally, and now I can play it properly.

How exciting. It’s a precious thing. Contender for a place in my top ten of the year.

I bustle to the front of the tiny club. I’m right there, inches away from the nano-stage that can’t even fit all the players on it.

The massive queue outside won’t even shrink by 50% and the club will be full. Shoulda woulda coulda.

The four instrumentalists take to the stage and plug in before they’re joined by The Cuntess. She’s tiny. Five foot, maybe. In thick soled Doc Martens. Lots of straps. All members have corpse paint splattered across their features, but only The Cuntess really pulls it off.

And then a mighty roar.

The Cuntess’ diminutive size belies a bellow from hell and the shriek of banshee. Transfixing and engaging, she has the already sweaty room in the palm of her hands.

What a front-woman. Eye contact. Fearless stare downs, flailing raven hair.

The sheepish character that initially took to the “stage” is instantly replaced by a Hellion with the confidence and presence of Elizabeth Bathory Herself.

The lads back her up flawlessly - at ear-splitting volume. The drums patter, crash and thunder, the bass, ably wielded by Son of Beetlejuice, thumps and blows, while the two flanking guitars dance, strike, glisten and crack through the air at ear-piercingly harsh volume and in a brittle, glassy but powerful tone.

NB: As the festival proceeds, I end up engaging with one of the guitarists and he’s a truly lovely, humble fellow who can barely believe how highly I praise their performance.

I stand agape and grinning throughout, my expression flicking in time with every chug, howl, glare and fist-pump.

Blood Countess are fucking merciless and absolutely brilliant.

The only thing that spoils it is an inconsiderate and excitable, bald pissed-up football fan at the front who’s so desperate to start a pit that he almost tackles the band. He’s fucking everyone off. There’s not the room to flail like a thug and I’ve got a record to protect.

Aside from that, the short set is awe-inspiring and entirely memorable. The rest of the weekend’s bands will really need to try hard to better the impact that Blood Countess have made. They’ve kicked the festival off in superb style.

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Once their last song squeals to a halt, I bump into Johnny Mac from YouTube’s Rock and Metal Plus and have a brief chinwag before exiting.

Another lovely fellow.

There are two other bands on this evening; one of whom is Wode, from Manchester, who I wouldn’t mind seeing, but I figure there are a lot of people still queuing outside and I’ve seen what I came for. So I fuck off into the night and let the next in line take my spot. One in, one out.

I hope they had as good a time as I did.

All the better for being so brief and focused.

Blood Countess are playing locally to me in July, and I can’t wait to see a full set from them. This evening’s taster has whetted my appetite considerably.

If they don’t grow exponentially on the back of the new LP and the tour supporting it, I’ll eat the Cuntess’ Dutch Cap.

I’m convinced their trajectory is almost vertical.

Mega.

EL KAPITAN’S LOG: STARDATE: 30052026

I awake, confused, in a rest-home for the elderly. A mute nurse’s face suggests, beyond doubt, that my consumption has worsened and that visitors stopped coming to my bedside weeks ago. As quickly as I wake, I slip away again and dream of a baking day below the South Cliffs of Scarborough.

Unlike yesterday, where exchanging wristbands meant a queue of single numbers, today I join a snaking line, many hundred people long. Some with wristbands, some without. The doors will creak open in ten minutes.

My first job is to head to the Black Cilice merch stand, where hopefully I will not be too late to take advantage of their wares. An announcement has already decreed that items are limited. They are my key band for the weekend, so I hope there’s some items available - preferably before the doors to the main hall open at 11.45, ready for Groza at midday. Another band that’s unmissable for me.

But before that, hopefully some merch and my morning ablutions…

*

Fully abluted, Groza shirt in the bag, and disappointed with the Black Cilice merch (because I already had it all), I wait patiently for the doors to the Grand Hall to swing open, almost on time. I easily get a position at the front of the crowd, right in the centre of the stage.

Magnificent. Epic. Majestic. Groza kicked off the day with those superlatives and so many mighty more.

I was really looking forward to them and I wasn’t disappointed. The sound, the lights, the performance, the set… pretty much perfect.

The one shitty thing was to have to leave the room ten minutes early to ensure a place in the queue for Black Cilice, five minutes away at the other end of the Spa, in the Ocean Room.

Already the queue is a hundred strong and stationary beneath the searing heat.

Within five minutes it’s doubled. By the time the doors open, it’s trebled.

Glad I sacrificed some of Groza.

There’ll be some disappointed sweaty people behind me, no doubt…

*

The Ocean Room is larger than anticipated, but it soon fills up.

Again, I get to the front with ease, coincidentally next to where most of Blood Countess are situated, too. I take the opportunity to extol giddy praise on their performance from last night before Black Cilice take to the stage; robed silhouettes, barely visible amongst the dense fog of dry ice.

I was wondering how Black Cilice would maintain their enviable anonymity, but they do so with aplomb, via their ethereal camouflage. It’s hard to see much at all - even being as close as I am - they’re not a band that rely on dynamic visuals to amplify their message.

Instead, we get a virtually static performance, which deepens their elusiveness and the barely shifting shadows only serve to add more mystery to their presence.

I was also wondering how the FUCK the Portuguese Enigmas would replicate their recorded sound live - it’s so lo-fi, drenched in reverb and uniquely mixed that I was imagining that they’d struggle to pull it off. It’s so integral to their aesthetic that my curiousity was in overdrive.

It needn’t have been. The band’s attention to detail is obviously as involved with the sound as it is their cossies. The set mostly focuses on songs from new LP, Votive Fire, and the live interpretations are markedly on point with the already familiar recordings.

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That said, when the band plays live you hear the central riffs more clearly and somehow that makes the songs even more meditative. I spent half the set with my eyes closed, allowing the shards of sound to slash around my cerebral cortex to the point I almost went to the back of the crowd to sit down and soak in the sound-bath.

Instead, I opened my eyes and enjoyed the dizzying array of props Anonymous presented on a song-by-song basis; from chains to lanterns to what looked like a genuine human skull. All held in varying degrees of ceremony for extra spooky vibes.

The performance was totally unique, entirely engaging and magnetically absorbing.

If it hadn’t been for the out of time flailing from the six-foot-three adolescent moron in front of me, it would have been amazing. Instead, the idiot frantically sucked on his emotional-support-lemon-rind as he banged his head into nausea.

But there you are. The Yute’s gone crazy, gigs are quite peopley and therefore have the potential for considerable annoyance. Regardless, Black Cilice were amazing.

Thank god. My hopes were pinned squarely on their collective hair-shirted ass.

Justified.

Now a break for a sandwich and an ice cream. A quick sit in the open-air social area and then onto the next event; Ackercocke doing a talk in the Theatre.

Off we pop.

Ackercocke we entirely engaging interviewees. I’ve never been a massive fan of what they do. I had Rape Of The Bastard Nazarene and Goat of Mendes when they came out, alongside Choronzon - and I liked them well enough, but they never transfixed me. I haven’t really returned.

But after the chat today, which is all centred around Choronzon – it’s celebrating its 23^rd birthday this year - I’m excited to. They’re on this evening and I’m really looking forward to it. Such quietly intelligent guys; humble, present and gracious.

It was also a sit-down interview which, at my age, makes any event twenty times more appealing.

Straight out from the Theatre and across the landing to the Balcony of the Grand Hall, for Ossaert. This is a band I’m almost entirely unfamiliar with, but I’m clearly in a minority, because the Grand Hall is packed tor their bombastic set of thunderous Black Metal.

I was hypnotised; the drums, especially, stood out and drew me in to the multiple sheets of noise that make up their sound-stage. Really good.

Good enough, in fact, for me to buy some Ossaert swag; a shirt and an LP.

But I need a shit, so I leave ten minutes early and tackle the dubious stench of the gents’, three floors down.

Thus relieved, a breath of fresh on the balcony and a chat to a local, unfamiliar with the Black Metal scene, but a fan of associated music and mindsets; we talk Neubauten, Throbbing Gristle, Swans… he recommends a Scandinavian author to me and I recommend Rampen, last year’s fantastic Neubauten LP, and urge him to listen to Darkthrone.

I hope he does. I hope everyone does, though.

By the time our chat concludes, it’s time to go back to the Theatre for Dodheimsgard’s talk.

I don’t have hugely high hopes; not too bothered about the band; but the talk is being conducted by Dayal Patterson from Cult Never Dies, who is always engaging and knowledgeable.

And, importantly, it’s a sit-down event, as previously mentioned, so I’m easily persuaded to give it a go.

*

I’m sure if you were familiar with - or better still, a fan of - Dodheimsgard/DHG, that would have been a great fireside chat.

For someone less aware though, it was a moderately informative take on Yusaf Parvez’ working process and the way he views himself as an artist within Black Metal. Interest comes from him seeing himself as Black Metal, rather than the output specifically.

This grants him the freedom and explains why Dodheimsgard feel somewhat unbound by the Black Metal genre, despite originating in Oslo’s Elm St bar alongside Darkthrone, Euronymous et al.

Regardless, I’m out of there early to secure (the same) seat in the Grand Hall for Ackercocke.

My patience is beginning to wear a bit thin though. Exposure to far too many people for my fragile sense of self and The Nausea.

Which is beginning to pass over me in abundant waves of repulsion.

*

Ackercocke’s set is dedicated to celebrating the anniversary of Choronzon.

Musically it’s ace; a hearty mix of awkward riffs and pounding blasts. But the over-use (for my delicate palette) of clean vocals brings it down for me. Enough to remind me it’s tea-time, so go for a fairly bland and uninspired pizza in the open-air food court.

I don’t finish it.

Instead, I go and join the growing queue for Totenwache, who are great.

Pure Black Metal; grim, frostbitten fun, but by the end, my old knees and hips have given up and I confirm that “Fuck it. Going to bed.” is the option that I am, indeed, taking.

What an ace day.

*

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EL KAPITAN’S LOG: STARDATE: 31052025

Sunday morning. Brings the dawn in. I enjoy a leisurely lay-in, finish my book and await the arrival of my long-lost pal from Sheffield.

Social battery rejuvenated by our brief coupling, I make my way back to Scarborough from Filey in no rush.

There’s no one unmissable (for me) until Vinterland, at tea-time.

And even then, it’s Métal Noir Québécois titans, Vespéral, that I’m really excited about, who follow them.

Once I arrive at the Spa though, things take a turn towards tension; a flurry of activity at Vespéral’s merch stand makes me heart race uncomfortably and I leap towards it once I see that they have vinyl for sale - for their other project, Conifère, too!

Hence the flurry.

This is a huge deal, because neither record can be found for love, nor (lotsa) money in the UK. And stocks are limited on the merch stand. Really limited. And people dither. And everyone is buying a record. And the crowd grows. It’s too much to bear, but I eventually snag a copy of each highly-sought-after record, relieved that I can finally delete them from my wants list.

Feeling celebratory, I buy a Conifère shirt, too. Whoop.

Now with a skip to my stride, I accidentally jump the queue for Fief, Dungeon-Synth semi-royalty, in the Theatre. My conscience is moderately relieved once I get in and see loads of seats free and it dawns on me I probably pissed about 30 people off by my innocent-enough queue-blending techniques.

The Theatre soon fills to capacity. Bigger names later on - Old Sorcery and Mortiis - will fill up more quickly, if this is anything to go by. Which helps me plan my engagements for the day - that are few and far between.

For now. Old Sorcery are my one clash of the weekend. I love them. Their refined Dungeon Synth is tiers above many other examples - but they are scheduled to conflict with Vespéral, who are right down the other end of the building at the same time, in the Ocean Room.

I’d regret missing the Quebecians more than Old Sorcery and the queue is likely going to be prohibitively long for them, too, so a decision that has been festering in the back of my mind since the bands were first announced last is finally resolved. I’m more in the mood for some Métal Noir Québécois brilliance, despite Old Sorcery being a seated event, like Fief.

Yesterday I thought that might clinch the deal, but I’m still dining out on the invigoration of the vinyl snatch…

Snatch. Lol.

NB: In other news, Emperor have been announced today as secured headliners for next year. I’m no fan, but there’s no debating the calibre of the billing. Which gives me a lot of enthusiasm for who the organisers will fill the rest of the bill with.

Fortress is Emperor’s only UK date, next year, too. Early Bird tickets go on sale tomorrow, so looks like I’ll be a happy returning Fortressian in 2027.

NB: Second wave Early Bird Ticket attained, Monday, 10.49am. First, cheaper, wave already sold out.

I’m sure Fief will be recalled by me as the surprise of the day. A really gratifying performance. One man from SLC in Utah with his keyboard and Mac, in front of a screen showing old black and white Errol Flynn-style medieval movies against his music, which is the perfect modern soundtrack to them.

No attempt to disguise the synthesized approximations of lutes, flutes and (probably) newts in suits of armour.

The stuff I’ve heard before has been too Hey-Nonny-Noh, Medieval Bard-like to interest me, but there’s something in seeing the music performed live and, in fact, against the old 10fps imagery that feels… right.

I leave the auditorium surprised and satisfied.

One egg salad sandwich later, and I’m upstairs in the Grand Hall for Fluisteraars; and they impress as well.

Again, first time paying much attention to them, but, again, Fortress proves to be the perfect vehicle to unearth new discoveries. No nonsense, atmospheric Black Metal without the theatrics.

Catchy riffs by accomplished musicians. Mildly progressive in that they’re less predictable than most, with dynamic tempo changes, compositional variance and a confident presence.

The melodies stand out because, much of the time, they’re led by the bass instead of using it as just supporting rhythmic thud. Which, of course, ably delivers in non-lead moments. The bass really is the driving force of the quintet’s sound.

It makes them unique, at least on this Fortress bill.

An opportunity to chill for an hour was appreciated, so perused stalls and ambled away from the venue for a bit to get some air and cool libations.

Found Wi-Fi for the first time in the weekend and caught up on some comms briefly before back into the fray for Vinterland in the Grand Hall.

Same seat as before, balcony, stage right, neatly above, and with a good view of, the action.

Vinterland have had trouble with their flights but it seems they’ve finally arrived. I’m looking forward to them; their one LP from 1996, Welcome My Last Chapter is the reason we’re all here. Something of a landmark melodic Black Metal LP, and the Swedes are dedicating their set to it.

And if the soundcheck that I’m privileged to witness is anything to go by, their sound is going to be IMMENSE…

… and I wasn’t disappointed.

Not sure how long it’s been since this lot reformed, but as they disbanded shortly after the release of their debut, it’s been approaching thirty years, at least.

You’d never know it.

Tighter than Dad’s wallet.

And what a sound, they do this thing where cyclical single noted riffs hypnotise you on top of (fairly) traditional song structures. They were mere pups when they wrote these tunes, so by that measure alone, they’re not overly complex or technical, and that’s totally to the benefit of the songs.

Suitably icy, at times recalling the lead patterns of Transylvanian Hunger and the frontman’s stance resembles Lemmy Himself. Their sound sits between the two. I mean - it doesn’t sound remotely like Motörhead, but they are clearly fans - the bass player even thrums a Rickenbacker - they wouldn’t be doing what they do, the way they do it, if it wasn’t for Kilmister & Co.

It’s a lovely thing to see (and to be reminded of the importance of).

I leave just before the end of their set with a shit-eating grin across my chops and make my way to, who I hope will be my band of day, Vespéral.

*

Shit. Band of the FEST.

Well - at least - a rival to Blood Countess…

Vespéral were INCREDIBLE.

I was right at the front, inches from the insanity. Heavily tattooed and enigmatic squit, Mathias, fronts the band - as well as Conifére - and what a magnetic little fellow he is. Wow.

Squirming and writhing up on his feet; losing his cape by the end of the second song and from there on in, stripped to the waist like the very best Stooge.

The music, so tight - and actually punk as fuck, beneath the cosmic keys.

There were a couple of times in the set where I felt like this must have been what seeing Misfits in 1979 was like. Blistering, in your face and dark as hell. The guitar swirls and stings, the bass punches like Rocky and the drums are varied, tricksy and engaged.

Best of all, the songs are pinned down by anthemic “Woahs” for the very best in Misfits-style audience anticipation.

Unbelievably, Vespéral gave Blood Countess a run for their money.

I didn’t think anyone could snatch the glory from Darlington’s finest, but Vespéral might, at least, have drawn level…

They are so good, in fact, that there seems little point in waiting an hour for Mortiis, just for the sake of it, so I leave on a high.

Totally buzzing from their energy.

It will sustain me all the way home.

To add pleasure to poignancy, my first Fortress winds up with another catch up with Sean The Beast and Johnny Mac.

What a lovely pair of true gentlemen. We compare experiences and extortionate merch bills. Looking forward to seeing some of their haul on their channels soon.

I feel like we may have the potential to become firm friends in The North.

Or if they come South, obviously.

Hopefully, before next year’s Fortress, at least.

The icing on a very fine cake indeed.

Fantastic.

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Fortress Festival

Blood Countess Bandcamp

Groza Bandcamp

Black Cilice Bandcamp

Ossaert Bandcamp

Ackercocke Bandcamp

Totenwache Bandcamp

Fief Bandcamp

Fluisteraars Bandcamp

Vinterland Bandcamp

Vespéral Bandcamp

Sean The Beast on YouTube

John Mac (Rock and Metal Plus) on YouTube

IRON BONEHEAD RECORDS, 2026.

Anyone that listens to music that is comparatively off-the-beaten-track will, at some point and, fairly regularly, I’d wager, be met with the bemused gaze of the uninitiated and a comment that questions their sanity, taste or hearing. It’s a stock response that illicits an external smile but an internal eye roll from the evangelist and falsely positioned self-satisfaction from the under-achieving joker.

There is no band that I consider more “worthy” or likely to receive that response than Black Cilice. So wilfully obscure that their music can only be found on physical formats, Bandcamp and YouTube; no streaming service is employed to promote them, no press sings their praise, no social media spreads the word and finding information about them in the forms of interviews or articles is like searching and failing to locate the Golden Fleece.

I say “Them”, but it’s a Portuguese “He”. This much we know. Although, live, I am assuming that the anonymous godhead that pilots Black Cilice recruits like-minded pals for blistering in-concert hijinks designed to ignite audience adulation. I’ll find out soon enough. They are the highlight of the Fortress Festival bill for me, which is due to take place in Scarborough, of Fair fame, in the North East of England at the end of May.

Their music is so uncompromising and sounds so harsh, mysterious, noisy and impenetrable that, to me, it is incomparably original, invigorating, compelling and enigmatic. To a more casual listener, it is easily dismissed as noise.

Their loss.

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I’m not saying any of this with Trve Kvlt superiority or to come across as a holier than thou gatekeeper. That doesn’t interest me. Indeed, quite the opposite - I want you to hungrily source the tunes yourselves, embrace the murk and get some Black Cilice in your meaningless little lives. You will be all the better for it. I’m just framing the situation honestly.

But even I concede that it won’t be for everyone.

Black Cilice demands your full attention, you see. You can’t listen casually. A bit like jazz; you must dissect what’s going on, buy into the philosophy and surrender to its intent before the rewards begin to arrive.

And arrive they do, in droves. Every Black Cilice release is fantastic, for that reason alone. Every time you listen, the detail, the harmonies, the musicality and the depth slowly emerge from the white noise maelstrom to expose finely-crafted, intentionally emotional and well-structured music that will, quite literally, engage you differently every time you listen to it - for years to come.

But you have to want it to, and you have to be patient. There are no shortcuts. The tunes are in control, not you. All you can do is surrender to them. Slowly expose the detail. Reassemble it. Digest it. Rinse and repeat. Eventually, through the magic of familiarity and attentive listening, you will find yourself sharing this amazing pan-dimensional world with the songs; you’ll be lost among their majesty and their scope.

It’s really worth it.

So very little music has the capacity to draw you in and hold you close these days. It seems to follow formulas designed for instant gratification, creating tunes as disposable as a sanitary junkie’s toolkit. Not so with Black Cilice. Use once and destroy is the antithesis of their music. They are the blight growing on the spent needle, waiting to spawn in the veins of the next user. There’s nothing sterile or immediate about their approach to writing. It’s designed to grow over time, like an infection. Bacteria in a petri dish.

Black Cilice’s artistry is a fragile wall of (initially) indecipherable sheets of glassy hiss that demand attention, imagination and articulation from the listener, instead of the artist being prescriptive and putting the work in themselves. This turns things on their head in an interesting way. The music isn’t selling itself to you. You are deeming yourself worthy of it. And it doesn’t care either way. It clearly has less fucks to give than a flaccid eunuch strapped into a cock cage.

But before you get to the tunes, you must (ahem) penetrate the chaotic dissonance that lies in front of them. With everything that Black Cilice does, there is a veil of feedback and reverb to negotiate. This dense wall sits at the front of the mix, looming like the icy barricade of Westeros, but this isn’t holding any White Walkers back; it delivers them; its sound the cacophony of their screaming birth. Everything has raced to the bottom, deep within the murk of the mix. A fragile density. A sad and obliterated melancholic ambience of abuse.

There is Raw Black Metal and then there is Black Cilice. Ildjarn, Consummatio, Vlad Spirit, Grausamkeit, Paysage D’Hiver, Mütiilation, Wulkanaz, Sanguine Relic, Conjuro… the list goes on, and all across the board there are gems to be found within. But nothing compares to the depth and complexity of Black Cilice.

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So, assuming you manage to break through the veil, your next obstacle is the playing itself. At its heart it is simple; wonderfully repetitious drums that alternate between blasts and four to the floor projections. Barely audible and all-the-more punishing because of it. A hardly-existent bass. Vocals that are delivered via inhuman shrieks and howls which, too, are buried so low in the mix you could be forgiven for missing them altogether on first listen. And then the guitar; tremolo chords in mantra-like sequences that bring the hooks to hang your attention on.

As plays progress, so the riffs finesse, and you realise that what you thought initially was just a barrage, is intricate playing with nuance and detail - certainly a lot more than you can snatch at first, anyway.

There’s also a droning behind the conventional instrumentation that is hard to pinpoint a source for. In some ways it should just be a keyboard drone - and it might be - but that flies in the face of expectation a bit - Black Cilice don’t come across as fans of synthy bits - so I’m assuming it’s guitar and feedback.

Now take all of that oddly mixed instrumentation and give its own associated wall of noise; feedback and positively cavernous reverbs. Set that second sound stage on a final bed of grimy grit and (even) more icy reverb and you have a three-layer cake that only Black Cilice can adequately bake.

It’s an ominous confection of loneliness, melancholia, mist and mystery.

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Votive Fire is their first LP for four years. That’s quite a while, for Black Cilice. It’s also approached more progressively than previous outings. Four songs, each one between seven and ten minutes in length. So not a long LP, but enough to feel hypnotic and leave a strong impression.

Opener, Released By Fire, is the catchiest of the album, with a grand, almost regal chord progression at the heart of its raging duration. It conjures thoughts of sacrifice, ritual and damnation in a candle lit chamber, deep at the end of a long forgotten cave system. Damp, dark and grim. Lost.

It’s powerful, confrontational and exudes longing, despair and futility. That a band can imbue all this with indiscernible lyrics and repeating related riffs and sequences is nothing short of outstanding. It never gets dull or repetitive. The drums do a lot to maintain interest, constantly re-contextualising the instrumentation and keeping it engaging.

Votive Fire as a whole feels less riffy than past excursions; it seems to be focusing more on becoming aural wallpaper; shrouding a mood, rather than creating something to bang your head to for five minutes. It’s an honourable intention, a brave stake in the ground and an experiment that pays dividends.

Vows Sworn For Centuries moves around a little less than the preceding track, seemingly content to blast its way through its seven-and-a-half minute length. Although it’s a cool song, it’s probably the least memorable of the four, with its density proving to be the most difficult to break through. There are slower passages though, and these end up being the strongest elements because they stand out so clearly from the rest of the barrage.

Into The Inner Temple’s pounding toms give it an ancient, tribal - or maybe medieval - vibe that mixes things up a bit. I defy anyone to listen to the song’s enigmatic central motif and unpredictable drum patterns and not find yourself bobbing your head along with the maelstrom. It’s a total banger, and I’m really hoping they play it live next week at the seaside.

The album closer is the oppressive and daunting Deconstruction Of All Realities. Which sounds like it should be the theme for Galactus, striding the cosmos, devouring worlds. There something indiscernible in the tone and mix that is so sorrowful it strikes with an emotional to the listener’s solar plexus. The chorded mantra has a longing to it that tugs at your soul. Most of the song is mid-paced and magnificently anthemic.

Exhausting, in the best possible way.

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All four songs are great, and they make Votive Fire a really satisfying listen; perhaps Black Cilice’s MOST gratifying LP. By leaning into the ambience and bringing a modicum of clarity into the mix, they’ve distinguished the album in a catalogue of such quality, it could easily have been lost, otherwise.

It offers something different, something intangible and something profound. It’s difficult to put your finger on it precisely, but fifteen or so listens in, and I’m getting closer to understanding it and raw, inspiring magnitude.

Listen to Black Cilice. But approach with intent. Don’t expect to get it for free - the biggest rewards come from putting the most work in. You need to get shit under your fingernails and swallow the suffocating, stale air. You must embrace the environment and dig in. Become resident. Even for just thirty-odd minutes.

It’s worth it, to become an acolyte of their darkness.

Ave, Dark Zealots!

Black Cilice Bandcamp

Iron Bonehead Productions

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(Peaceville Records)

LP | CD | CS| DL

4.5/5

Darkthrone have just released their 21^st studio LP, Pre-Historic Metal. The band is now 45 years into their career. They released a massive Box Set of early albums a couple of months ago to celebrate their definitive impact on the Black Metal genre.

Your washed-up and ex-corpse-painted scribe, Sean Millard, weighs in on Progress versus Nostalgia and comes down on the side of growth and evolution. It’s time to hail contemporary Darkthrone. He argues that their longevity and creativity resonate just as loudly as the output from those wayward kids of yesteryear…

Almost exactly two years ago, give or take a few days, Darkthrone released their last album, It Beckons Us All. This is significant, not only because it’s still ace and on regular rotation on both my turntable and in my car, but because it was the first review I wrote for these hallowed pages.

Now here we are in 2026, and Kolbotn’s favourite sons have followed up that LP with their next belter, Pre-Historic Metal, and I have the privilege to cover them again. Cause for celebration. For me, at least.

Just like the last record, I pre-ordered it. A record, cassette and LP Box Set, with an additional “player” vinyl copy and digital version for automotive entertainment. All picked up on release day from Peaceville’s distribution centre, joyously local to me in sunny Norwich. You might call me collector scum. I would probably describe my infatuation more accurately as fanaticism. I hold my hand high. Fuck it. Darkthrone are among my favourite-evers. They’ve never released a duffer to my ears and, FYI, are never likely ever to. So, if you’re hoping for a lack of bias right here, I’m sorry, out of luck. Never mind. Move on.

My thus-far extraordinarily accurate theory regarding the band’s inability to release a shit LP is proven correct, yet again, with Pre-Historic Metal. Of course, I love it. I was always going to. From the sarcastically wonderful sleeve art of the standard LP, featuring a pitchfork-wielding Fenriz in full Firmament Roar, to the dubiously tragic felt-tipped Cro-Magnon alternative artwork of the Box Set, my expectation was firmly set for a wondrous collection of magical riff-tastic treats that were impossible to anticipate coolly. It’s an extremely exciting event for me.

For those few readers unaware, Darkthrone released the first second-wave Black Metal LP, A Blaze In The Northern Sky, in 1992 although Mayhem had released the Deathcrush EP in 1987 and could be cited as the real pioneers of what would end up being called True Norwegian Black Metal. They were honing their chaotic sound live for five years before Darkthrone pipped them to the post by being the first to commit the harsh stylings to an LP, in all its icy and lo-fi glory.

By doing so, they established the ground rules that so many bands would adopt as their own. Burzum, Satyricon, Enslaved, Dimmu Borgir, Gorgoroth, Immortal and a million others would jump from the homespun flaming spires that Da Frönes had built. From there, those bands would all deliver their own interpretations of that same blueprint, with added orchestration, ‘higher’ production values and differing levels of tune-smithery. But despite all the varied reworkings of the core sound over the years, no one has really come close to Darkthrone’s definitive rawness.

As time went on, the band refined their sound and went through numerous phases of metallic homage on future LPs; from bringing elements of thrash, hardcore, punk, NWOBHM and Christ-knows-what-else into the mix. Their willingness to experiment without constraint (and revel in their own giddy fandom) has meant that the band has remained compelling and enthralling, even when the (very) occasional LP is more miss than hit. There’s always something interesting delivered. They are forgiven their mistakes and praised for their disregard for criticism. At least, by me. Darkthrone just do what they want to do, regardless of trends, fads and Trve Kvlt judgements. They’re essentially untouchable.

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The two members; Fenriz (mainly drums, but also some guitars and vocals) and Ted “Nocturno Culto” Skjellum (guitars and vocals) share writing duties and have become minor deities in the Black Metal world for their refusal to play live and to create music absolutely on their own terms. To the point, now, where it seems a nonsense to call them a BLACK Metal band at all.

They’re much more than that, despite their definitive impact on the genre in the 90s. They have become genre-less, in a way. Of course, their music is always METAL, but only in the broadest sense, with prog, trad and thrash metal being just as present in their writing as black, death or doom is. A refusal to conform imbues everything they do, perfectly balanced with the need to have riff-led old-fashioned FUN. In Lemmy’s words, they play Rock ‘n’ Roll. It’s (probably) as simple as that.

It has been just the two of them in Darkthrone since Transilvanian Hunger, their third Black Metal LP, in 1994. They’ve got a cool way of working. When they’re inspired to do so, they write and record. If they’re not, they don’t. Thankfully for ‘Frönes Fanatics, they’re a pair of fairly inspired individuals, so something new arrives from them every couple of years. Pre-Historic Metal is their 21st ‘proper’ studio LP. Amazing.

For Trve Kvltists, nothing compares to the band’s Unholy Trinity: A Blaze In The Northern Sky, Under A Funeral Moon and Transilvanian Hunger. These three albums cemented their reputation and defined a genre. It’s undeniable that those records are amazing and some of the best Black Metal ever recorded. One more “Full Black” LP came next, with the harsh Panzerfaust, in 1995. Then five exemplary Blackened Death/Thrash LPs peppered the next near-decade of activity, before the band’s love/hate mid-period of D-Beat Hardcore/NWOBHM-influenced fun dictated their trajectory until midway through the 2010s.

Their latest period, for me, has become their most interesting phase. It begins with Arctic Thunder in 2016 and has been followed every year or two with near-perfect examples a broadly old skool, Motörhead/Celtic Frost sound, with added psyche, punk and METAL seasoning. In 2019, we got the flawless Old Star, followed in fairly rapid succession by Eternal Hails, Astral Fortress, It Beckons Us All and now, Pre-Historic Metal.

Each ‘modern’ Darkthrone LP is different to the last, but the same riffy quality is drawn through each album, like gnarly nuggets of gold, sifted through silty river-bed filth. The standard is consistently high, inventive and engaging. The recordings are trademarked as reliably no-frills, no fuss and to the point. The playing is enthrallingly loose, rolling and proudly Metronome Free (since 1987, as it clearly states on the record sleeves). There’s a clear expectation of no bull from Darkthrone, and it’s a key reason their legions of fans love them so much. They can be trusted.

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Dependably contrary and wilful; you either buy into the Darkthrone dream, or you don’t. They don’t give a fuck, either way. They do it because they need to, not for your benefit.

But here’s the rub, even if they don’t care what you think, I do. Because if you don’t buy in, your life is markedly less fun than it could be. A bit like choosing not to laugh at farts. And that makes me feel sad for you. It is that sadness that motivates me to write this down and to try to encourage you to listen to them. Darkthrone make me a better, altruistic person. A heavy metal evangelist. YOUR Heavy Metal Evangelist. This is the way.

Treating the post-2016 Darkthrone catalogue as its own discreet phase, Pre-Historic Metal beats It Beckons Us All. It probably takes Eternal Hails too, and even gives Astral Fortress a run for its money. You need to understand how high that praise is. It means that this latest LP is up there with Arctic Thunder and Old Star, which I consider two of the best Darkthrone LPs ever and, therefore, two of my personal favourite albums ever-EVER.

It is therefore safe to assume that I am hearing true greatness in Pre-Historic Metal. Will you? Maybe not, but I’m going to do my best to try and convince you to open your ears and give it a go, at the very least. What have you got to lose? If you’re even faintly a fan of METAL – in all its varied interpretations and grunting, over-driven glory – you owe it to yourself to prick up your ears.

Let the needle drop. I dare you not to launch a huge shit-eating grin when the opening riff of the sensationally titled “They Found One Of My Graves” kicks off the LP. My blood runs thinner and my heart races neck and neck with Nocturno Culto’s right wrist as the Venom-inspired thrum thunders out of the speakers, with the first lines of the album epitomising not only Darkthrone, but METAL in general:

“More often than never

There are days when God is absent

The terrible shudder of restless graves

Like a constant sleet in your mind.”

Go get ‘em, Ice-Viking Fly-Boys. It’s a brilliant opener that really sets the tone for what is about to come. The band sound more energised, engaged and dynamic than some cynics, somewhere, will argue they have for years.

That such magnificence can be achieved with reshaping such a minimal number of riffs in a song belies the band’s punk rock/neanderthal roots. Deliberately reigned in, the no frills philosophy of the band is exemplified by They Found One Of My Graves. A triumphant refrain brings the track to a satisfyingly epic close, complete with Star Trekking sweeps on a distant keyboard as the guitars fade away. Wonderful.

The now familiar string-bending main riff from preview track, Pre-Historic Metal, follows hot on the heels of ‘Graves. I liked it as a preview track, but it felt a little by-the-book, hampered somewhat by Fenriz’ vocals. I do wish he kept his hammy operatics to side projects like Coffin Storm and Isengard. He can’t do clean vocals. They add a level of comedy to proceedings that undermines the gravity of the riffing and songwriting.

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You tend to come away with his vocal style, labelling a song’s level of success even when, as they are in this case, only sparsely cringey. Otherwise, the song is great. It works better situated as part of an album flow rather than in isolation as a single. Magnificent riffs, adulation of Metal in all its forms. Flicking between trad and doom-derived stylings as easily and quickly as a hooligan biker on a newly resurfaced by-pass.

Siberian Thaw is the most progressive track on the LP by some margin. It also contains my line of the album: “The brittle leaking pen of memory”. I wonder if the band has ever been so enigmatic. The riffs chug, the sticks dance across the ride cymbal. The strings bend. The song takes on a winding and snake-like motif, writhing beneath the repetitious chanting of “Siberian Thaw!”. Until halfway through, instrumentation ceases to be. It dissipates to a single droning tone, before gradually building back up again via laid back patterns and sensationally melodic, addictive and (still) winding basslines.

With a snap, we’re back to the chugging and sliding main motif, peppered with slamming guitar punctuation and Sabbathian dirges. The band often places an epic prog song fairly centrally to an album’s set, and I always enjoy them, but Siberian Thaw feels genuinely like a stand-out among esteemed company.

Deep Rooted’s main guitar line delivers a riff-face in the listener, immediately. Its mid paced slide, chug, off-beat rhythm seems as specifically designed for face-ache as The Hardship Of The Scots did on Old Star. Yeah. THAT GOOD. And the vaguely outraged “The silent treatment of the forest” line properly makes me smirk; as though the lads are offended as much as in awe of the Nordic woodland wonderland that inspires them. A magnificent mid-paced grinder. Triple A.

The Dry Wells Of Hell kicks of Side B with a great NWOBHM riff that, unfortunately, inspires Fenriz to launch into a castrato wail again that is sadly, ill-advised. Step in, Culto, FFS. I worry that everyone’s telling Fenny it sounds good. I admire the intent more than the result. Otherwise, the song’s something of a barnstormer, with harmonising guitars and interesting re-shapes and re-timings of related riffs, which gives the song a coherent bed for flourishes to tuck themselves in on. I particularly enjoy the riff towards the end of the song that plays slightly in front of the beat, which pricks your ears up before the fade.

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The oxymoronic So I Marched To The Sunken Empire follows. Perhaps the boys have been watching Pirates of the Caribbean for inspiration. The idea of them both in their jammies, doing an Eric and Ernie, nomming popcorn in front of the telly on a sleepover, is a beautiful thing. I really hope that happened. It’s a very musical interlude. Instrumental, led by a diaphanous keyboard motif and harmonising guitars – but not, in any way, disposable.

Its purpose seems to be to lull the listener into a false sense of security before the punked up Eat Eat Eat Your Pride blasts in with the paciest leading riff of the LP. It moves into a sliding and winding line that recalls the earlier stages of the album. And even drops out to clean and chorused guitars, elevating the weight of the song and changing the dynamics of it entirely before dropping back down to a sliding chug again. Which bludgeons your earholes in the best possible way.

Despite the disposable song title, the writing manages to wrangle one of the albums most memorable riffs and satisfying songs from its own progressive mire. Rockist histrionics a go-go. Complete with off-mic outtake at the end.

The now-traditional-riff-regurgitation of Eon 4 brings the really satisfying album to a close. Eon has appeared in a different incarnation on the last three LPs. Each time, we are greeted with a revisited and rewritten song, based on the riff that first appeared on the band’s Death Metal debut, Soulside Journey, in 1991. And when a riff’s as good as that, why not? It’s an ever-evolving self-referential motif that I love. Sort of an Easter Egg. A poke in the eye for those weary voices that spout about Darkthrone running out of ideas and recycling their work ad nauseam. Like everything else they do, the band tackles that criticism head-on and deliberately. Nothing is accidental. And, despite Fenny’s wails and a somewhat shameful fade, instead of a hung chord (which would feel more appropriate), the song ends the album on a high.

Pre-Historic Metal is a fantastic addition to a brilliant catalogue of Darkthrone albums. Will dyed-in-the-wool Cvltists still harp on about the band betraying their Blackest roots? Of course they will. Just like they’ll still be craving for the band to play live, despite them not having done so for thirty years. It must be even more tedious for the lads to hear than it is for us to read about. For some reason, progression and retro-innovation within their field is frowned upon by those who consider themselves hardcore.

To them I say: grow up. Wipe off your corpse-paint. If you were truly around back then, you’re in your 50s now, probably with a steady job and grandchildren. Give it a rest. It’s time you learned where timelessness comes from. The insatiable need to create and to be bold enough to do that without excuses. I fucking DARE you to find another band that chooses to do that as prolifically and inventively as Darkthrone. Leave your adolescence in the past and revel in the moment. Pre-Historic Metal is an absolute fucking BELTER. All hail Da Frönes! It’s a good ‘un. It would be a 10/10 if Fenriz STFU and let Culto do all the singing.

Darkthrone @ Peaceville Bandcamp

Darkthrone @ Peaceville Official

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FUTHARK RECORDS, 2026

I’ve been deep-diving into unfamiliar waters again.

In the late 80s and early 90s, when Death Metal reigned supreme, I only had a passing interest in it. I was far more wrapped up in Goth, Grebo, Punk and the US underground bands - Noise Rock, these days - than any form of metal, especially Death Metal.

It sounded stupid to me. Thrash made me cringe - I couldn’t get on with Slayer at the time - or it sounded too dumb, with OTT cookie-monster vocals, flamboyant solos, crammed in for the sake of it and very much against anything I would consider to be a self-effacing punk spirit. Criticisms and preconceptions that I imagine still hold would-be fans back from realising their full potential to this day.

I came to Black AND Death Metal in the mid-to late 90s. I missed the initial boat but could see the attraction of some of the key bands; Deicide, Morbid Angel… the base-level Florida lot, as well as embracing Norway’s tyrant teens and their church burning antics.

And then, in the early 2000s, the NWOAHM bands, that all sounded like At The Gates, piqued my interest and stayed with my consciousness as the genre started to bed into my brain with an ever-heavier, permanent presence. But still, I consider myself very much a fringe-fan of the genre.

Ever since the days of Shadows Fall et al, the Swedish bands that inspired them have been an integral part of my listening, be that the Gothenburg tunesmiths or the Stockholm HM2 grumblers; ATG, early In Flames, Entombed, Dismember etc.

But I never really ventured into the full-on, world-wide Death Metal scene before.

I’ve discovered that it’s a really engaging genre with so much depth, variance and articulation, it’s astonishing. Older bands like Suffocation, Immolation and Incantation still release compelling records, some of which challenge their enigmatic earliest work for credibility and accomplishment. But on the shoulders of those giants, a newer style of Death Metal has been developing across the years; the New Wave of Old School Death Metal; inspired by the past but informed by everything that’s come since.

I’m not really referring to the more predictable bands in that subgenre, as entertaining as they are; I’m less engaged with Gatecreeper, Job For A Cowboy and Blood Incantation and more immersed in the muckier, lo-fi rawness of Last Retch, Ossuary, Disembodiment, Coffin Rot, Cryptworm, Tomb Mold, Hyperdontia, Necrot, Phrenelith, and so many more.

There are literally hundreds of bands, distributed by tiny hardcore, devoted labels and distros like Me Saco Un Ojo, Dark Descent, Profound Lore, Nuclear War Now!, Invictus, Transcending Obscurity, Extremely Rotten Productions, Everlasting Spew, Iron Bonehead and Prosthetic, in addition to the more widely recognised 20 Buck Spin, Relapse and Hell’s Headbangers.

It’s a huge network of enthusiastic fans that are engaged and animated in spreading the word; elevating obscure and gore-obsessed artistry. It’s an honourable occupation.

So, I’ve enjoyed immersing myself more deeply into the contemporary, multi-stranded Death Metal scene and working out what I like and what I’m less bothered about. The numerous YouTube channels devoted to the cause have been an enabling tool; props going out to Melanie Loves Death Metal, Explosive Action, Altars of Mattness, Roger Kjorvik and Thralls of Metal, in particular.

I’ve landed squarely in the Me Saco Un Ojo camp. I urge you to experiment with the label’s catalogue of consistent quality, and order records directly from them and their partners in grime.

For me, the kings of MSUO-related releases, at least right now, are Romania’s finest purveyors of grisly Death Metal, Putred. Their newest LP, Blestemul Din Adânc, on Futhark Records, is distributed in the UK through MSUO and offers something unique in a crowded genre.

I actively encourage you to check it out if you have even a passing interest in the genre, or extreme metal more generally. And especially if you enjoy the type of filthy, rotten releases that MSUO specialise in.

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What I find most enticing about Putred is their ability to deliver noisy, repulsive and bastardised metal without falling foul of conventional and over-used genre tropes.

Their sound is really lo-fi and often in direct opposition to expectation.

I’ve read reviews that describe it as supremely heavy but, for me, it’s not really that heavy at all, and that is precisely what gives them their USP. Often, ignoring the vocals, the music feels like it’s got more in common with bands like Killing Joke and Head of David than it does Cannibal Corpse or Death.

Much of that is down to the bass sound and playing. The bass tone is, of course, distorted, but comparatively clean for Death Metal. It doesn’t lose itself in down-tuned blurriness. It often doesn’t sound down tuned at all, in fact. It has a retro, post-punk clank to it and informs the melodic side of the compositions as a lead instrument, just like the Goth and Post-Punk bands of yore used to.

Likewise, the lead guitar playing isn’t flashy or conventionally “Metal”. It is often simply picked, reverb soaked and catchy as fuck, seemingly preferring to (generally) choose melody and atmosphere over chugging bludgeon and ostentatious soloing.

The drums divide their time evenly between double-bass padding and simple, four-to-the-floor time-keeping which, again, introduces a different layer of originality to the song construction. Maybe much of this is just down to the hollow recording style, but whatever the reason, it makes Putred exciting to listen to, and Blestemul Din Adânc a masterpiece, at least as far as I’m concerned.

All of this has given Putred a way of snagging my ears and retaining my attention beyond anything their compatriots can offer.

This week, at least.

Maybe I’m being naïve. As my earlier caveat suggests, this is hardly my specialist subject, but my ears usually have a fairly honest interpretation of what they’re listening to.

Putred were formed in Transylvania, Romania in 2020 and have been prolific over their five/six years of existence. Numerous demos, splits, singles and even a live album supplement a three LP core discography, beginning with Repulsie Post Mortem in 2023, followed by Megalit Al Putrefacției in 2025 and most recently, the Blestemul Din Adânc. The members of Putred also (occasionally) play(ed) together in two other Romanian Death Metal bands, Vorus (currently on hold) and Reveler (a now defunct studio-only band).

English speaking readers will notice that the band’s albums (and song titles) are conveyed in their native Romanian, which is a novel approach. Uriel Aguillon grew up in America, before moving to Romania in 2015, but as far as I can tell the rest of the band are born and bred Romanians. Filip, the band’s vocalist, is responsible for the lyrical themes, so between his gory visions and Uriel’s remit to create something unique, I guess that’s how they ended up avoiding English. It gives them a flavour that no one else can compare with.

Uriel is the pivot around which the band rotates, as have several others in the veteran’s musical lifetime. In Putred, he plays with his wife Corina, she of that clanging signature bass sound and is also a long established player in numerous other Death metal projects. Uriel himself is something of a Death Metal genius, with an unending list of credits to his name, including work as a guitarist, engineer, vocalist, producer and writer.

Thankfully, Putred is now his main area of focus, hence the rapid delivery of such a lot of material. Their debut LP is full of sludgy heavy-as-fuck riffs, where the spangling guitar leads seem to shimmer over the top of weighty down-tuned basslines and plodding guitar chords.

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Their second LP, Megalit… is pacier, though still not exactly fast or blasting, and digs more deeply into the thunderous tones of the bass and drums. It’s not until Blestemul that more space is introduced into the mix and Corina’s bass takes on a lead-instrument, higher-pitched roll, squarely bringing something really special to their own sound spectrum.

It’s worth noting that Putred haven’t released a weak LP, so all are worth procuring if you manage to locate them.

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As for Blestemul Din Adânc…

Events begin with Pandemonium, a short acoustic instrumental intro of gently plucked nylon strings against a bed of soft, whispering drones that elevate it from feeling too muso-y.

Sfâşiat… Stigmatizat translates as Torn… Stigmatised. And, to my ears, owns the hooks of the LP. It’s a great opener. The guitars and the bass walk with purpose with a chugging chorus that immediately introduces Corina’s wonderful bass melodies and establishes the LP as having more to it than a typical Death Metal release.

It’s these simple motifs she plays that snagged me and hooked me.

Filip’s dual vocals (growling and shrieking) blanket the bass and guitars. The drums intentionally hold back, to ensure the listener’s focus can fall where intended. Towards the end of the track, there is a solo of sorts, but it’s not flashy; it’s a weird augmentation of the song’s lead-lines, increasing the depth of the recording and adding some compositional spice to what is, already, very addictive listening.

The title track (trans: The Curse Of The Deep) slams next. It is an interesting exercise in timing, with plenty of stuttering space, only held together by Corina’s popping and spluttering bass. It has a (falsely) amateur air to it that seems deliberate and exaggerates the primitive feeling that perpetuates through the entire LP.

There is nothing ancient or modern about the songs; they seem to exist outside of time and space, at least, as far as I can tell. Putred are fabulously devoid of easy or obvious reference points.

The tail-end of Blestemul is dominated by Ficus’ drums and Uriel’s guitar work; both hammering like concrete smashing pneumatic drills for the last minute or so, before Întâlniria Mortală (trans: The Deadly Encounter) launches, sounding almost like Sfâşiat… Stigmatizat part two, with its clanging bass motifs and mirrored guitar riffs.

I love the reverb that Uriel employs on his guitars. Too often muddy and “cavernous” in the genre, Uriel’s playing and reverb tone elevates the sound, introducing sparkling highs that give the low thuds so much more detail. The riffs and flourishes have an off-the-cuff, on-the-spot feel, that belies the satisfying bludgeon of their repetition – best shown off in the last minute of the song; its climax a banging, circular riff that punches as hard as a Sasquatchian fish-wife.

Side One closes with the snappy and catchy Cripta Vrājilor (trans: Crypt of Spells) which, in Putred world, could represent anthemic stadium rock, with its mid-point four-to-the-floor bass drum rummage and naggingly fist-pumping core riff. It’s short – three minutes on the nose, almost. Another high-point among highs.

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Side Two opens with a Satanic sample, presumably from a Romanian horror movie, complete with what sounds like exorcising bible passages and gurgling victim chokes, before Devorat De Întuneric (trans: Devoured By Darkness) begins in earnest.

Another short one-two punch, but it doesn’t have the immediacy of anything else so far. Which is not to say it lacks power or is a waste of time, because it’s definitely not. But Side One is super-consistent and is quite difficult to follow, as expectations are so high. Nevertheless, Devorat… is entertaining enough.

Groapa Oaselor or The Bone Pit, according to Google Translate, has the LP’s most sinister riff as its main motif. Filip’s vocals, too, are wider and higher in the mix, adding a sense of impending doom to proceedings. It’s difficult to hold your head still; again, thanks to Corina’s patiently repetitive, precise and spacious bass playing.

Uriel’s leads lack the invention of his wife’s work. We’re starting to hear some repetition, similar phrases and tricks between songs that reduces the wide-eyed delight a tiny bit, purely because of the album flow. Taken in isolation, there’d be no such familiarity. Still, Groapa… rises to the occasion and swiftly becomes a favourite, certainly of the second side.

But Lions and Tigers and Bears… Oh MY!

The opening riff of Catacombe Sângerii (Catacombs of Blood) and the ensuing lead-lines make the song shine.

It’s the paciest tune on the LP so far and has a ferocity that is not delivered (intentionally) elsewhere. It stands out as a signature track and, after Sfâşiat…, is my pick of the bunch, for its energetic delivery and addictive riffage. There’s some really nice stuttering with drums, bass and guitars in unison, along with some thundering bass drummage from Ficus (again).

The final original composition of the album, Ultimul Clopot opens with, appropriately, an ominous toll of a bell (the track name translates as The Last Bell).

Musically, there’s more than just a passing nod to Motörhead and Venom in the speed and base-level riffing, with snappy barking and tremolo picking periodically elevating the atmosphere to stratospheric heights. The riffs and tempos chop and change and it is, by some stretch, the most varied track, musically, on the entire LP.

A really strong one to end on, in terms of self-composed titles.

Those machine-gun guitars are beautiful.

But the siren song is Subconscious Terror, a cover of the Benediction classic, from their 1990 debut LP of the same name. It’s cool to hear and interesting to listen to Putred’s interpretation of it, but I’d have much preferred another original from them because, to my ears at least, they’re a far more interesting proposition than Benediction are.

That said, Subconscious Terror is a triumphant ending to a triumphant album, delivered by a band whose originality and compelling greatness is difficult to deny.

The album’s sound stage is more like a sound box, existing somewhere ethereal between a cassette demo and a conventionally produced vinyl LP. By comparison, something like Darkthrone’s Soulside Journey has extraordinarily high production values, despite the loose instrumentation insisting the comparison be made.

It’s one of the main reasons I like the LP so much. It’s raw, it’s primitive, it’s engagingly home-made. It exudes rough-around-the-edges charm.

The artwork, by Julian Mortuus, suits the atmosphere perfectly and wraps the album in lushly, colourful and cadaverous way.

Full marks, basically. If you haven’t yet embraced Putred’s foul consumption, I urge you to do so as soon as possible because, shortly, the records will be impossible to find.

Sometimes it’s really obvious when the needle drops on a band that will clearly end up being a classic act of their chosen genre, and I truly believe that that’s the potential destiny for Putred. They’re doing things differently and definitively. That almost always means good things for a band’s career, providing enough people notice. So don’t sleep on them. Notice their brilliance. Get to be that person who can genuinely brag you saw them before they were famous and that their early stuff is the best.

Putred FTW.

Ave, Corpse-Rotting Mofos!

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4.5/5

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Drone Metal titans Sunn O))) release their tenth studio LP on Sub Pop. Stripped back to the duo of Greg Anderson and Stephen O’Malley and backed up by a tour of the States and Europe, 2026 is a big year for the band. Sean Millard, Sunn O))) acolyte and your ever-lovin’, blue-eyed scribe, buckles in, submits to the drone and gets ready to ask just one pertinent question…

It’s frighteningly easy to fall into the trap of pretension with Sunn O))). To lean into the robes, the volume, the avant-garde fearlessness – of the listener, as much as the band – and assign inappropriately cerebral worth to their masterful sound. I do it myself. Constantly. It’s natural to seek meaning and presence in their abstraction. But it might be unnecessary.

I have read in promotional guff and articles (that regurgitate said guff) how this album is a return to pure Sunn O))). After several LPs that have included special guests, team-ups and other musicians to augment their sound, Sunn O))) sees the band paired back to the core duo of Greg Anderson and Stephen O’ Malley. Live. Nude. In the raw. Doing what they do best. Fab news. Exciting.

But then the waffle explores increased meaning, when that initial headline is more than enough to define the LP. The guff conjures meaning, as if they’re actual wizards, whose mere utterances can cause planets to collide. It’s not necessary.

The less-than-dynamic duo recorded out in the forests of Washington State. Breaks were taken from the recordings to hike into the woods. Inspiration was found. Rain fell. To this, I say: Bollocks. You’ve just described every Norwegian Black Metal LP from the last 35 years. It’s not an original context. As much as I would normally embrace this wafty fiction, I am refusing to do it this time. I am not being swaddled by the fluff. Instead, I am asking just one, staggeringly simple question: Does It Doom?

I was first drawn to the immaculate atmosphere of Sunn O))) with White 1, in 2003. As much allured by the aesthetic as the challenge of the music. Sunn O))) have always married their own mysterious visage and superior graphic design with musical invention into the most enticing of and complete packages. On top of that, both members are intelligent, humble, adventurous and articulate people, manifesting an adoration for METAL in the most defiantly heavy form it is possible to take. What’s not to adore? Does. It. Doom?

Well – spoiler alert – of course it does. In a catalogue of near-flawless, enigmatic, addictive and immortal drone, of COURSE it fucking Dooms. Amazingly. Gloriously. Inevitably and infinitely. Sunn O))) always Doom.

Almost. The one time they let the side down, it wasn’t even their fault. In 2014 they were recruited as Scott Walker’s backing band for the very hard going Soused. They lacked the control they were used to and Scott’s later-period vocals were… an acquired taste. One that I never actually managed to procure. If Soused had remained instrumental, it would have been a good LP. But it didn’t. And it is simply too challenging for me. But that was one misstep. It’s a personal one too, so fair dinkum. And it’s a Scott Walker LP, not a Sunn O))) album, so it doesn’t really count. And anyway; even that one Doomed, in its own way.

I have my favourites, of course. I find the band has the power to infuse my creativity like the finest sativa. Other bands, with more coherent tunes, can be too distracting. Sunn O))) offer a lift and a motivation without getting in your way. I can work with them.

ØØ Void, Monoliths & Dimensions, Life Metal and Pyroclasts tend to be my go-tos. Kannon, Black One and the quite staggering Metta Benevolence, all offer more than adequate back-up as and when required. Sunn O))) are the one band I choose to stream, for uninterrupted enormity. Of course I buy the LPs. Every one of them. Religiously. They’re up there with Swans and Darkthrone on my tier list of dedication. But I end up playing the band more digitally than on vinyl. It works better for them. More utilitarian. More meditative.

So; what of this new self-titled LP? Well. It’s out on Sub Pop. That feels like a full circle. Not only because the band was formed in Seattle, but also because Sub Pop released what is normally described as – if not the first, then certainly a pioneering – Drone Metal LP – in Earth 2, in 1993. Dylan Carlson of Earth named his band in tribute to Black Sabbath’s early moniker. Sunn named themselves as a way of tipping the nod to Earth’s celestial influence, as well as adding the O))) in tribute to the vintage speaker brand’s logo. It is all so wonderfully and cosmically aligned. Sub Pop seems like a natural home. Though why the band decided to shift from Southern Lord, Greg Anderson’s own consistently brilliant label, is anyone’s guess. Still – I’m never one to quibble with Sub Pop. It suits both parties.

Next, the artwork. Rothko. I had a genuine Sunn O)))-like experience in the Rothko Room of the Tate Modern, not long after it opened. I sat, alone in the room, surrounded by the enormity of the crimson canvases and felt a tranquil oppression overwhelm me. What was I saying earlier about pretension? Sorry – but it was a tangible and undeniably affecting experience. It was physical.

Since then, I’ve had that feeling twice in other circumstances; one is, obviously, listening to Sunn O))) – really loud on headphones (and, finally, live, soon – can’t wait). The other was in the Elephant House at Twycross Zoo. I’m serious. There was a silent weight in the air that I could entirely feel. It was heavy. Gentle. Suffocatingly, blissfully, reassuring. A welcome oppression. All three moments share a kinship in weight, sensation and catch-your-breath vulnerability.

I digress. The artwork, therefore, is perfect and totally appropriate. If anything sounds like a Rothko, it’s Sunn O))). They also have a snappy line in merch slogans that lean into The Doom and are equally relevant to their cause: “Praise Iommi”, “Maximum Volume Yields Maximum Results” and my favourite: “Ever Breathe A Frequency?”. This last one is so entirely applicable for this LP, that it’s worth using it to frame our thoughts on the detail. Take a breath. Consume The Doom. We’re going in.

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The album opens with XXANN. 17 minutes of squalling feedback and chords that hang for thirty seconds… I know, because I timed them. It is nothing short of immense. If there’s a soundtrack to The Void, this is it. It is what you hear as you drift alone and eternally, through galaxies, as particles of cosmic dust. It is the taste of infinity. Close your eyes and breathe the tone. Your lungs suffocate in the vast tide of sound. It’s unlike anything else I’m aware of. Apart from Rothko and Elephants.

Oddly and intensely musical; this isn’t noise or spurious, malformed drone. It’s a finely crafted, deeply considered exercise in resonance. It envelops you in its fatal depth. Fucking wonderful, and the best way that I can think of you spending 17 minutes with your eyes closed and mind focused. You are snapped from you meditative dream-state with the piece’s abrupt ending; suddenly eyes wide, surprised and focus exploded.

The crackling bass rumbles of Does Anyone Hear Like Venom? extend the mammothian stride of XXANN after that snapped-off and abrupt silence. It’s all fade and decay; the sound of broken chords, literally 100 layers thick, intense as obsession, fragile as ego. Discordant string bends, sorrowful descents. A glacial pace. Tectonic plates shift at lightning speed compared to the chord changes. It’s a punchy number at 7.5 minutes. A veritable pop song.

The disrupting snap of silence is explored again in one of the album’s preview tracks, Butch’s Guns. The track defines immensity. Listen for yourself and draw your own conclusions. After all, what do I know? I’m just the messenger…

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The epic Mindrolling begins with a sample of Pacific Northwest rain. It’s such a simple trick, but so damn evocative, your third eye instantly focuses elsewhere; a grim dark forest. Intense mist. Silhouettes of be-robed strangers. Piss wet through. It could be the hills above Bergen. Dammit. I’ve fallen for the guff. And it wasn’t necessary.

This one really does conjure the trees that are hammered so heavily in the guff and merch associated with this release. Succumb to the metaphysical transference. Witness our intrepid pair of Doom Mongers on a dawn trek through ferns and undergrowth, dwarfed by monolithic Sequoias, Firs and Maples. A stag silently watches from within the barcode of trees. The (ahem) barkcode.

The sun and moon shift in time-lapse; rapidly flickering above while you plod so slowly below. Everything juxtaposed. But everything in balance. Absorbing tone that feels like thick, custardy air. Blissfully drowned in sound, leaning on a staff as you march ever onwards into the deepening forest.

If, as Lord Byron said: “There is pleasure in the pathless woods…”. Sunn O))) have nailed it. It’s transformative. Where else do you have the room to wander? The absence of lyrics that dictate a vision, a drought of distracting melody… only tone to lose your mind in. I struggle to find the vocabulary that adequately covers the experience.

I’m listening to it at 4am. Birds are starting to sing outside my window. A grey day is dawning. My blurred, sleepy brain is particularly receptive to the drone; sat somewhere between dream and reality. A slumbering plane. To mingle with The Universe… Mindrolling is a fucking perfect eighteen minute Om. And By Fuck, It Dooms.

Everett Moses mixes things up with string scrapes and chords that change every four or five seconds. Punk. Rock. Coupled with the final track, the first preview song the ban released, Glory Black, the album ends on a punchy musical high.

I’m sort-of being sarcastic, but the comparative rapidity of the last pair of songs disrupts the reverie of the rest of the LP in the most appalling and enlightening way. Less meditative, more… I’m resisting the urge to say “groove”, but compared to the other tracks, the discernible riff of Glory Black, especially, is what passes for swing in Sunn’s world. It’s the closest the LP comes to a conventional tune, but don’t let that put you off. It’s hardly catchy. Add to it the sorrowful, lazily played single-notes of a lost piano, and the album ends on its most harmonious high. The song works so well as the climax of this self-titled journey, that listening to it in isolation feels too reductive.

Nevertheless…

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I’m desperately trying to be a pro about the album and trying to find something negative or critical to say about it, to balance my nerdy adoration, but I’m failing. To my ears, this is a perfect album in a near-perfect catalogue of records. I think it’s their best work. It’s imaginative, immense, incredibly well produced, played and recorded. I’m sorry. I don’t feel like I’m doing my job properly, but Sunn O))) is completely fucking flawless.

Does It Doom? Like nothing else on Earth. And everything about it is totally bloody necessary, after all.

Catch them live on tour if you can… I’ll be at the back, quietly losing my mind to subsonic Armageddon. What a wonderful way to go.

~

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DEF AMERICAN, 1990.

Lucifuge is a cool name for an album. Especially one with such a heavy blues influence. It refers to two things: its literal translation from Latin means “Flee the light” - a phrase that appears in the lyrics of penultimate track, Girl:

“Girl, let’s climb too high

For the world to reach us

Girl, let’s flee the light

Diaphanous

Let’s slip into the night”

Perhaps even more compelling, Lucifuge Rofocale is also the name of a relatively obscure, high-ranking demon, cited in the infamous Black Magic text, The Grand Grimoire: The Red Dragon, as Prime Minister of Pandaemonium and the demon to summon with the intention of gaining monetary reward through their service.

However, it is the process of summoning itself that makes the title Lucifuge most relevant, as the whole album is thematically connected with said practice, particularly with all of its Robert Johnson and Howling Wolf influences, across the (Ouija) board. Devil at the crossroads and all that.

You can accuse Glenn Danzig of lots of things, but under-thinking isn’t one of them.

To my ears, Danzig II: Lucifuge is the band’s best album. The first is gloriously raw and certainly competes, but Lucifuge is so consistently powerful, its position in the Danzig catalogue has to remain unrivaled for me. Their third LP, How The Gods Kill, also has some absolutely timeless anthems associated with it, but still, it’s the band’s sophomore album that steals the show.

It took eleven months to write and record, across three different studios, and is rife with tiny enigmatic details. The performances of all the band members are top notch. The recording and production is immaculate. Less empty than the debut, but just as clear. Spacious, but somehow dense at the same time. A track listing so perfectly synchronised that it becomes genuinely impossible to skip or play the odd track. Even the lesser ones. Almost. But we’ll get to that.

Regardless, it’s an album’s album.

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It has two covers. Moody portrait of all band members or original flipside artwork of Danzig’s hairy chest. It’s always been an absolute bastard to find affordably on vinyl, unless you’re happy with one of the many bootlegs that haunt record fairs around the globe.

Luckily I got my copy years ago, but originals now command a fairly hefty wedge for one in decent condition. Originally pressed in 1990, the CD’s been freely available, but up until now, the vinyl has alluded an official repress.

Unless you believe Wikipedia, which says there was an official repress in 1998, but Discogs doesn’t agree, and neither do Universal, who now own the rights to the Def American catalogue.

However, that oversight has now been rectified, and Danzig II has re-hit the shelves, alongside Danzigs I, III and IV.

And not before time.

How on earth has it taken this long? It must be down to Glenn’s truculent nature as much as Universal’s no-doubt-apalling-bureaucracy.

Regardless, here they are. Official. For everyone.

All four are worth snapping up before they disappear again, but if you only get one, make it Lucifuge. No matter how much you want Mother.

Whizzing through a well-worn history for the few of you that aren’t aware; the band was formed in 1987 from the ashes of Glenn Danzig’s former band, Samhain. That band, in itself, was a metallic progression from his more famous work in Misfits, between 1977 and 1983.

Samhain were an underground success, as much based on Danzig’s heritage as their punked up goth thrash. So much so that Rick Rubin, riding high on the success of his infamous hip-hop label, Def Jam and its spin off, Def American, which had been receiving metal accolades for its work with Slayer, approached Danzig about his vision for a rock supergroup, led by the silken tones of our Evil Elvis.

The trouble was, Rubin was ONLY interested in Danzig, who refused to sign with teh Beardy Weirdy unless key com padre Eerie Von, friend and bassist in Samhain, was included in the deal too.

In order to initiate a new start and to avoid having to rename the band every time its lineup changed, Glenn agreed with Rubin to change the band’s name from Samhain to Danzig.

The first LP was a success, following lots of high-profile touring through 1988-1990.

Danzig’s a funny fish. In turns eminently cool and horrifyingly cringey. His fingernails, bluster and ego make my anus dilate. But equally, his self-belief, track record and style are all unarguably enviable. On balance, I adore him. Partly because he’s so humourless. I love the memes. The pile of bricks. The spray on hair. The dressing room sucker-punch.

But most of all, I love the voice. The songs. The paunch. He’s a hero. Warts and all.

I have no intention of denying it.

Much of that heroism was obviously instilled throughout the earlier years of his career, with devil lock and skelliwag shirt on display. But equally, I never pass on any of his solo work. Even the more “experimental” LPs have plenty of songs on them that make a purchase worthwhile. So my devotion to The Danzig Cause is supreme, despite the (many) reasons to keep it quiet at times.

Alas, I’ve never managed to see him live. I’d love to, but he rarely plays the UK now and even back then, fleeting visits sold out too quickly for my motor-skills to react in time. Twice I missed him by a day because I was traveling with work.

It’s OK. I’ve accepted it.

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In 1990, grunge was rising. Non-Death and Thrash metal was all held together with lipstick, powder and paint, barring erstwhile bands like AC/DC, Motörhead and Iron Maiden. None of whom were in the midst of what anyone would call classic runs of releases.

Metal wasn’t cool. And make no mistake - Danzig is Metal. At least, as much as anything Danzig does can be categorised by genre. It has a bluesy, classic rock feel more akin to AC/DC than Slayer, but the lyrical content and evil stylings elevate the band firmly into the Metal Zone.

There’s nothing nostalgic or “classic” about the band beyond the beautiful simplicity of the riffage. Perhaps that’s why the early albums have all aged so well. There’s a timelessness to the writing that refuses to date the work, unlike that of their contemporaries - even the grunge usurpers - as much as they had grown up worshiping much of Glenn’s earlier work anyway.

All of which is to say, I remember it being an odd time for Rock and Metal releases that weren’t overtly “indie” at heart. Guitar flash was cheesy and, to be fair, still is. Certainly in the UK, credible rock and metal was deemed to be very thin on the ground, Danzig being one of the few that could get away with it. But all the same, the band’s success over here was very much curtailed by the transitional phase heavy music was going through and, I think, retrospectively, it’s fair to say some great bands were cast further aside than they deserved to be.

It was the late 90s before I embraced the wonder of Danzig, for those reasons.

The band just didn’t really cross my path. Their outlet was Kerrang! and Metal Hammer at a time, when I was firmly in bed with the NME, Melody Maker and Sounds (Gawd bless ’em).

All that was rectified once I got over myself and, of course, it was Mother that did it.

But we are gathered here today to discuss the band’s second album which, what it lacked in the one iconic, career defining track that the debut had, it made up for with consistent quality and depth.

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I don’t know if it was down to the band’s musical naivety, Danzig’s perfectionism - or both - but apparently, the divebomb that introduces Long Way Back From Hell and therefore launches the LP, took absolutely ages to get right. Supposedly it sounded to empty, and lacked power, until Eerie Von tried galloping the bass behind it.

Thank you, Eerie. It’s one of my favourite first few bars of any album ever. The earworms that reside somewhere deep within my cerebral cortex would have been far less busy over the years if it wasn’t for you.

What an opener. It gallops. It rushes. It grooves. And Danzig Himself delivers multiple slams. Woahs and Yeahs serve to pump the blood and clasp your thighs as you rear yourself up, ready to go. What a call to arms:

“Do you want to take a life?

Do you want to cross that line?

Cos it’s a long way back from Hell…

And you don’t want to go with me.”

Swampy NOLA bayou blues underpins the voodoo devilry encapsulated in some of Danzig’s most triumphantly evil lyricism ever. The key riff, delivered by John Christ, is entirely iconic in its simplistic perfection - it masks abundant detail and nuance, complete with pinched harmonic squeals and string bends. Once heard, eerily (ahem) familiar and never forgotten. An actual, living (not) breathing masterclass in riffage. Absolute perfection.

If you’ve not heard Lucifuge before, but you’re reading this, just play Long Way Back From Hell. You will know immediately if this LP is for you or not.

I kind of guarantee that it is.

Or nothing beats in that calcified cavity behind your ribs.

You could be forgiven, on first listen, for barely noticing Snakes Of Christ begin.

The riff is closely related to Long Way Back From Hell - and is just as addictive. The song is Danzig’s poke at organised religion, for which he can only be applauded:

“Serpents of the lord

Crawling to the will of god

Serpents of your lord

Crawling. All evil.”

A simple snare fill introduces the slinky stalk of the über bluesy Killer Wolf, with the best song title pronunciation in rock and roll history. I feel I should mention that I am normally no fan of the blues at all. In fact, it’s a genre, alongside the various forms of dance music, that I just cannot abide.

Unless Danzig does it, it seems.

The band give the tune a sinister swagger that epitomises deliciously evil intent… and that chorus… crumbs. What an anthem.

Tired Of Being Alive is next and for me, it’s the grower that has returned the most long term gratification on the LP. Easily overlooked at first, but more often than not, it’s between this and Her Black Wings that instigates a spin of Lucifuge for me. I actually hanker for it. The guitar gently weeps. And chugs and crashes.

You can feel Danzig’s hips swing as the uneven lyrical rhythm instigates unwitting movement. And yet again, a chorus to (literally) die for:

“And I’m tired of being alive

In spite of the bleeding; bleeding light

And I’m tired of their bleeding light

Don’t try to feed me full of your lies”

Lyrically he was on form in 1990.

And, on this evidence, the album’s theme could just as easily be “Big Choruses” as “Summoning Evil”.

I’m The One might push the blues moderately too far for me, depending on my mood. Sometimes I love it, but I can easily switch off.

Of course Danzig Himself sounds incredible, but the song is just an acoustic treatment with nothing but guitar and high hat, and it just falls a bit too trad and flat for me sometimes.

But that doesn’t matter, because Her Black Wings is next.

What a way to close Side One. My initial gateway to Lucifuge has never lost any of its anthemic charm. It was the album’s single, and rightfully so. That rolling chug of the central riff, peppered with squeals and bends. It’s incredible. And all the way through the song, the vocal melodies, Gang Woahs and lyrics are designed for crowd singalongs, the quality of which, at the time, had not been heard since Last Caress.

Enter Oblivion, indeed.

As I listen to it now, it HAS to be my track of the album, but it’s hard to choose one amongst so many really fucking great other options.

For now, though, we’ll call it Song of the Suite.

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Side Two comes alive with Devil’s Plaything.

This was another sleeper hit for me - and a pillar of the album. A great way to start the second side. Its extraordinarily delicate start defines a false sense of security.

Soft. A love song? Maybe - to a Femme Fatale, at least.

And with a crack of a snare and stomp on a pedal the speakers come electric with the best Back In Black style riff to never come out of Angus’s SG.

The lyrical angle has made a perfect opener to many heart-shaped mix-tapes over the years.

“Devil’s plaything in my hands

If you don’t want pain, you don’t understand

Got a light; shines on me

If you wanna touch flame, come unto me…”

Danzig as a sexy seductress.

Curiously alluring.

777 is a mid-suite low; again, depending on my mood.

Sparse and bluesy, dominated by acoustic slide guitar. There’s nothing wrong with it at all, but it’s ultimately forgettable compared to the quality of its surroundings. Probably says more about me than the song, though.

I hope you’ve heard Blood And Tears before now. If you haven’t, you’ve got some intense Danzig admiration coming your way.

Far and away his most affecting ballad, the song is a self-proclaimed tribute to Roy Orbison’s style. And it works so well, the song has become an undisputed classic in Danzig’s oeuvre. It’s genuinely beautiful, sensitive and sorrowful.

“All alone in your misery… so alone

Could you have been deceived?

Since I’ve been gone, I hear you been crying…

You cried a thousand tears; darling, don’t despair

I know your heart still bleeds; darling, don’t you care

There’s blood in your tears…”

Self grandising tone aside, it’s a brilliant piece of songwriting. That melody… the yearning… the empathy. So satisfying.

And here’s the controversy: if it stopped there, the album would come close to a 10/10.

But it doesn’t.

It goes out without a bang, but a whimper.

Both Girl and Pain In The World are forgettable and don’t justify their inclusion on what is already a long album. Both could be lost to a B-Side Abyss and the album would still come in at a 40 minutes.

They feel extraneous and unnecessary. And as such the album feels like it outstays it’s welcome. Not by much, but by a bit, and that’s a shame because that’s the thought that remains with you. The album is under-served by its own duration. The bar is so high across the first ten of songs that it feels like self-indulgent folly to add two more sub-par efforts.

Other than that slightly sour ending, though, Lucifuge has no problem holding its head up. The first LP is almost as good. It’s more tightly bound, with less obvious filler. But the sheer quality - in its numerous forms - on Lucifuge, makes for a stronger LP overall.

Danzig III: How The Gods Kill has some incredible highs - in its title track, Dirty Black Summer and Sistinas, especially, but is foiled slightly with inconsistencies elsewhere. Likewise, IV is slightly out of balance, but worthy of investigation.

Following this initial run, Danzig’s mainstream success was on the wane and he’d cement his position as a massive cult hero with a creative career full of enigmatic highlights. But the band’s albums wouldn’t ever reach the same level of quality as the first four.

6:66 Satan’s Child’s industrial leanings come recommended, but sound a bit dated, as much of that era’s Metal does. 2004’s Circle Of Snakes and 2010’s Deth Red Sabaoth are later career stand-outs, each worth your time if you’re digging down on Danzig.

I give props to him. He’s never stopped creating and delivering exactly what he wants. There is no hint of compromise in a career that now spans nearly 50 years.

I’m not 100% behind the albums of covers he’s released most recently, but Completist Scum are Completist Scum, so…

In a world that often feels bereft of personality and cultural iconography, it’s good to know Danzig still exists within it and that his golden moments are finally available again for everyone to enjoy, on the format of choice.

If you haven’t spun them in a while, remind yourself of their genius and… Enter Oblivion!

Ave, Fiends!

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Universal Records: Danzig

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A Way With Media

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Public Image Ltd have released a limited edition, self-produced live album, Alive. It captures the highlights from the This Is Not The Last Tour, that roamed with purpose across the UK and Europe last summer. It is exclusively available online here as a CD, Double LP or Triple LP. Numbers are limited, so don’t sleep on it if you want a copy. Sean Millard yells “Take My Money!”, drops the needle and relives some of the best live moments from 2025. Multiple times over.

2025 was a big year for Public Image Limited and me. I love them enough to have their logo tattooed on my forearm. Hard. Core. I got to see them twice last year. At Forever Now, in Milton Keynes, and at Epic Studios in Norwich, my hometown. It was a high-exposure boon that formed some of the highest lights of last year’s gigs for me.

And then there was John Lydon’s speaking tour, which I caught, wonderfully, in North Norfolk’s premium trad. seaside resort, Hunstanton, later in the year. That was particularly golden. I got to meet the man himself at a Meet and Greet (moderately deflating) and sing a line of Anarchy with him (incredibly inflating) as part of the Greatest Hits Karaoke session at the end of the show. All in all, 2025 was, very much, a Love Song for PiL and I.

So imagine my surprise and delight when they announced a limited live release from that tour. Available on either two or three records (mine is just the two), containing numerous performances from the 2025 tour that includes their night in Norwich. Look Mum! I’m on the telly/record! For the first time ever!

Previously, I only had one claim-to-recorded-crowd-fame. My local yokel bellow is heard screaming for “Head On” on a live Loop bootleg from Reading Festival in 1989. That was a wonderful weekend.

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So; I’m chuffed to be sitting here, playing the records and reliving the immaculate experience of last summer. I didn’t get to see PiL around the time of the first three fantastic LPs. I was too young. In fact, I didn’t get to see them live until 1992, at a different Reading Festival. They hadn’t played anywhere near me since 1983, when I was but a mere slip of a 13-year-old. A year before I fell in love with them, anyway.

Since then, I catch them live every chance I get, which, in recent years, has ventured well into double figures. I’m never disappointed, but their current lineup and the power of their current shows make the contemporary PiL live experience better than ever. In most ways, at least. Nostalgic envy refuses to let me make that statement without a slight caveat.

One show that forms part of the track listing to Alive was played on May 31st 2025. It was perhaps the best set I’d seen them play. It was absolutely the best sound I’d heard capture them. Epic is the old Sale Of The Century studio in Norwich, which feels fitting somehow, in a slightly amusing and tangential way. Live. From Norwich. It’s the GIG of the week.

The three songs represented from that particular show, annoyingly (on a purely personal level) comprise of two of the less impactful songs from the recorded set. The first is Know How, a stomping deep cut from 2015’s moderate, but not amazing, What The World Needs Now. The other lesser track (for me) is (many other fan’s) favourite, World Destruction. That was the solo dancey collaboration with Afrika Bambaata/Timezone, from 1986. It has never enthralled me. I’m in the minority. And that’s okay. Its energy works better in a live set than it does as a single for me, but still…

What really DOES thrill me, though, is Norwich being represented by one other song, too. Public Image itself, the crowning piece of any PiL live performance. Well. It’s between that, (This Is Not A) Love Song and Poptones, anyway. Maybe.

Glasgow can claim those latter two songs as theirs on Alive. With Dublin putting on a good show too, with Rise and, if it was anything like the version I witnessed, a mind-blowing rendition of Flowers of Romance. I was swept away when they played it in Norwich. Absolutely fantastic. Unfortunately, though, you have to get the triple LP or CD to hear it in this case. Shame.

Elsewhere, Poland’s Wroclaw exhibits the perfect old school medley of Annalisa / Attack / Chant and also Warrior, a single from 1989 that didn’t particularly grab me at the time, but that has matured with age and become a cornerstone live piece that never fails to enthrall.

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Portsmouth fairs slightly worse than Norwich, with the appalling Shoom, another one from What The World Needs Now… and the rather more engaging Corporate, from the same album, that starts to feel over-represented. It’s my only criticism of the LP. Otherwise, the set has a career-spanning feel to it, which could have been cemented further with a couple of different choices from other LPs. I’d have loved Flowers to be in the standard track list instead of Shoom. It would have been great too to have had some representation from 1987’s Happy?, too. Seattle is a great single that gets overlooked too easily these days.

But that’s a small quibble, really, because even the ‘lesser’ tracks are great fun – to be clear, there’s nothing skippable on here at all, barring Shoom. And that’s just personal preference. Many fans adore it, judging by the sweary fist pumping it instigates from the crowd, anyway.

Two other cities are represented on the album and both, admirably. Belfast kicks off proceedings with a great and energetic rendition of Home. It kick-starts the set perfectly. But Newcastle wins this particular duel with the always-astonishing-and-this-time-especially Death Disco. Its cacophonous ballet still sounding accessibly avant garde and mad as a hatter’s topper 46 (!) years after its birth.

Overall, Alive is a great record of PiL as they are right now, which is, in many ways, at the top of their game. Every fan will have the favourite songs, of course, but that aside, it’s a wonderful record of a great set. I hope you witnessed it first-hand. If you didn’t, shame on you and all your kin. But don’t panic – this really is the next best thing.

Note: At the time of writing, there are no streamable assets available for Alive. So sate your need with this offficial PiL phone recording of Rise at Forever Now, in Milton Keynes, last June:

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As for the specifics, it feels that, as Alive is very much an album ALL about favourites, I’m going to selfishly focus on mine:

This Is Not A Love Song (Glasgow) lands at the end of Side One. What a wonderful ditty. It was my introduction to the band, when they were chart-bound with it in 1984, so has a nostalgic heft for me. Number 5 in the UK charts! Amazing. Number 3 in the Irish. Incredible. I was immediately allured by its repetition and the minimalism of its graphic design.

I remember clearly singing it at the top of my lungs in woodwork, as I hopefully slathered some ill-fitting dovetail joints in glue. And the version on Alive could almost be definitive. I love what they do with it live these days; they lean into the popping bass and four-to-the-floor disco of the song and create a wildly sprawling and improvisational take on it. Perhaps it’s because otherwise they’d be bored stiff by it. I read somewhere that Lydon hates it. Or at least, he did once upon a time. I could be wrong (I could be right), but it would explain its ever-evolving majesty.

For what it’s worth, John, if I’m right, you’re wrong. You wrote something totally amazing that day. It’s the breakdowns in the live version that make it. They are dominated by Scott Firth’s bass and Lydon’s rambling vocal lines. It ends up being disco-prog. Which I suppose is kind of Can-like, in a way. And thus the circle is complete. The antelopes have eaten the grass. I feel a (love) song coming on.

Far from remaining the miserable, antagonising and snidey pup of yesteryear, Lydon has embraced his aged role as entertainer and national treasure, with all his inciting rants intact. This instigates predictable cries of “Sell-Out!” and “Bodies!” in equal measure from the “faithful”. I find that unwillingness to evolve and to treat PiL and Lydon as a nostalgia act more than a contemporary and relevant presence, irritating.

It surely bugs the fuck out of John, but the ability to monetise it in the ultimate display of Cash From Chaos must lessen its aggravation, somewhat. Nowadays, he revels in the interactions with the audience and despite his continuing crippling stage-fright, he’s learned to embrace the adrenaline. He uses it to fuel delighted showmanship, and he’s clearly in his element once his feet hit the stage. His performance throughout the song – and the album – is second to none. His voice has found a lower pitch with age, which ends up fitting the music really well. Despite my love for all eras, I’m happy to admit it is less grating across multiple listens now than it once might have been.

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Poptones (Glasgow) begins Side Two with its incomparable dubby-and-nagging bass line. As soon as the first notes hit, the audience applauds. No surprises that it’s so popular. A total classic. Lu Edmonds does a sterling interpretation of Keith Levene’s original awkward and shimmering lead lines. God, I love the song.

Forgetting for a moment the local pride and nostalgia that might inform enthusiasm for other tunes on here, it seems indisputable to me that Poptones is the best track of the album. The performance is a stand-out. The playing really is bob-on, by all involved. The band does it justice but develops it too, making it very much their own. What a classy team. It’s also worth noting here that, despite the age of these tracks, not one of them – but especially those from the band’s original run – sound old. They are all still unique and undatable. Rather like me, come to think about it.

Death Disco (Newcastle) rolls straight in on Poptone’s coat tails, complete with dancey beat and cod-Swan Lake riff. And Lu’s guitar playing is notable again. He winds through the song in his own way, hitting a delicate balance between accuracy and evolution. It brings a new flavour top an old song and therefore he’s therefore the star of this performance. There’s a rewarding squelchy breakdown when John recites directly his experience on his mother’s deathbed. That bit never fails to strike a chord. It makes the juxtaposition between the upbeat music and sombre lyricism even more dynamic.

The band excels across both discs in one area in particular: interpretation. Not one of these songs is knocked out, over-familiar and included just as a crowd-pleaser. I mean – the crowd is pleased – of course – it’s fucking delighted – but not because all the hits are represented in their traditional form. I genuinely think that the band is incapable of dialing it in nowadays. You can feel their (angry) energy and their commitment to their own versions of the songs. Each one literally takes on a life of its own; a new vision. Unique to the moment. Just as it should be.

Shoom wraps up side two. I hate it. Sweary for the sake of it and it just doesn’t land well. It’s the one moment on the album (and the set in general) that I deem unnecessary. It tries too hard. The music is ace, but the lyrics and their delivery is horrible. It takes much more than shouting “Fucking Bollocks” to impress these days, I’m afraid.

Public Image (Norwich) leads the tirade across the fourth and final side of the two disc vinyl edition.

Of course it gets a mention. If only for my own unmissable crowd contribution. As it stands, though, it is as astonishing now as it ever was, regardless of my own inimitable presence. The song emphasises how perfectly creative that first lineup was. I might prefer Martin Atkins as a drummer, but there’s no debating the strength of Jim Walker’s original motorik contributions. He kept it simple, which gave space for Wobble’s wobbling and Levene’s shards of glassy guitar to really shine.

It’s also a great showcase for the strength of the current lineup. The pro musicianship has never been better in PiL. Lu Edmonds is such a masterful guitarist – of any genre – and Norwich’s own Scott Firth’s bass playing has real depth and strength. It’s a notably powerful, thumping live sound, and that’s reflected on the recording, too. This tour was the first outing for Mark Roberts behind the drum kit, and he does a great, confident job. At odds with Walker’s original simplicity, his playing is full of flourish and finesse.

The end result is that the instrumentation is just as captivating as Lydon himself. Public Image is a perfect pop song and the perfect wonky pop band delivers it with a directness and completeness that gives it even more strength. Lydon, in this case, might even be the weakest link; his warbles go energetically off key when everyone else is in the pocket. It’s no bad thing; it adds to the vibe, but all the same, it’s interesting to hear a brilliant “backing” band outplay the centre of attention. That’s not fair. They’re much more than that, but you know what I mean.

Rise (Dublin) follows directly on from Public Image, taking on an entirely new shape compared to its original 7” form. Elongated breakdowns and audience participation elements make it an engaging listen. It now often serves as the final encore, ringing in your ears as you wander out of the venue to the car park long after the final notes have rung themselves out.

“What is Anger?!?” Lydon bellows.

“WHAT IS ANGER?!” This time, more demanding.

“An Energy!” The crowd joyfully returns.

“What is it? I can’t hear you!” It’s fucking brilliant music hall, is what it is.

“ANGER IS AN ENERGY! ANGER IS AN ENERGY!”

And so it goes, until we all crash beautifully together, chanting that timeless seven syllable hymn to the end. Bloody marvelous.

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The record itself ends with Annalisa / Attack / Chant, a medley that reprises some ace early album tracks. And as we reach the end of the record, a wave of utter satisfaction comes over me.

I’m not traditionally a fan of live albums. Press The Eject…, Hanx!, Weld, If You Want Blood. No Sleep To Hammersmith. Maybe Alive and Dangerous. That’s it. But you know what? PiL’s Alive might be good enough to add its name to that rare and mighty list. A list that I’ve not added anything to for more than 30 years.

That’s an accolade that’s difficult to beat, coming from me. You can go on about not believing it’s butter, expanding waistlines, dicey politics and cringey egos as much as you like, but you know what? John Lydon is fucking 70 and he’s delivering everything he’s got with more power, enthusiasm and fun than he’s ever done. As divisive now as he’s ever been. But I say fuck all the ancillary sniping and punker-than-though bullshit. The man’s responsible for multiple musical movements, from Punk, through Post Punk, to Avant Garde Post whatevers. Just listen to the music. Revel in the stories. Embrace the fact that you were alive at the same time as him. Imagine if you weren’t. How dull it would be.

The world wouldn’t be the same without John Lydon. Long may he reign. And that goes for Lu, Scott and Mark too. They’re growing old disgracefully and taking us with them. And fuck me, I love them for it. God Save PiL. And long live their spirit. It means more these days than it ever has.

May the road rise with you…

~

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On April 24^th, stalwart experimentalists and defiantly uncompromising artists Portrayal of Guilt release “… Beginning Of The End”. It’s their fifth album since forming in 2018 and their fourth on Boston’s Run For Cover Records. Sean Millard doffs his cap to the human ambition of artistry, and straps himself in with a single directive: expect the unexpected. After all, this band has never delivered conformity…

The world is filled to the brim with compromise. Every shape of it is ruthlessly represented.

Outrage at the political nihilism of capitalism? Covered.

Treading on eggshells around the status quo of civilised society? We got you.

An avalanche of seemingly legitimised fascist diatribes swamping social media? More than you could ever have reasonably expected to see again.

We have to compromise our expectations every day. It’s tiring. Everything seems to under-deliver. Unless its cargo is disappointment. So it’s a relief to know that there are dark corners of the musical landscape that steadfastly refuse to submit to expectation.

I’ve never read an accurate description of Portrayal of Guilt. They don’t really adhere to any genre rules or conventional labeling mechanism at all. They are variously (ahem) portrayed as Black Metal, Screamo, Hardcore or Noise Rock. Industrial has been used too, alongside a slightly confusing electronic reference. But that mainly pertains exclusively to the remix LP of their seminal Christfucker album from 2020, entitled… erm… Christfucker II.

There’s even a worrying Trip-Hop reference in their press release for …Beginning of The End.

So listeners seem stumped. At least as far as categorisation is concerned. But that is the band’s beauty and what makes them so exciting, engrossing and absolutely tantalising.

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Much like their peers in bands like Full of Hell, The Body, Thou, pg.99 and even Chat Pile, Portrayal of Guilt revel in genre-less influences. Content to throw everything into the mix before squatting over the pot and adding their own unifying dose of roughshod darkness. It is always a heady mix. And the one thing that I can say, entirely with confidence, is that the band do not shit rainbows. They will never release a record that is light, bright and a pleasure to know.

Unless, of course, they do.

The band hails from Austin, Texas. Home of the Butthole Surfers, Scratch Acid and Ed Hall. It’s not difficult to see where their sense of discordant fun comes from. But then add in a dose of other legends from their hometown. Willy Nelson, Daniel Johnston, Thor Harris and Roky Erikson, for god’s sake.

You can start to see how an outsider perspective is not only embraced by the band but ingrained into every fibre of their being. From their nature to their nurture. They’re a product of their environment.

Portrayal of Guilt are continuing a fine genetic line of blatant disregard for rules, convention and limitations in the tradition of every artist I just mentioned. In many ways, they could ONLY come from Austin.

Have you been? It’s a unique place. A marvelously eclectic and liberated city. Friendly, strange, independent and utterly cool. An island of eccentricity in a Texan desert of conservative conformity. Put it on your bucket list. But avoid SXSW. It makes the locals cringe. As I found out a few years ago. Don’t be a newb.

Keep it weird, y’all.

The band are a three-piece and, considering that they aren’t yet a decade old, they have quickly earned a reputation for productive unpredictability. They have become bastions of the modern US underground metal and noise fraternities. …Beginning Of The End is their fifth full-length, excluding the Christfucker remix LP, in a catalogue of consistent surprise and quality. They’re busy little beavers.

One of Portrayal of Guilt’s best qualities, as far as I am concerned, is their lack of immediacy. They require investment and focus to truly appreciate. Sure, you get an immediate “like it or loathe it” vibe as soon as the needle drops. You’ll instantly either adore the lo-fi abrasion, squealing feedback, screeched vocals, samples and hiss, or, well… you won’t. It doesn’t matter either way, because whatever you think first time round will have changed entirely by the third, fourth or thousandth play through.

Yes. That counting system was a random Watership Down reference. Can’t help it. It’s on my mind. Stream of consciousness and all that. Hails to Hazel. Long may he run.

Your first impressions – either positive or negative – will have changed once you have sat and absorbed a Portrayal of Guilt record. So please, dedicate some time to them. It’s worth it, I promise. Burrow (ahem) down on it and you will be rewarded, one way or another. You might end up hating them. Odd reaction, but fair enough.

And so it goes with …Beginning Of The End. An ominous title, if ever there was one. But they’re good at that. As well as the wonderfully monikered Christfucker, they launched their career with Let Pain Be Your Guide and followed it with We Are Always Alone.

Cheery, they ain’t.

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The first notes of the new LP are clumsy, discordant plucks of a disgustingly distorted guitar. They give me a Vincent-Price-As-A-Mad-Scientist vibe.

I don’t normally tolerate instrumental intros very well, TBH.

But Backstabber is unexpected, amusing and brief enough to serve anticipation wonderfully.

And then the unnerving plinky-plonk gives way to the gnarliest bass tone you’re likely to have heard this year. Absolutely revolting. Slowly carving its own relentless lesion through the air to your ear holes. A laid-back monotonous drumbeat. A whining guitar motif. A false sense of security. Matt King’s dry-as-King-Tut’s-armpit rasps something indiscernible above the weirdly haunting gait of the instrumentation. Until, with an overwhelming surge, Human Terror launches in massive, distorted earnest.

It’s a compelling exercise in dynamics, veering from sinister lows to enormous highs, bellowed and overloading both the speakers and the brain’s ability to process signals.

Seriously.

Headphones.

High Volume.

Trust me.

Again.

A fucking monstrous track and ‘proper’ opener to the LP. It’s quite scary. So harsh that the momentary silence between it and blasting follow-up, Heaven’s Gate, whistles like tinnitus.

Which is just as intense, but in an entirely different manner. It’s in your face. The screaming furnace of sound blasts your sinuses clear. You can feel snot clearing, all the way down your neck as you listen.

It’s unlike me to say so, but the 1.41 runtime isn’t long enough. I find the cacophonous breakdown especially enthralling and need more. It’s always ace to have an immediate re-player so early in the schedule.

Under Siege slams so hard, you feel like a dwarven wrestler being thrown about at a charity event. And I’m saying that while considering the leotards. Oh my god. It’s so fucking filthy… FILTHY. The distortion across all the instrumentation and scorching vocals is so abrasive I was momentarily concerned my tympanic membrane was going to scab over. How marvelous.

I’d like to remind readers at this point, that despite them being very different bands, there is a certain kinship between Portrayal of Guilt’s foul assault and Converge’s dense obliteration of your senses.

But moving back to Under Siege, its peppy 2.13 runtime still allows enough room to build on different movements. This musical narrative gives the song even more propulsion, from the hardcore first third, through the sludging middle, with its anthemic, catchy and addictive “chorus” chant:

“There was never an escape from this eternal cell!

There was never an escape from this internal Hell!”.

I hasten to add, that’s the best transcription I can muster because Matt King’s vocals are THAT raspy and nasty, they’re almost unintelligible.

Even so, it’s a fucking anthem. And it breaks down, collapsing into grinding samples; screeches of industry and demoralisation.

If Under Siege isn’t your track of the album, I’ll be very surprised.

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That screeching bleeds straight into the breakbeat-driven Ecstasy.

Watch it, below.

It’s not my favourite track on the LP, but it does give quite a good flavour of what to expect from it. Even if this one is clearly where the “Trip Hop” references came from.

Mind you; if this is Trip Hop, maybe I shouldn’t have been so dismissive of the genre in the ‘90s. Though sadly, the track doesn’t really do it for me.

It’s interestingly eclectic but lacks the crusty drive that I love so much – and that can be found elsewhere on the platter.

But you’re a grown up. Make up your own mind.

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Thankfully, Death From Above takes us back into hefty sludge territory.

A killer riff leads the action, contrasting with an-almost-but-too-grubby-to-be-spangly, cleanly picked verse riff. It’s punishing and bludgeoning. The samples work well in this one, creating that tinnitus-inducing whine again in the background.

Ultimately, the song doesn’t move with the same energy as the other tracks thus far, though. It’s a mid-placed lull that suits the middle of the album and give it some coherent texture. Time will tell if it continues to serve as an anchor or gets lost to my rapidly desiccating memory after subsequent listens.

God Will Never Hear Me starts off low too.

Whispered vocals, clanging samples, growling bass. Building tension. And then it pops. But the pace remains; a gentle swing, camouflaged in the most hideous noise. Just as you expect a D-beat or blast to inflict whiplash though, it drops back down to its own brooding presence and carries on, relentlessly.

It’s a deliberate test of endurance and works well. There’s a lot of texture, but it’s clearly designed to be unforgiving, in a slow and sleep-deprived way.

And here I feel I have to apologise.

Chamber of Misery Pt. IV (Feat. Slim Guerilla) just doesn’t impress me.

I’m sorry. I don’t feel the need to hear such an up-front hip-hop influence in Portrayal of Guilt. It’s purely personal. I’m sure it’s there on purpose, as a truculent and divisive song bomb. I recognise that some will see the inclusion of Mr Guerilla’s vocal diversion as a triumphant display of exemplary genre-agnosticism, but it’s just not my bag.

Thankfully it’s only a minute of misery (that feels more like parts I-IV than IV alone) before normal service is soon resumed.

Total Black is vicious. Another slower track, but with enough textures and movement to remain utterly compelling throughout. There are even fucking death growls.

Here, I am in my element. The song has an improvised flavour that is enriching and tense. I could be describing my morning coffee or my glowing personality with the same words. It genuinely feels like it is falling apart for its full duration. Actually, maybe I really AM describing myself…

Regardless, it’s my track of what will be the second side of the record (when it is released – this is a vile digital thing that I’m reviewing).

Penultimate song, Object of Pain, feels positively Sisyphean. There’s a wonderful, incessant grind to its structure that experiments some more with cleaner guitar tones and whispered vocals. When it changes it up to a filthy distortion and keeps grinding forward – but tantalisingly never arriving anywhere – it has the air of a Nirvana 45 being played on 33rpm. It’s really rather magical. And rivals Total Black for song of the side.

The Last Judgment is an opus in …Beginning Of The End terms. 4.15 of accumulating every motif and experiment of the album into one significant and pounding final track.

Clean discordant guitars recall Sister and Evol-era Sonic Youth.

The filth from across the LP is delivered in spades. The surprisingly delicate and soft melodies that ride over the foul stench of Alex Stanfield’s bass add an ethereal quality. But it’s James Everidge’s drum textures that steal the show for me; so much going on.

It’s a great way to polish off what has been a really satisfying listening experience.

I think …Beginning Of The End is a great addition to the Portrayal of Guilt catalogue. It stands toe-to-toe with everything they’ve done before, but there’s a discreet maturity to it that makes it richer and more engrossing.

As can be seen with Chapel Of Misery pt. IV, that can be both a positive and a negative, depending on your own preferences. And I think that might be the charm of the record. There’s really nothing else like it, not even in the band’s previous work.

Every listener is going to get something very different out of it. That makes it an intensely personal experience. I can almost guarantee, despite my hyperbole earlier on, that your favourite track won’t be my favourite track.

There’ll be nuance you pick up on that I completely ignore or haven’t noticed.

There’ll be joy I find in tinnitus that others will deride.

As time rolls ever onward, I won’t be at all surprised to read that this LP becomes Portrayal of Guilt’s defining moment. And that praise would be very much deserved.

Equally, I can imagine others feeling that it is too disparate, disjointed or confused to be anything other than average. It will be genuinely interesting to see how it pans out with the fan-base in years to come. It’s going to cause some arguments.

For now, though, I would happily describe this as being a contender for my 2026 top ten. It’s exciting, harsh and different to anything else that scooted up my brain-stem so far this year.

My one concern is any foreshadowing of reality that the album’s title conveys. I hope the band doesn’t know something we don’t, because the world, and my record collection, would be far more uninspired without Portrayal of Guilt’s inventiveness and ferocity within it.

If they stop running after this, my heart would join The Thousand.

That said, if you’re unaware of the band, this is as good a place to start as any. I envy you the journey that lies ahead. There’s not much that can top it. It could even be the beginning of your own end. For those about to dive, I salute you.

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Out April 17

In 1991, Die Kreuzen released their final LP, Cement. Now, 35 years later, former frontman, Daniel Kubinski and his custodians of Die Kreuzen’s legacy, The Crosses, release their debut six-track EP, Outlier.

Sean Millard wistfully embraces nostalgia, only to find it disappear in a cloud of dust in his arms. It turns out that The Crosses aren’t some re-hashed nostalgia act, after all…

For ten years, The Crosses have been keeping the Die Kreuzen spirit alive. They’ve toured the USA, paying tribute to everything the original band released in their seven years together. Now, it seems, they have moved forward. No longer just defenders of an incredible legacy; they are adding to it with new, exciting and evolved material. Hold my (Cows and) beer…

Die Kreuzen were a stalwart pillar of the pre-grunge US indie/hardcore/post-hardcore/college rock scene, from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Signed to Chicago’s Touch and Go Records, they released four stellar LPs between 1984 and 1991. Their influence on bands like Mudhoney, pre-Lovey Lemonheads and early Screaming Trees is obvious. But their reach went much further than that.

They, along with mid-Western brothers-in-arms, Hüsker Dü, The Replacements and even punker peers like San Francisco’s Dead Kennedys, defined the shape and values of the American ‘80s underground. Take any band from SST, Homestead, Twin-Tone – even Dischord. Draw a line directly between them and Die Kreuzen. You’d unearth stories, friendships and bills that were shared on numerous flea-pit stages across America.

The band were definitive. From their first LP, 1984’s hardcore-influenced self-titled opus, all the way through (the still-magnetic) October File, the grunge-defining Century Days and their slightly softer final full release Cement in 1991, they were ever-present in the underground. Every release is significant in its own way. Yet they are often overlooked in sweeping musical histories of America, in favour of more recognisable (and grammatically correct) names.

But under-estimate their true stature at your peril. When many of their contemporaries were regurgitating the same formulas, Die Kreuzen were doing something inventive with each release. They evolved before our ears, bringing new influences with each song, from post-punk and goth to metal. Even some well-camouflaged country and folk elements were present in their later work. An eclectic, dynamic band that instigated musical liberation and genre agnosticism as a fundamental pillar to those in their wake.

Die Kreuzen split up in 1992. The members went their separate ways, contributing to and innovating in new and interesting musical projects. But they never regained the notoriety their original band had achieved. For the last decade, original vocalist Dan Kubinski has been touring The Crosses (Die Kreuzen, in English) as a tribute to past glories. They have focused mainly on representing the band’s original first two LPs live.

Now, The Crosses debut ‘proper’ release, the six-track Outlier EP, is undeniable proof that Kubinski, alongside hardcore luminaries Jim Potter, Christopher Ortiz and Jesse Sieren, are much more than a ‘Kreuzen covers band. They’re taking that catalogue as a jumping off point. They honour it, evolve it and take it into today’s hardcore and metal scene with a grin. Followed by a grimace and a swagger that only 40-odd years of experience can deliver. And we are gathered here today to discuss it.

Outlier contains six punching, dynamic and, frankly, explosive songs. Four of them are newly written. Two of them are covers. One from the god-like Hüsker Dü, I’ll Never Forget You. One from Die Kreuzen themselves; Man In The Trees. It was originally the opening song from my favourite LP of theirs, 1986’s October File. But we’ll get to them.

The EP kicks off with Nails.

Fucking hell. What a way to herald a return/new beginning.

A squall of feedback. A rolling, over-driven bass and tub-thumping glory in four bars. Then Kubinski comes in with an abrasive yell: ”Confusion! Absolution!” and we’re off. Soaring, alone and blood-stained, above lightning-fast hardcore riffs – and the trademark melodic bass-lines. Ever present in the original band’s songwriting, I’m so glad The Crosses have retained it.

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Keith Brammer’s bass playing, back then, was a significant hallmark of the Die Kreuzen’s original sound. It did a great job of maximising the space that a power-trio had to play in. The Crosses could easily have bedded down into a more modern hardcore sound and foregone that sense of melody. But they didn’t. It’s still there. At the forefront. And yet the overall sound is multi-tracked and fuller. More powerful. Christopher Ortiz is honouring a the legacy while driving it forward in a relevant, engaging and thrilling way.

Jim Potter’s central, addictive three chord guitar riff dominates proceedings throughout the song. Its adrenalized urgency throws the maelstrom directly into your chops. Now; the last thing I tend to get excited about these days is a blistering guitar solo. But Potter’s hugely elevating and blasting delivery over the bridge is nothing short of the signature of the song. What a start.

Hate Market was a preview track, released as a CD/Video only promo single, way back in 2024. If it doesn’t serve perfectly as a 1.14 minute statement of intent, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Actually, fuck that – I’ll be that damn fine chimp’s Great Aunt, Nana and heavy-rocking Grandpa, too. Again, wow. It’s gob-smackingly furious.

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How many Young Bucks are capable of delivering such breathless furiosity these days? I mean – they’re there, of course; the spirit never dies. I’m definitely not a nay-sayer when it comes to The Kids, but it’s been a while since I’ve been swept off my feet by the blatant disregard for conformity that hits like a hammer with Hate Market. Zoinks.

That intro, for a start. What a way to foreshadow the barrage. The discordant chordal punctuation. The tickling lead flourishes. What a fucking wonderful racket. Oh, Mother. Take me now.

The-best-drum-roll-of-2026-so-far drags Nychthemeron into focus. A good point to name-drop Jesse Sieren and his work behind the kit. Such energy and impact. Which is exemplified by the production; clear, concise but mucky enough to underpin the off-the-cuff hardcore energy. Yum. I wish I had access to the lyrics; I can’t make them out clearly enough. I wonder how Kubinski is weaving in relevance to the song’s title (Greek for a full 24-hour period). For some reason, it’s caught my imagination and the enigma is compelling.

It’s another full-frontal assault, peppered with stuttering punctuation that stumbles between mid-paced thumping and full-on, driving power. Again, I find Potter’s soloing compelling, instead of off-putting, which would be a more typical response from me. This time, combined with Kubinski’s frequent cleaner vocals – even recalling Bruce Dickinson’s less operatic moments in places (!) – there’s a trad. metal undercurrent/overlay to the song that makes it stand out from the other tracks. It’s not something I expected. And I think I love it.

The final original/new song of the EP, Natronium, is also the longest of the four, at almost three minutes. Epic. It’s a slow, lumbering oaf of a song for the first half of its duration. Not quite sludge, but a crawling sense of foreboding doom. Soundgarden often cited Die Kreuzen as an influence, especially on their earlier work. Natronium channels that in its Outshined-esque pacing.

But then the song reverts, with a crack, to the incendiary pacing reflected in the other tracks. Like two songs in one, such is the stark difference in pacing. The final 25% of the song is sheer chaos. A winding solo, wailing vocals, crashing drums and roiling bass crumble together to the song’s close. Natronium has a progressive feel to it, making me wonder what textures a full-length from The Crosses will offer.

The EP finishes up with the two covers I mentioned at the start. The first of which is Man In The Trees, an iconic track from Die Kreuzen’s original run. I have to say, this is a tricksy one for me. I hold the original song’s choppy riff and punchy delivery in such high regard. Revisiting it with all the modern flourishes of evolved recording techniques and musicianship makes for an odd experience.

The Crosses have remained really close to the original material. They have chosen to recreate it in high definition, rather than re-inventing anything. And that’s cool, but I don’t really get it. There’s so little space on an EP – especially a debut – to present your new material and make a splash. I’m not sure why they would supplement the new stuff with an (admittedly, sterling) cover of their own (ish) song.

There’s a message there somewhere, but I wonder if it will hit home with existing Die Kreuzen fans. They already know and, probably, love the original song. So The Crosses are immediately battling with, rather than leaning into nostalgia, with such a direct reference to the past.

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For what it’s worth, the cover is great, but it lacks the punch of the original song. It hasn’t got the rough-around-the-edges energy, so intrinsic to the original. Too refined, I guess. It highlights that Kubinski’s clean vocals may have evolved too far down the NWOBHM path in the intervening years. His screams and yelps are more powerful than before, but his cleaner phrasing feels a bit old fashioned these days.

I’m surprised by myself. My initial response to seeing Man In The Trees on the track-list was excitement. Ultimately though, there’s nothing wrong with the song or its interpretation. It’s just that there’s direct comparison that, as a nostalgic listener, you can’t help but make. For the wrong reasons, it makes it the weakest track on the EP. But oddly, one of the strongest songs of the 80s. Go figure.

The last track is I’ll Never Forget You. It originally appeared on Hüsker Dü’s landmark double LP of seminal hardcore, Zen Arcade. Now here’s where I lose some hardcore credibility. Of course, I recognise and appreciate the importance of Zen Arcade. It introduced a melodicism to hardcore that was pretty much missing up to that point. However, it’s the LPs that came in its wake that are most significant to me.

And here’s the controversy: it’s too muddled. I firmly believe that ten tracks across the 23 of Zen Arcade could be lost. It would make for a more impactful, single LP release. For me, there’s a lot of filler, unlike across the rest of Da Dü’s records. I can’t help but find the soundscapes and instrumental interludes dreary and skippable. And there’s at least half a dozen ‘proper’ songs that fall short when compared to the rest of them. So sue me. See if I care. You dü you, etc.

Thankfully though, I’ll Never Forget You isn’t one of the songs I’d boot out of bed. And The Crosses’ faithful cover version of it manages to lift it beyond its original representation. That’s mainly due to the more contemporary tonal delivery. It makes the instrumentation more powerful and dense than the glassy 1984 original. Again, Potter’s guitar is fundamental to the band’s ability to bring soaring one-two shiners. It feels a bit more deliberate than Bob Mould’s original (and wonderfully) off-the-cuff playing.

And then the whirlwind assault of the EP is done. Just fifteen and a half minutes of flailing hardcore intensity. Breathless and adrenalized. Oddly fresh but also well-seasoned. All in all, Outliers is a fantastic debut EP from a band of experienced professionals.

It’s not nostalgia. It doesn’t have the air of one last punch from the retirement home.

It sounds entirely contemporary and unique.

Despite my moderate reticence regarding Kubinski’s clean vocal sound. But it’s a small critique, and any potential negatives are outweighed by the balls with which they are delivered. Ultimately, they serve to further carve out a unique space in today’s punk and hardcore landscape.

It’s genuinely amazing to me what true visionaries can achieve. Not alone, obviously. The original Die Kreuzen members came together and, through their combined adventurous spirit, defined significant cornerstone sounds for the US underground. And all that that entails. That Kubinski can surround himself a second time with a different band of musicians, equally pioneering and definitive, is nothing short of incredible.

I hope that Outlier is just a taste of what’s to come, and that it comes soon. I’d love to see a new generation of enthusiasts, as well as the tubby, greying nostalgia market, of which I am proudly one, appreciate the amazing work and musicianship that the band are capable of.

Until then, all hail The Crosses. They might just be the saviours of your rock and roll soul.

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So; there’s no way this could ever be unbiased.

Full transparency: Sargeist’s discography continues to be my most played Black Metal, other than Darkthrone and Immortal, natch. They deliver the goods every single time. The highest quality, most addictively replayable albums, banger after banger.

For those unaware, the band are led by Finnish Black Metal royalty and workaholic, Shatraug. The band was originally a spin-off from his day-job as axe-wielder in pre-eminent Finnish Black Metal band, Horna, that he formed in 1994.

Horna is, without doubt, Finland’s longest serving and most successful Black Metal band. A significant achievement when you consider that their niche is demanded and sustained by their insistence of only presenting their songs in their native tongue.

Constraining, but defining.

They defined the Finnish style; a uniquely melodic and tantalisingly uplifting take on the grimier racket that was being spat out by their contemporary Norwegian cousins, way back when. Horna’s discography is ludicrously huge: at the time of writing, 12 LPs but, incredibly, more than 40 EPs, Splits, Compilation appearances, Demos and Live albums.

You could be forgiven for thinking that that was enough to be going on with for most people.

Not Shatraug.

Along with playing for ten years in Behexen, another incredible top-tier Finnish Black Metal band, as well as contributing to literally dozens of other projects; most notably the fantastic Striges and Hoath. His output really is incredible in quality as well as quantity. I’ve yet to hear anything that he’s been a part of that could be described as sub-standard.

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The Finnish Black Metal scene is quite close-knit, with several bands sharing contemporary members or friends from past-career partnerships. The less-than-savoury-but-great-riff-writer, Werwolf, was an early vocalist for Horna and went on to create Werewolf Records, a specialist Finnish Black Metal label with dubious politics and more notably, the huge fish in a comparatively small pond, Satanic Warmaster; a band that continues to release great albums, providing you’re willing to unpick the artist’s politics from the art itself.

Which might make it a good time to add a note on the cultural politics of Finland, for you to take or leave. It’s worth noting the nuance that should be applied, I think. The scene is often sweepingly labelled as advocating Nazism. Untrue.

Hear me out…

The country’s geographic location borders Russia, which has been an ever-present threat in one way or another, for centuries. That sense of threat, as with Ukraine, similarly, has instilled a fierce sense of national pride in the people that is intrinsic to their culture.

Far more the norm there than where I write from in the UK, and presumably so too from other western European countries, as well as for the States, even if you include the misguided and disgusting red cap brigade.

It’s easy to mistake the Finnish cultural nationalism as something more abhorrent.

Indeed, sometimes, it is. But the nuance here is that often, it isn’t.

We can be guilty of judging another country’s nature through the lens of our own, and they don’t always equate. There’s a big difference between nationalism and National Socialism, and the nuance is often missed for the sake of lazy categorisation and over-zealous conclusions based on tangential relationships between band, labels and other associations.

To be clear, I am in NO WAY excusing Nazis. I find them abhorrent in every way. Nor am I suggesting that Finland doesn’t have more than its fair share of sketchy bands and labels. It does. But too often the entire scene is tarred with the same inaccurate brush. Everyone is guilty by association.

So much so, it can feel like too much of a dodgy subject to address. It’s easier to avoid it and consider the vibrant Finnish scene to be a dirty little secret at the back of your record collection. This, to me, is an unhealthy way of looking at it and/or gatekeeping it.

All I’m saying is, there’s more to it than a lazy headline. Do your research, draw your own conclusions. If your own values and politics can be swayed by the bands you listen to, you may indeed be too vulnerable to embrace Black Metal generally, and Finnish Black Metal specifically.

I’m confident that just as people can listen to Satan Worshiping Motherfuckers without becoming one themselves, the same must surely apply to Nazis.

I hope so, at least.

As for this article, as far as I am aware, I’m not giving props to any Nazis.

Shatraug himself has come out in opposition to that political opinion. To the best of my knowledge Sargeist are ‘clean’, so, stand down, soldier.

My last point on the matter is that I am, to a certain extent (dictated by me, for me) able to distinguish the art from the artist. But everyone has their own line. If yours is more sensitive than mine, I respect that. But I am not condoning anything other than the riffs here.

Onwards.

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A full list of bands that have been bolstered by Horna members in the Finnish scene is too extensive to list entirely, but notable combos that have benefited from Horna’s elite ranks includes Chamber of Unlight, Baptism, Warmoon Lord, Drowning The Light… the list goes ever on.

So, from that ancestral foundation of riff-writing greatness, Shatraug formed Sargeist, in 1999. He created the name from two German words; Sarg (Coffin - presumably etymologically related to the word Sarcophagus) and Geist, which translates as ghost, or spirit. Haunted Casket. Cool.

A demo ensued, members came and went, and the lineup eventually settled on Shatraug (guitars), vocalist Hoath Torog and Horns on drums. The latter two both from Behexen.

Between 2003 and 2010, Sargeist released the three LPs that birthed and cemented their reputation as purveyors of the finest quality Finnish Black Metal. All are still hailed as absolute classics that every genre fan should have in their collection - and probably does.

The inescapable evolution from 2003’s flawless lo-fi debut, Satanic Black Devotion, through the immaculate Disciples of the Heinous Path in 2005 resulted in the (almost) undisputed career high of 2010’s Let The Devil In. That LP distilled the blackened rawness of the previous two albums and doubled down on the thrashing lead-line melodies that have come to define the band in every release since.

Those gloriously uplifting, ear-worming and musical signatures that identify each and every Sargeist song are what have really laid the foundations for the band’s impeccable reputation.

I challenge any broad-minded reader, whether they’re a genre fan or not, to spend some time with Let The Devil In and not come away with a new-found appreciation for the artistry at work with and more widely, therefore, with Finnish Black Metal.

There’s something in Shatraug’s riff-writing with Sargeist in particular, that is entirely pure. It makes the chaos of the blasting, buzz-sawing, howling maelstrom of the songs coherent, accessible and, ultimately, timeless.

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The standards implicit in Let The Devil In perpetuated through two more full-lengths - the perhaps-slightly-lacklustre Feeding The Crawling Shadows in 2014 and the return to form, Unbound, in 2018. The latter being the first LP with Profundis taking over on vocals, VJS on additional guitars and Gruft adopting the drum stool, momentarily, in Horns’ absence.

That lineup changed once again for latest record Flame Within Flame - Sargeist is moderately cursed with bassists and drummers - to Spellgoth, vocalist for Horna since 2009, picking up the bass, and Nur-I-Sayah, of 13th Moon and Demoncy on drums.

Phew.

That’s a long and complicated history. I think I’ve got it all correct, but it’s easy to miss a detail, so I invite corrections from those more knowledgeable me. It what the comments are for…

The overriding point is that Sargeist are now 27 years old and they’ve barely dropped a bollock in all that time. They are a band informed by incredible experience and songwriting expertise that spans back even further than their inception, and it shows.

Flame Within Flame, their sixth album, was released in May 2025. Frustratingly, it took nine more months before a vinyl release landed in February this year. Pressing plants. eh?

But here we are, at last, and ready to write about it.

Spoiler Alert: it’s the band’s best output since Let The Devil In.

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It’s generally acknowledged that Shatraug has a defining style of playing. What began as coiling, multi-barred lead-lines is epitomised by Remains Of An Unholy Past. Lose yourself in that winding lead that descends on one hand and rises on the other. Beautiful.

Hear how it contrasts with a more direct application, eight years later. The method developed into a more coherent four bar/eighth note system of dynamic repetition, which creates an undeniable catchiness. Empire Of Suffering, lead track from Let The Devil In itself is a great example of the root note descents under the pedaling main riff.

Forgive me if my terminology is inaccurate. I’m no genius of musical theory, but one listen and you’ll (hopefully) hear what I mean.

The style is often emulated, not just by Shatraug’s countrymen, but across the world. His style has become the hallmark of a sub-genre - and beyond it.

Never has that riffing style been more present than on Flame Within Flame’s opening track, An Eternal Dream Beyond The Accursed Portent.

Immediately, the song’s looping signature bursts from the speakers, voicing a keen and undiluted statement of intent. It’s almost too melodic on first listen - it dominated my first play-throughs of the LP entirely, before each successive listen gradually exposed the other tracks’ own addictive melodies.

But try going through the song a couple of times and walking away from it without having that riff skipping around the darkest corners of your cerebral cortex for the next week or so.

It’s almost an unbearably positive sounding melody, entirely at odds with the rest of the song’s more foreboding presence. It is that juxtaposition that ensures the compelling surprise that sits at the heart of Sargeist songs.

I find them more immediate and long-lasting than any of Shatraug’s work in other bands, despite adoring all of it. The stylings are present throughout his catalogue, but Sargeist is absolutely defined by it.

The title track follows. At first, it might be dismissed as moderately forgettable, but I urge you to recognise the over-the-top immediacy of the opener. You can’t help but subconsciously compare the two.

Familiarity with Flame Within Flame reveals hooks a plenty - more subtle, but just as engrossing. It’s darker, but I think that it and the track that follows it, The Chant Of Rotting Tongues are focusing their melodic engagement elsewhere. They both expose themselves, ultimately, as showcases for Shatraug’s engaging and versatile vocals. The guitars underpin them, instead of taking the forefront.

In the end, both songs become as definitive to the album as the opening track does.

What a triumphant triumvirate of an opening salvo.

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Just take that looping anthemic guitar line at the end of Flame Within Flame and tell me it’s not fantastic, fist-pumping, heart-pounding songwriting.

On a personal note, I particularly enjoy Shatraug’s Abbathian croak on Rotting Tongues. And again, the elevating guitar lines just make the whole song soar.

What’s clear - and ably portrayed in the next pair of songs, Incandescence Of The Funeral Pyre and Ordained And Adorned, is the intrinsic understanding of the musician’s varying roles in the band.

I mean this in the best possible way: Spellgoth and Nur-I-Sayah address the bass and drums respectively, with a fundamental meat-and-potatoes vision that serves the songs perfectly. One of the reasons I love Black Metal so much is its built-in disdain for showboating, and Sargeist exemplify the philosophy of letting the backing instruments get the fuck out of the way and lay a bed from which the more detail and finessed aspects of the compositions can grow and flourish.

I love that magnanimity. It works. Its socialism as an artform.

Both Incandescence and Ordained And Adorned are fantastic examples of brilliant Black Metal. They are not written for spotlights. They’re written for dogmatic continuance. And they really work because of that, but each obviously has its own source of stand-out motif. Incandescence’s is the singalong vocal lines. Ordained has the most wrenching descending lead-line, buried in the mix, but becoming more and more apparent on successive listens.

Likewise, To The Mistress Of Black Magic, continues that sense of reliability. Dependable in the very best way. The track thumps with a forceful, textural rhythm, rather than darting forward at a consistent pace. Once again, the interplay between the guitar melodies and the vocal lines introduces a profoundly enigmatic and anthemic quality to the second half of the song. It means that the end result is spectacular and memorable.

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However, late-album-highlight, Juravit Sanguine might steal the show: not just of the side, but of the LP. It drives with an undeniable determination, dropping down for the bridge and lifting elementally to the climbing chorus riff.

My god, it hammers brilliantly. I love it. It’s less focused on the high-toned lead-lines and more on the bass rumble and chord-driven structure, which changes things up really nicely at this late stage of the album.

It’s got a looser, punkier texture to it that lands in a deliciously spicy way.

Penultimate track, Behold Our Temples Arise, continues that motif, with chord sequences and lower-register lead-lines defining the hooks. There’s so much lift on the highs and depth in the lows.

Much like a protein turd, it feels really meaty and solid, with brief moments of articulate picking dancing over the top of the bludgeoning chords.

And then, as we hit the final crescendo run to dissolution, that addictive signature descending chord riff becomes a magical hook against the double bass drumming and, finally, Shatraug’s belching croak, alone, as the instrumentation crashes to its end.

Triumphant finisher, Rite of Ascension, with its intricate drum patterns and the double bass drum itself creating a naggingly wonderful rhythmic hook in the verse, proves that the torturous wait for this record to arrive was all worthwhile.

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What a way to end an epic journey. Flame Within Flame is a perfectly balanced LP, with a production that suits it well - clarity without fuss. There is weight and definition in equal measure and it delivers a well-rounded, cornerstone album for Sargeist.

The songwriting is untouchable and the playing is bob on. There’s nothing much to criticise about it at all.

For me, this is up there, in the very highest echelons of the best Black Metal LPs of the 2000s. It’s genuinely that good. If Let The Devil In is universally acknowledged as the band’s masterpiece, Flame Within Flame proves there’s life in the old goat yet. It competes for first place. At least, it does for me.

That Sargeist can be this far into their career and deliver one of the finest examples of the genre, without fanfare or drama, just goes to show how high their quality bar is and how confident they are in their abilities.

All I can do is encourage you to give Flame Within Flame some of your time.

Bed in, because its immediacy belies a longevity and an embarrassment of riches that are waiting to be revealed, through familiarity, just beneath the surface.

It fucking ace.

Ave, Moomins!

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Mere moments do not a great artist make.

I have often found myself in a minority of one, declaring that certain Sacred Cow bands are simply fodder for the sheep who are settling for acclaimed greatness instead of really seeking it out for themselves.

At the risk of being strung up for heresy, I’m naming and shaming some of the bands I consider to be the main offenders, whose popularity and adoration seems to be fuelled more by hyperbole than the tunes themselves.

Or so I think, anyway.

This is a good-humoured list that will hopefully get some conversation flowing; two ‘rock’ bands from every decade since the ‘60s, each selected on the basis that, IMHO, despite having a couple of decent songs in their repertoire, are a long way away from being consistent or as flawless as popular opinion might have us believe. I haven’t gone outside that genre. I openly admit it’s not my area at all.

So…who are your favourite wastes of time?

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In an era that shaped the rock and roll of the ‘50s into something closer to the rock and pop we adore today, the world became alive with clones of the successful bands of the time. Cover versions were occasionally released before the originals had time to settle and everyone seemed to be finding their own niche that was near-as-dammit a carbon copy of another band currently enjoying some success. And that was deemed OK.

There are therefore a ton of bands from the ‘60s that I’d consider disappointments, but how many are actually Sacred Cows, worthy of lighting myself on fire for?

I’m going for Jimi Hendrix and the Rolling Stones.

While I can appreciate Jimi’s playing (to a certain extent), what I can’t get behind is his reputation as a great songwriter too. I just don’t think the songs are that good. They’re not particularly coherent and have never set my ears alight. There’s little in the way of consistent and nagging melodies; the songs have always felt, to me, like they’re a structure to be placed around the wandering imagination of his soloing. They just don’t interest me at all. Notable exceptions are Hey Joe and All Along The Watchtower. Interestingly, both cover versions. Maybe The Wind Cries Mary too.

But the rest?

Meh.

As for the Rolling Stones; there’s much to love. Their longevity is endearing and some of their songs are genuinely ace. But have they ever released a truly great LP? I don’t see it. And I’ve been beaten about my head with Exile On Main Street more times than I can count.

Their Satanic Majesty’s Request might come the closest for me. Most of their singles have their moment with me; Mother’s Little Helper owns its own soft spot at the back of my black old heart. Wild Horses is beautiful, although that’s really the ‘70s.

I often find myself enjoying covers of their songs more than the originals. The numerous versions of Paint It Black and Gimme Shelter that pepper my record collection almost always beat Keef and Mick’s originals.

And all those trite blues numbers? Dreadful.

Flame on.

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The decade of ostentatious facial hair, flamboyant colours and man-made materials. My first ten years. There’s much to love; culturally and musically, for me. It’s a period of time that birthed the music I love in many ways. But there are a couple of big names from the period that are deemed untouchable, and I disagree.

Led Zep and The Clash,

Boo. Hiss.

Straddling the ‘60s and ‘70s, Led Zeppelin are undeniably responsible for originating lots that is great about modern music. Their tales of excess alone make them worthy of a timeless reputation.

But try as I might, I can’t find an LP of theirs that I love. The odd song - Stairway, obvs. Immigrant Song? Maybe. I’m hard pushed to much else by them that I couldn’t live without.

Again, like the ‘Stones, those yawning blues/rock songs are so fucking predictable and dull. I just don’t get what people see in them. Yet their contemporary Cows - Black Sabbath and Deep Purple - were churning out any number of memorable ditties, based on similar influences.

Jimmy Page can fuck off.

There I said it.

Satisfied?

You pushed me to it.

Stop encouraging me.

As for The Clash - I have a real soft spot for Give ‘Em Enough Rope - Safe European Home, especially, is bloody brilliant. There are moments on the first LP, several on London Calling, very few on Sandinista and even fewer on Combat Rock. So I struggle to see where the plaudits come from.

The lyrics, politically charged and passionate as they are, resonate with greatness, but the music has always fallen short of my own expectations, feeling closer to Pub Rock than Punk. Too much of the 101ers, not enough of their contemporaries’ bite.

If I do a side-by-side with The Clash against Ramones, The Damned or even the Pistols, they come up very short indeed.

Style over substance.

Sue me.

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If the 1970s were ostentatious in the facial hair stakes, the ‘80s were flamboyant in their costumery, with even day-to-day garments having a sense of theatricality about them.

Likewise, the music grew larger, alongside the shoulder pads and back combed hair-don’ts, synths dominated. Everything was laden in so much reverb and chorus effects that it projected a size that, often, the writing itself was dwarfed by. Mainstream music became as much about the production as the tunes.

This was the period across which I came of age. Immersed in post-punk, goth and NWOBHM, I’m not sure that I would change those days for anything. Bauhaus, The Cure, Sisters… Saxon, Iron Maiden, PiL, Adam and the Antz… there’s so much to celebrate that has stayed with me ever since.

But there was also a ton of overrated shite, not least of all Talking Heads and Metallica.

I know, right?

Don’t get me wrong, there are songs by both bands that I adore.

‘Tallica’s early work brought some thrashing hope for greatness, before swiftly collapsing beneath the weight of their own egos by 1988. Am I compelled to listen again and again to their albums? Ride The Lightning, maybe.

If I’m really in the mood.

There was a time I was addicted to it.

But anything else? Not really. Half of Master of Puppets.

A couple of tracks off Kill ‘Em All.

Certainly nothing after those first three records. Not least of all because the lyrics are so consistently appalling - and with each successive release, the music itself became so homogenised and boring.

It blows my mind that they’re still so huge.

They became, very rapidly, the metal U2.

What a yawnfest.

Even by my standards, Talking Heads are a bit of a lame addition to this list. I’m not that convinced they’re a genuine Sacred Cow for enough people to incite a reaction. But that’s also why they’re here. They don’t incite a reaction in me.

Maybe three songs off 1977 are worthwhile. Psycho Killer has obviously become a standard, and justifiably so. Maybe The Big Country, from More Songs about Buildings… but they were both form the 70s.

Honestly, how has their brutally dull take on funky, formless “art rock” stood the test of time? It is genuinely beyond me. I question the integrity of the music media for the praise they lavished on the band’s awful 80s output: Once In A Lifetime?!?! And She Was? Burning Down The House?! ROAD TO FUCKING NOWHERE?!?!

Lest we forget, they released seven LPs throughout the 1980s.

Including live albums, that’s more than 70 songs they “contributed” to the catalogue of human artistry in that decade alone.

Maybe their status came from their early role in the CBGBs scene that ended up defining punk and new wave in America. But compare them to Television, Voidoids, Patti Smith, Blondie, Ramones… their Zoot-Sooted clownish pretensions just don’t stand up.

By their own admission, they were a bit out of place. But you shouldn’t be hailed for creating Outsider Art just because you happen to be an outsider.

Fucking awful.

No redeeming factors.

They even had a song called Radio Head.

Which reminds me…

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This decade is symbolic of independence to me. The music sound-tracked my university years, an exciting time in London. Marriage, divorce and eventual retreat to the hills.

AmRep, Sub Pop, Estrus, Headhunter and Touch and Go were labels that fueled my fever early on, then Epitaph and Burning Heart. From 1996/7, I went back to metal, via early Black, Death and some metallic hardcore. Victory Records, Ferret, Revelation… It was a great decade for music, but there was a lot of shit too.

The two I’m calling out are Pearl Jam and Radiohead.

Are you aggravated yet?

I was very much in the punk and noise camp of grunge. It was Nirvana, Mudhoney, Tad, God Bullies, Cows and Tar that pushed my buttons. I couldn’t, for the life of me, draw a line between those bands - who I was absolutely fanatical about - and the limp corporate rock of Pearl Jam, the dismal metal of Alice In Chains or the half-arsed copyist claptrap of Stone Temple Pilots and their ilk.

Or those awfully bland pussy-footing egotists, Smashing Pumpkins. They seemed to have nothing to do with it as far as I could see, and yet they received more accolades than bands far more worthy.

Pearl Jam epitomise that for me. What on earth did people see in their soft corporate rock? It felt to me that it had about as much to do with the grime of grunge and post-hardcore as the Eagles. It was grunge for Mums. It didn’t share the fundamental DIY/Lo-Fi/Self-Deprecating mindset that for me was so fundamental to the movement. They were the opposite; delusions of grandeur with as much bite as a pensioner’s palsied maw.

A couple of exceptions; Alive eventually ingrained itself into my subconscious. Likewise, Once. But singles. Repetitious exposure. Certainly, nothing on any successive LPs. Ten can be tolerable in short bursts, but not from start to end.

Overproduced rubbish, with a sheen that’s been rubbed in by dollar bills.

Absolutely vile.

When I was a student, I wrote reviews for the university’s own oily little rag. Radiohead’s Pablo Honey came in upon release, and I remember, word for word, what I wrote about it:

“Third-rate Nirvana copyists who’ll never amount to anything…”.

Ha! In retrospect, it wasn’t my most astute gambit.

But I stand by the principles.

There was nothing about Pablo Honey that, taken in isolation, suggested the arty drearscapes that have sustained their career since, or that have endeared them to generations of listeners.

I’m afraid I still don’t get it. I can’t find the tunes in their songs. They seem to disappear so far up their own arses I can see them peeping from their collective windpipe. Utterly pretentious, which at times I am happy to applaud - Bauhaus, for instance - but so dreadfully dull. To my ears, they still have no redeeming factors whatsoever.

I find everything about them unconvincing, from their awful band name to their songwriting. I can’t see what the world would have missed if they’d never existed.

Coldplay for geography teachers and various heads of departments.

Music that is almost as boring as they are.

In lots of ways, the 2000s were fairly bland for me, musically.

It was the period of time given over to mainstream pop-punk; Blink 182 went huge, alongside Green Day. But it was also the lamentable period where dance music and hip-hop influences were ever-present in rock music.

It was bad enough in the 90s, but by the time the new millennium hit, it was impossible to avoid watered-down Prodigy-derived, big-beat nonsense, backed up layers of guitars masquerading as rebellion.

It was the time of Nu Metal, too - where mixing every abominable genre into a single awful collage of shit was deemed credible. It would be too easy to pop at the main contributors of that. I’m looking at you, Linkin Park, Korn, Limp Bizkit… But such is my disdain for their pointless existences, I refuse to acknowledge them as Sacred Cows. I sense too many people would agree with me and that would make this too easy.

Instead, I’m going for Nine Inch Nails and Foo Fighters.

It’s not that NIN never had some good songs. Head Like A Hole is still great.

But to me, Industrial music needs to be heavy, challenging and grim - it needs to HAMMER. I just don’t get that from NIN’s over-indulgent soundscapes.

Although Reznor’s lyrics are wonderfully bleak, the music became some kind of resurrected monstrosity that mongrelled Tool with Depeche Mode. A meaningless dirge, from The Fragile onwards.

The fact that the band became untouchable and so lauded once they took all the distortion away blew my mind. I still struggle to see why they are held in such high regard.

Corporate darkness still sucks. Just because it’s the darkest music you’ve heard, doesn’t mean it’s as dark as all that.

Put some Swans on, FFS.

Or Neubauten.

NIN is music for weekend fetishists who feel like they’ve outgrown Marilyn Manson.

I Yam What I Yam.

As regards Foo Fighters, you can’t help but admire Dave Grohl.

Pre Love-Rat, he was the nicest man in pop rock.

But still, much like Coldplay - their ‘indie’ equivalent - any member of the backing band could wee next to me in a urinal and I wouldn’t recognise him.

They are professionally bland people.

I have no idea what they look like or who does what in the band, because they could all be doing all of it. It’s hard to think of a lineup that more aesthetically generic.

They’ve got some songs, especially the singles off the first couple of albums, but even then - and I was excited to see their first UK live appearance at Reading Festival in 1995 - they were patchy, at best.

Are any of their albums wall-to-wall bangers?

Don’t be silly.

They are less capable of delivering genuine excitement than furniture polish.

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It’s quite difficult to think of any defining bands of the 2010s that are worth being hailed as Sacred Cows. Which, I guess, is interesting in itself.

That decade pretty much felt like a listless transition period for ‘rock’ music to me, with “success” being more defined by haircuts and tattoos than good songwriting.

The diabolically bad corporate emo/goth/metal of bands like Bring Me The Horizon and the dire pop rock of 21 Pilots, Imagine Dragons and The 1975 are listed as the most successful “rock” bands of the period.

How entirely depressing.

I had reverted to back catalogues; Misfits, Motörhead, Thin Lizzy. Anything else I mentioned positively previously.

The “new” stuff that enticed me tended to be more of the same stuff always worked; Doom; Sleep, Electric Wizard… and Doom adjacent; Mastodon, Baroness, High On Fire. Metal/hardcore matured - Converge, Nails, Full of Hell released some great records. As did Sludge titans Thou, alongside bands like The Body, Sunn O))) and Boris. The progressive post-Hydrahead bands like Old Man Gloom, Isis, Pelican and Russian Circles deepened engagement and provided respite from mainstream tripe, but still - the 2010s are defined by their transitory blandness in many ways.

Nothing much to hang a hat on.

I realise I’m an old man now, bemoaning how it’s not like it was in my day - but objectively - who are the Sacred Cows of the 2010s?

FIIK.

Even the underground was somewhat uninspired. Darkthrone started releasing brilliant stuff again from 2016’s Arctic Thunder. Immortal dropped a couple of bangers but, generally, it was decade without any real Precious Cattle to slaughter.

What do you think?

Who have I missed?

Where have I gone completely off the Res and wandered into Tiger Country?

Who would you self-immolate for?

Ave, Twisted Firestarters!

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Nuclear Blast, 2006 / Edged Circle Productions, 2025

It’s a story that now feels as old as the hills to anyone with even a passing interest in Bergen, Norway’s finest exponents of theatrically magnificent Black Metal, Immortal.

Following the success of Sons of Northern Darkness in 2002, the band took a hiatus, citing exhaustion and creative fulfillment as the reasons to put the band on hold. They were quitting at the peak of their popularity and, I guess, wondered where else they could go under the Immortal banner.

As I’ve said numerous times before, despite being their most successful album at the time - maybe still - Sons of Northern Darkness is, to my ears, Immortal’s weakest release, by some stretch. It’s too commercial-sounding, over produced and the songs feel too deliberately written with a broad audience in mind to remain appealing to me.

I actively dislike it, and yet hold every other album in their catalogue up as brilliant - each in their own way, of course.

So it was, that at their commercially triumphant zenith, they put a bow on it and stepped away. The two stalwart forces behind Immortal, Abbath and Demonaz - close friends and brothers-in-law - remained on good terms, but the band was, to all intents and purposes, on hold, if not dissolved.

This was summer 2003.

By Christmas that year, Abbath had started working on new material and had recruited Ice Dale, Enslaved’s guitarist, to assist in pre-production of the new tracks, swiftly joined by previous Immortal drummer Armagedda and Gorgoroth bassist, King Ov Hell.

Throughout 2004 and 2005, the band rehearsed and wrote the songs that would become Between Two Worlds around their other commitments - including Abbath’s stellar Motörhead tribute band of the time, Bömbers, as well as King’s involvement in the busy Gaahl-era of Gorgoroth and Dale’s hectic time with Enslaved, as that band’s elder-statesmen-of-the-scene star rose. Demonaz was called in for lyrical support on the LP too, somewhat magically, for Immortal fans.

I eventually played their only show, at Hole In The Sky, in Bergen, in August 2006, with the LP following shortly after, on Nuclear Blast, in November of that year.

A year later, in summer 2007, Abbath and Demonaz would reform Immortal - the Battle Pandas together for one more outing, culminating in the excellent - but overlooked - All Shall Fall, in 2009.

Then, following multiple tours and a live album, Abbath left for good, in 2015, kicking off his successful solo career with a self-titled LP in 2016.

Meanwhile, Demonaz had recorded his great thrashy solo LP, March Of The Norse, in 2011. He has since picked up the Immortal reigns without Abbath and released, at time of writing, two ace LPs in Northern Chaos Gods and War Against All. Both highly recommended and a great evolution of the band’s blackened thrash sound.

But I digress.

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Between Two Worlds is generally acknowledged as being a great LP that didn’t reach a big enough audience upon release, mainly due to the supergroup’s other commitments/unwillingness to tour preventing an adequate amount of promotion to push it to the heights it deserved to reach.

Presumably, for that reason, it languished in the ether, as a semi-legendary release, lost to time, out of press and virtually forgotten by all but the keenest enthusiasts.

Until last year, when it was finally granted a vinyl repress by Norway’s indie metal label, Edged Circle Productions last year.

It’s now onto its second, limited repress.

As a side-note, I love the LP so much, I pre-ordered a copy from both runs.

What can I say? I’m a nerd with more money than sense, clearly.

Others will surely disagree with me, but to my ears, Between Two Worlds feels like a what direct successor to Immortal’s landmark At The Heart Of Winter could have sounded like if it had gone in a slightly more melodic direction than Damned In Black did.

Obviously, Demonaz isn’t constructing epic tales of Blashrhykh in his lyrical Eddas for this one, but musically, it resonates with me in a very similar way to that pivotal Immortal release. It has the same nagging hooks in the vocal lines, super-memorable riffs and clean production that delivers power in abundance, on a bed or articulation - no doubt due to the mixing credit of the fantastic and long-standing Immortal com padre, Peter Tâgtgren.

It’s often said that Between Two Worlds is more of a straightforward heavy metal album, but I don’t see it. Yes - there’s less tremolo riffing and blast-beats than a typical Black Metal release, but when the music is fronted by Abbath’s iconic croak, it simply can’t feel that far removed from the Immortal songbook. And it’s not as if At The Heart Of Winter is full-on Black Metal anyway; that LP heralded Immortal’s pivot to Blackened Thrash, and in many ways, Between Two Worlds continues that direction.

So the LP, in my opinion, will definitely sate the needs of those who love At The Heart Of Winter and yearn for more of that kind of thrashy blackness. Ignore the dissenting voices.

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The Storm I Ride has instant addictiveness to it central riff. There’s so much instant energy, it’s impossible to not be hooked in immediately.

At first Abbath’s phrasing feels a little awkward - overly rhymed - and then it takes on a Lemmy/Motörhead air that pushes up its credibility, and you suddenly get where he’s going with it. A phased breakdown before an electrifying old school solo, with melodies for miles, inflicts itself upon your eardrums.

It punches like Tyson and glides like Bluebird.

Magical.

Warriors might be the track of the LP - if there is one - and it’s not hyperbole to suggest there may not be, because every track on here is of such high quality that picking one to rule them all isn’t easy.

Nevertheless, Warriors is another instant classic, exemplified by its presence fairly regularly in Abbath solo sets. When he croaks “It’s a great day for fire!”, you just know that in a live situation, he’s never, ever going to be yelling that alone.

Again, the riffs are mentally good. The solos are so musical and intrinsic to your enjoyment of the music that they present that rarest treat - augmentation, not ostentation. The song stays in your head and on your tongue for days afterwards - genuinely.

My internal monologue will be harping on about the Great Warrior Sleep for a week or more now. The climbing solo at the end of the song is triumphant and enigmatic. A shame it ends on a fade, but otherwise, perfect.

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Title track, Between Two Worlds, has a mega-crunchy main riff and yet another singalong vocal line. Maybe the addictiveness comes from Abbath’s vocals being slightly higher in the mix and more articulate than his work in Immortal; it’s easy to make out what he’s singing, and the melodies are so pronounced, you can’t help but join in as soon as you’re familiar with it.

Structurally, there’s lots going on in addition to the verse, chorus and bridge. The song drops down to half speed halfway through its near-six-minute run-time. As it picks up again, Abbath’s slightly off-key gurgles seem to add more to the song’s energy than they would if they were flawlessly in tune. The anthemic guitar line that soars towards the final verse is an instrumental highlight of the entire LP, again, emphasised by off-key vocalisations.

They jar at first, but end up being a hook in and of themselves.

Battalions is a great thrasher that’s centred around an NWOBHM style riff that works really well against Armagedda’s double bass drums and King’s thumping bass guitar. It’s the heaviest track so far; spitting flak like a chain gun across a field of fallen infantry. It chugs, it opens up, it flies and it flares.

Not as memorable or addictive as the first three epic anthems, but the song’s harder edge give the album some worthwhile texture.

Mountains begins with softly strummed and chorused chords, leading into thumping and sparse drum rolls before kicking in with a four to the floor beat and picked main riff that has so many intricate parts to it that it’s a multi-threaded composition of its own.

The ingrained hook of the main riff - and the song itself - descends and recalls, of all things, (I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone by the Monkees!

Which is definitely not to underplay the darkness it exudes.

It’s a definite highlight for me, even if only for the different playing that Abbath’s guitar work showcases throughout.

He really shows the strength of his playing and goes much further than what is usually on display in his work in Immortal. He’s a melody master. It’s such confident songwriting; Demonaz effortlessly emphasising the music with his words and Peter Tägtgren showing what an impact great production can make to already great songs. So much space in the song-scapes; the compositions genuinely breathe.

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Days Of North Winds isn’t the most memorable song on the album and it’s a situation too, where Abbath’s vocals don’t quite pull off the desired effect. This time the off-key moments just sound a little too off. They don’t complement the music like they did on Between Two Worlds.

Regardless, the song is still fantastic; the nagging lead melodies picking up any harmonious slack that the vocals can’t retain. There’s a lot to love in Days Of North Winds, even if it isn’t as intrinsically memorable as other tracks on the album. There’s nothing bad about it at all.

Far Beyond The Quiet embarks upon a journey that reminds me a bit of mid-late 80s Iron Maiden. A choppy riff sits atop a hyper-melodic and pronounced, clean, bass line.

Abbath does his best Lemmy phrasing on this one; not quite reaching the high-notes but getting away with it anyway. It’s a successful mid-paced banger that creates an anthemic surge of adrenaline that you’d have to be emotionally retarded to miss or ignore.

It’s the slowest song on the album by a clear distance. It could be mistaken as a filler song, purely because of its underplayed hookiness, but play it on repeat a few times and find yourself waiting for the crashing drive of the final third - and then reap the rewards of standing by its intent, because it’s a grower, and absolutely ends up being a late-arriving highlight.

Far beyond the stillness

Where the gods no longer reign

The ice once formed the landscapes

Into mountain-sides and stains…

Epic.

The album wraps up with the peppy Cursed We Are. Another choppy thrash riff and slamming chorus that becomes the hook that distinguishes it from the other tracks on the album. It’s tracks like this that really make you feel so many opportunities were wasted by the band not touring the album properly.

Cursed We Are would be a live highlight, without doubt; it’s second chorus built for crowd participation:

Cursed we are… Eternally!

You just know that would be fun.

The different textures in the various riffing styles ensure that the album ends on a real high; splashing cymbals drop to fist-pumping breakdowns, rise to blistering solos into a final flag-waving chorus that would make Lemmy jealous.

Wünderbra.

I love Abbath and all those comrades that enable his unique brand of songwriting to be delivered with the punch it demands. It’s a self-deprecating and wry mindset that underpins the grandeur. And that’s a really compelling mix.

So compelling, in fact, that as I listen to this digitally, for ease of writing to it, the album bleeds into an automated AI decision to follow it with Sons of Northern Darkness.

There’s not much difference in the sound-stage of the two records. The Immortal record elevated though, by the quality of the I album. It’s genuinely the first time Sons has sounded good to me.

Good enough, in fact, for me to wonder if I’ve been too dismissive of it in the past.

We’ll see.

For now though, Between Two Worlds remains supreme.

In some ways a missing link in the Immortal catalogue. In other ways unique and very much its own thing.

Whichever guise it takes though, one thing’s for sure; supergroup LPs rarely live up to either their billing or the power of the names involved in them. Almost designed to prove that the sum is nowhere near as great as the individual parts. They normally stink of a marketing man’s bad idea. Not so with I. Perhaps because it came from Abbath’s artistry in the first place. Perhaps because all the players really bring something special to the event.

Whichever it is, one thing’s for sure; Between Two Worlds is a truly great LP. Not quite Black, not quite Thrash. Something just in and if itself.

Unparalleled and genuinely without peer.

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The band are playing a US show this year to celebrate the reissue. It would be amazing if that turned into a tour.

I’d give my eye teeth to see the band play the album live. What an immense treat.

Between Two Worlds is a genuine classic. If you’ve not got it yet, pick it up before it’s too late.

20 years is too long to wait again for another chance to bed down with its brilliance.

Ave, Warriors! To the storm we ride!

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