Soilwork themselves call this EP their “most daring and pretentious release to this date.” Pretentious, huh? If you search out the philosophical concepts of the lyrics, you can decide for yourself (though I will say that spelling the title with “Whisp” instead of “Wisp” is odd). Musically though, it’s not pretentious at all – but it is a grander canvas and more diverse palette than we’ve heard from the band before.

Now, it’s too easy to just say that the 16-minute title track automatically qualifies as prog. Not quite. It doesn’t feature a lot of the noodly time-signature gymnastics that usually come with the genre, but “A Whisp of the Atlantic” is a multi-part composition. It’s got shifting moods and pacing and textures – everything from blistering battery to lurching stomp to moody interludes. It’s just less Yes, and more Alan Parsons Project (side B of The Turn of a Friendly Card, in particular).

Onto those new elements: I love the wistful piano-driven intro, later repeated in the song’s final moments. Piano also continues on through much of the song as a pounding heartbeat, and it works well to offset the more muscular guitars. Speed also explores a variety of vocals, with a more theatrical and varied delivery than usual. There’s a restrained croon, a hoarse rasp, and a growl that’s more layered and guttural than his normal roars. I think some of these new tricks are more successful than others, but thankfully his powerful cleans are as rousing as ever.

And then there’s the brooding jazz-noir midsection, easily the most adventurous and surprising thing we’ve heard from the band. There’ve been saxophones in metal before (avant-garde black metal from Oblomov, Ihsahn, and Leprous), but a trumpet solo? That’s new. The only thing here that’s really jarring is the skrawky guitar solo around the 5 minute mark – I find that whole passage to be jangly and cacophonous, but it’s also short-lived and we move back into a smoother section before long.

As for the other tracks, they’re all good solid modern Soilwork tracks: heavy and melodic and well-crafted and it’s great to have them all packaged up together. “The Nothingness and the Devil” is a propulsive burner with a slightly mournful screamed chorus that could have been included on The Ride Majestic. It’s also noteworthy for its moody Pink Floyd-inspired outro, with long, sustained guitar notes that could have come from a David Gilmour guest spot.

“Feverish” is ragged and relentless, the most aggressive thing here. The hyperspeed, blastbeating pace – which continues even below the hooky chorus – gives drummer Bastian Thusgaard a chance to really stretch his legs. However, the repeated bellowing of “Feverish like this!” throughout the verses and choruses grates on my nerves. (It’s probably going to get skipped more often than not when I put this EP on.)

I like “Desperado” a hell of a lot better – it’s got a killer central riff, a memorable chorus, and a faintly detectable but still furious undercurrent of strings. Nice touch. And finally, we have a great closer in “Death Diviner” – it’s more mid-paced than the others, but I love the interplay of Speeds’s clean verses and the hypnotic, repeating circular riff. Another huge heroic chorus too. Would not have been out of place on Verkligheten, in fact I prefer it to a few of that album’s cuts (and that was my #1 album of 2019, so that’s saying something). 

So all in all, shit year in general, unexpectedly good year for Soilwork fans. Their expanded palette shows real creativity and ingenuity in an often staid genre, and I hope that the ambitious, multi-part title track is a portent of things to come in 2021 and beyond.  

I’ve been listening to the Rochester, NY space-rock trio for a few years now, after stumbling across their debut album Orion in 2016. Among all of the other metal I had on repeat that year – Mithras, Moonsorrow, Insomnium – that album stood out for its warm, earthy sound and desert-sunset atmosphere and I wound up returning to it often. Follow-up Longing to Be the Mountain, with its more muscular and rollicking explorations, got plenty of plays in 2018 as well, shooting up to #5 on my year-end list. 

Yet until the release of Dead Star, the band was still something I’d put on occasionally as opposed to full-on binge status. That binge has now been going on for several weeks (’cause hey, we all have a lot more free time these days). Dunno why I hadn’t checked out their other releases before – 2018’s hypnotic and groovy EP Repeater, and their phenomenal 2013 demo (think Sixteen Horsepower covering Pink Floyd’s Meddle) – but now I want it ALL. And all throughout that binge, I think I’ve listened to Dead Star now, what? 15, 20 times? First streaming, and then on the pristine, bone-white vinyl that just came in the mail. 

The big draw here is the 2-part, 16-minute opening monolith, “Red Star Parts 1 and 2.” It’s not a massive departure from some of the band’s longer, more expansive songs, but it has a colder atmosphere and a darker edge than they’ve explored before. Part 1 is a slow cosmic crescendo of subdued and tribal drumming, ghostly vocals, and distorted guitar lines that unfold like an aurora borealis. Headphones are a must. And then, 10 minutes in, the thrusters fire up, the guitars kick in, and you’re blasted into deep space while waves of  gorgeous radiation trail in your wake. The band has cut this last part down into a radio edit (also included on the end of the EP), but I still prefer to go through the whole journey time after time.

The remaining tracks are diverse and satisfying. Both the relaxed and drifting “Echo of a Waning Star” and the meditative acoustic title track could have easily fit on any other King Buffalo release. They serve as lovely bookends for the other two tracks, which are also infused with that same deep-space gloom as “Red Star.” “Ecliptic” is a 3-minute instrumental which sounds like the band has been cramming John Carpenter soundtracks, while “Eta Carinae” is a more adventurous and playful jaunt. Just wait until the killer, propulsive rhythm that kicks in around halfway through, it’s addictive. And then that’s it. Reprise of “Red Star Part 2” again, and it’s over. Flip the record, play it again. 

Back to the topic of favorite bands. I gave it some thought, and decided that for any band to really make the upper echelon of my listening time, they have to do three things: 

1. Be something I really like (shimmering Pink Floyd compositions + swaggering Sabbath groove? Hell yes).
2. Write excellent and compelling songs and albums (there’s not a dud or skippable track in their entire discography)
3. Surprise me, through new evolutions of their sound or new ideas.

Opeth, Enslaved, and Insomnium, to name a couple of other favorites, make the grade on all three. And now King Buffalo. Dead Star easily succeeds at the first two points, but it’s the third one that really clinched it here, by embracing the space in space rock but without losing all of the wonderfully earthy qualities that define the band’s sound. Feet on the ground, head in some far-off skull-shaped nebula.

I’ve been an Opeth fan since late 1997, when I first heard “Nectar” on a Century Media comp. I was intrigued, and after tracking down copies of Morningrise and Orchid, I was in love. (My Arms, Your Hearse came out shortly afterwards, and cemented their status as my #1 favorite band – and that hasn’t changed since). I can remember back to the release of every new album, breathlessly awaiting the first samples that would drop. “Moonlapse Vertigo,” “Harvest,” “Wreath,” “Windowpane,” “The Grand Conjuration,” “The Lotus Eater.” This is long before streaming services – remember, we actually had to wait for mp3s to get posted? And then as soon as the album would appear online, I’d find it, gobble it up, and play it endlessly until I received my physical copy. And then continue with my listening spree. 

This time, I did something very different. My wife and I finally invested in a record player a few years ago, and so not only did I wait to listen to In Cauda Venenum until it was actually in my hands, but I also bought it on vinyl. In Swedish. And then I did something even more uncharacteristic. I waited almost a week longer, until the house was empty. Wife out, kids out. I pulled a chair over to the speakers, poured myself a good beer, laid the record sleeve open on my lap, and I finally hit play.

There have been many, many listens since that first one, but even now, I still can’t shake the odd thought that bubbled up somewhere around the lovely, sunlit wanderings of “Ingen sanning är allas/Universal Truth”: I forgot I was even listening to Opeth. And then an even stranger fantasy occurred to me.

Imagine that it’s 2008 again. You’re a massive Opeth fan. You know every note on every album, from Orchid throughout Watershed. You know them as well as you know any pieces of music. And then, you fall into a coma. Doesn’t matter how, you’re just gone from the world. You miss out on the big shift, and the rumors of the two deleted post-Watershed death metal tracks. You miss out on Heritage, on Pale Communion, on Sorceress. 

And then you wake up in a strange house.

The house from the album cover, in fact. A stately English manor house, with the gentle crush of evening settling all around, and warm golden light blazing from within. You’re lying in a plush and monstrous bed. Smooth white sheets, dark green velvet coverlet, mahogany posts carved in baroque patterns. The bed is comfortable and warm, like the rest of the chamber, and yet, your first thought is a dark one. Someone died in here. The corners of the room are obscured by shadow. Maybe that person is still here.

And then a man steps out of those shadows. A familiar face, bearded and with a wry smirk. It’s Mikael Akerfeldt. He’s dressed in a smoking jacket and top hat – a bit eccentric, sure, but it suits him well. He’s got a gleam in his eye. He slips a snifter of brandy into your hand, waits for you to pull on a silk pair of pajamas, and then he gives you a tour of the place.

It’s an elegant home, solidly built and handsomely furnished. Everything is luxurious, ornate, but also darkened with the patina of years. Well-worn and lived in. And there’s music playing in every room. It’s Opeth, Mikael confirms, but it’s not the band you remember. There’s still that same duality of darkness and light, heavy vs delicate, but where are the biting guitars? Where are the thunderous rhythms, the roaring vocals? It’s a different palette altogether. And yet, it’s still assertive without being aggressive. It commands your attention. And it’s rich. Rich and dark and exquisite. And as you wander through the house, you bathe in that music, letting it warm you back to life.

It often sounds familiar – a chord progression here, a layering of melodies there, and buoyed along at all times by Mikael’s honeyed voice and the band’s pristinely detailed playing. And it varies in mood, each piece matching the decor and feel of its respective chamber. Some rooms, filled with the sounds of “Kontinuerlig drift/Continuum,” or “Ingen sanning är allas/Universal Truth,” are relaxing. There are deep, comfortable chairs in there, fine food and drink to sample, and fascinating books to peruse. You feel refreshed and stimulated just being in those spaces. In another chamber – smaller than the rest, but opulent and colorful, there’s a song playing called “Minnets yta/Lovelorn Crime.” It’s so yearning and heartbreakingly pretty that you don’t want to move on, but you know that there’s more of the house to explore, and your time in this room is limited. 

And then there are the parlours and halls that surprise and delight. At one point, you step outside into “Livets trädgård/Garden of Earthly Delights” to get some air. Hushed mutterings and tinkling chimes float to your ears through the twilight. When you step back inside to the manor’s entry, a chorus of crying voices whirls you around to confront the cavorting bray of a heavy organ coming from an adjacent parlour. 

This room is called “Svekets prins/Dignity,” Mikael says, and it’s one of the strangest in the entire house. The walls are covered in paisley wallpaper and gilded, gleaming frames, but whereas some of them feature the face of a angelic young woman, the others are filled with grotesque old men, their leathery jowls pulled into scowls and leers. At the very rear of the room, someone has balanced a jumble of smashed and splintered furniture atop a pile of filth-stained tapestries. 

Towards the back half of the manor, you find the most peculiar room of all. Other chambers have been tasteful and often restrained, but this one is painted in garish red and accented in black-and-white carnival striped drapery. Black candles gutter on a scattering of low-slung tables, and a lone piano stands in the center, playing a cycling and ominous melody. And there’s not a single right-angle in the entire chamber. Just standing in here makes you feel off-balance. This room is called “Banemannen/The Garroter,” Mikael grins, and at first, you’re not sure you’re even in the same house anymore. But as your recuperation continues and your stay in this house extends for days, and then weeks, you find that you return to this room more often that the rest. In fact, if Mikael were ever to expand on the manor house, you hope that he would construct more rooms like this one.

I can probably extend this synaesthetic fantasy for a few more rooms/songs, but this is where your own imagination should take over. And with an album as unique and nuanced and superbly crafted as In Cauda Venenum, I hope that won’t be hard. As much as I’ve enjoyed every Opeth album, this is the closest they’ve come to creative, inspirational brilliance since the glory days of Still Life and Blackwater Park and Damnation. And so that should make any Opeth fan – long-time or brand-new – very excited for the future.

So I was intrigued to hear that with their newest release, Hallucinogen, Blut Aus Nord would be shifting direction yet again to explore new and uncharted sonic realms. Psychedelia has long been a favorite muse of stoner rock and progressive metal alike, but aside from innovators like Enslaved, Nachtmystium, Oranssi Pazuzu, and Cult of Fire, not many black metal bands have embraced that sound. But that’s where Blut Aus Nord wants to take you: inward. 

At first blush, this album could have just been called Memoria Vetusta IV. Like the previous two installements, it’s a cosmic torrent of melody and astral atmosphere, more melancholy than malevolent. Sighing choirs – a favorite element in every ‘industrial’ Blut Aus Nord album since the 777 cycle – have now been added to the mix, creating a strain of dreamy gloom. Vocals are scattered – the occasional rasp for texture – but otherwise, the songs are largely instrumental. One of the expectations of psychedelic or progressive rock/metal is that the songs explore, wander, and shift form as they progress. These are more concise and focused on the whole, though some passages fracture into soft and wandering ambiance, or crystallize into shimmering tones above syncopated drumming. So yeah, it ticks the box. Yet despite all that, I can’t say I was transported at any time. It’s all very listenable, but it lacks the sweeping beauty of MVII or the cataclysmic majesty of genre contemporary Mare Cognitum.  

But yes, as promised, there is something new here. Something fresh. Something, well, unexpected.

It happens three-quarters into the first track, “Nomos Nebuleam.” A solo twists and writhes through the song, rising up above the churn… but it’s not the kind of cold and ringing tone you might expect. After all, even MVII had solos. But this is different. It sounds like… heavy metal.

That wah-wah soloing, along with the swaggering ‘rawk’ riffs that crop up throughout the album, just seem so… off with everything else you’ve heard from the band to date – or from black metal in general. I’m all for genre-blending – in fact I love to hear new sounds and ideas in any established genre – but the juxtaposition of chuggy riffs and bent-note soloing with atmospheric black metal just feels ill-conceived and capricious. It works in black n’ roll, and it even worked in this year’s thrashy, excellent heavy/black Abbath solo album. But I dunno, it throws me off.

Now, not every track brings in those ’80s nods – and the ones that don’t, like the relentless “Anthomos” or the kaleidoscopic “Hallucinalia,” are more successful. So there’s a lot to like here. And if the songs had brought in a much more varied and surprising palette of elements, creating an unpredictable experience of shifting moods and hypnotic patterns – you know, like a psychedelic trip – then perhaps this scattering of heavy metal swagger would blend right in. But when those moments rear their mulleted heads,  I just have to grit my teeth and push through. 

So yeah, not a bad trip… but also not one I’m going to take as often as I’d hoped.

I mention all of this because symphonic metal can be a hard balance to get right. Too much and the orchestration overwhelms the songwriting. Too little and it sounds like an afterthought. Italy’s melodic/symphonic black/death metal act Stormlord has been able to nail that balance well on past albums like 2004’s The Gorgon Cult and 2008’s Mare Nostrum. Along the way, their palette has become more robust and well-realized, and the songs more ambitious and elaborate. There’s always been a strong current of riffy melodic death throughout, as far back as 1999’s Supreme Art of War, and in fact, a couple of the tracks on Mare Nostrum fall squarely into that genre. Yet when Stormlord focuses more on orchestral pomp, and in the service of great blackened songwriting, that’s where they’re most special. That also explains why 2013’s Hesperia left me cold. The songwriting was just not as compelling or exciting – nothing as sweeping or focused as Mare Nostrum’s triumphant title track or as impassioned as “And the Wind Shall Scream My Name” off the same album.

So I‘m glad to say that from the very first song of their hugely ambitious new album Far, Stormlord reclaim that lost territory. “Leviathan” is right up there with “Mare Nostrum” – sweeping and cinematic, relentless and regal, and with a martial stance that sounds like a fleet of ancient battleships amassed for onslaught. Opulent orchestration, blaring warhorns, pummeling riffs, volcanic percussion, monstrous growls, and soaring choirs all come together beautifully and in balance. It’s one of Stormlord’s best songs to date.

It’s also one of the most immediate tracks as well; most of the remaining compositions adopt more flowing structures which took me a few listens to fully absorb. That’s a good thing, as those albums wind up being the most rewarding. Favorite tracks here include the seafaring, anthemic title track (shades of Viking metal from far to the north), the relentless storm-tossed assault of “Crimson,” the furious and gorgeous “Vacuna,” and the unexpectedly yearning melodies in “Cimmeria.”

There’s also a more dynamic interplay between orchestral arrangements and guitars on most songs. Central melodies are heaved back and forth like a ship between Scylla and Charybdis, while the choirs rise and fall beneath the waves. Yes, there are Eastern and Mediterranean influences and melody lines as before, but they feel more natural and authentic here – nothing that sounds overtly ‘Egyptian,’ (for instance, as on Mare Nostrum’s entertaining but too on-the-nose “Legion of the Snake.”)

Stormlord has also always had a nice command of variety and pacing with their vocals, switching ably between guttural melodic-death/doom growls and blackened shrieks. There are some powerful gang vocals here on “Far” and “Invictus” which evoke a battle-hardened crew of rowers shouting into the wind. Gang vocals are often lame, but not here. These work. The low baritone vocals which rise up towards the end of “Mediterranea” make a return here from previous albums, but they lack power, which is why they’re fairly buried in the mix. The best new addition is the clean, heroic vocal style which rings out towards the end of the title track and “Sherden.” Dimmu Borgir has incorporated clean vocals to similar effect with ICS Vortex and Snowy Shaw, and Stormlord was wise to add them here as well – they create a bright and triumphant counterpoint to all the sturm und drang (or whatever the Italian equivalent of that is). In fact, I’d say the band should scrap the low baritone cleans completely (and whatever the odd hybrid of the two is at the end of “Romulus”) and just embrace those powerful cleans as a regular element.

One note of caution – you’ll want good headphones for this album, at least for your first half-dozen listens. I tried this a few times in the car, and then on a pair of bass-heavy wireless headphones. In both cases, the songwriting got lost in the thunder and fatigue set in before I was able to finish the album. Switched to a different set later, and one which favors more midtones and treble, and it was a far better experience. Great care was taken in each arrangement here, but I think the mix is already a tad bottom-heavy to begin with, so you’ll want to ensure all that warmth and detail comes through.

Symphonic black metal, as a genre, hasn’t really surged back since the late 90’s, but extreme symphonic metal in general does seem to be having a renaissance. British fantasy barbarians Bal-Sagoth has basically reformed as Kull and dropped a killer album this month. Stormlord’s countrymates Fleshgod Apocalypse also just dropped a new opus this week – their best in 8 years (since Agony, in 2011). Both that and Far are excellent albums, but where Veleno is brutal, technical, and relentless, this is more cinematic and sweeping – just be ready to put the time in. As for whether this tops Mare Nostrum, I’m not sure yet – but I’ll enjoy making that determination as I continue spinning this throughout the year.

Soilwork has made that look easy once again. The Living Infinite was a quantum leap forward for the band, and The Ride Majestic was equally as incredible. And now here’s Verkligheten (Swedish for ‘reality’), and it’s so good, you’d think it just emerged from the band’s hands, throat, and instruments fully-formed and flawless.

Take the first single “Arrival,” easily one of the fastest and most relentless things Soilwork has ever done, and a perfectly balanced exercise of excess and control. Shimmering notes ring through thunderous double-bass, guitar fragments twist and shine through the wreckage, and Speed attacks the verses with snarls and growls before soaring to a monster chorus. Cap it off with some synth-led grandeur in the bridge and then two glorious back-to-back solos and you’ve got one of Soilwork’s all-time best and brightest songs. 

The blazing speed continues later with “When the Universe Spoke,” and then if you want to hear something really fast, check out the second half of the album’s sole ‘ballad,’ “Full Moon Shoals.” It starts as a mid-tempo crooner like “Death in General” from The Ride Majestic or “Antidote in Passing” from The Living Infinite II, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. That supersonic speed, by the way, comes courtesy of Soilwork’s new drummer, 26-year old Bastian Thusgaard. Dirk Verbeuren was fantastic, and it will be interesting to see what he brings to Megadeth now, but this new guy is superhuman and Soilwork has definitely put him to excellent use.

As on the past three albums, the band is unafraid to change their approach from track to track, and yet it’s all 100% Soilwork. Sometimes you get propulsive, driving rhythms and aching, anthemic choruses, as on “The Ageless Whisper” or “Stålfågel,” with guest cleans and snarls from Arch Enemy‘s Alissa White-Gluz. Other tracks like “Bleeder/Despoiler” and “Witan” have big, swinging riffs, screamed verses, but their choruses are clean-sung and rousing. We get more guest roars on the muscular and melancholy “Needles and Kin” – yep, that’s Tomi Joutsen from Amorphis (hopefully he joins in on that song during their co-headlining European tour with Soilwork). Both “The Wolves are Back in Town” and “You Aquiver” are the most pop-friendly and accessible, while “The Nurturing Glance” is the best of both worlds. It combines hard rock groove and jamming piano with growls and melodeath – it’s basically Soilwork doing The Night Flight Orchestra (Speed’s other band), and I’d love a whole album just like it.  There’s not an off moment on all of Verkligheten, and the addictive melodies and frequent switch-ups keep things exciting and entertaining. 

In fact, in the 25 years since the dawn of melodic death metal (those first screaming sonatas by In Flames, At the Gates, and Dark Tranquillity), I don’t know of any other band who has taken the genre quite as far. Or who’s figured out how to deftly straddle the divide between underground extremity and mainstream melodic appeal without losing their identity in the process. And if you go by the aggressive, ambitious, and hugely satisfying collection of songs on this album, Soilwork has done so while somehow raising the intensity at the same time. 

Like I said. Masters of their craft.

I’ve been a big fan of the band for almost twenty years now, starting with Enthrone Darkness Triumphant in 1997. The metal was cool, but the unearthly horror movie keyboards and the overwrought occultist shtick made a bigger impact on me. Some people complained that it wasn’t black metal enough, or that it was more exaggerated and cartoony than previous album Stormblast, but I dug it. It was ambitious. I could tell there was something special about the band, if only they could push their sound beyond keyboard orchestration and standard black metal imagery (and make some better costuming choices – a top hat??!)

Luckily, as the band’s sales and fame have grown, so have their budgets. Spiritual Black Dimensions had fantastic songwriting, but it still needed a production to match the band’s vision. Dimmu Borgir more than rectified that on Puritanical Euphoric Misanthropia, by bringing in the Gothenburg Opera Orchestra to accompany the vicious and epic compositions. It was Dimmu Borgir‘s most impressive album yet (and still my favorite). Then Death Cult Armageddon expanded that grandiose sound with the Prague Philharmonic Orchestra (Mustis’ arrangements were a big part of that success). However, once you have an entire orchestra playing along with your snarling, shredding, riffing and roaring, what’s your follow-up? That’s right, a choir. A whole stage full of tall, attractive blond people singing their hearts out. (It also helped to fill the gap left when ICS Vortex departed, taking his gorgeous clean vocals with him.)

Now, I thought the choral elements were quite successful on Abrahadabra. The marriage of metal and orchestra were still the stars of the show, but the choir added just the right layer of rhapsodic sparkle.  Only “Dimmu Borgir,” with its Disney-fied layer of whoa-oh-whoa Pocahontas vocals, seemed to take that too far – but the rest of the song was still a complex, cacophonous wonder of ambition and aggression.

Sadly, I could not say the same for Eonian’s first single “Interdimensional Summit” when it first hit. The song has all of the same elements as Abrahadabra – metal, symphonics, and a big booming choir – but the riffs are simple and stripped down, and the choral-only chorus is so gleefully triumphant and so unabashedly cheesy that it sounds like the opening number of a black metal Broadway show. It’s like Dimmu Borgir covering Nightwish, and while I like both bands, it’s not what I was hoping to hear. I’m sure it was chosen as the first single because it’s accessible and not too threatening, but there were better choices to herald the band’s return.

In fact, I’d say everything else on Eonian (including the murky, mystical, and kooky second single “Council Of Wolves and Snakes”) is far superior, more complex, and more exciting. It’s just a great Dimmu Borgir album: imaginative, epic, and entertaining. Eight years in the making, but job well done. Of course, your mileage may vary if you just can’t stomach choirs in metal, but the band has embraced it to the fullest (and have certainly gotten their money’s worth!)

There are choral vocals on every track here – that’s the big change in Dimmu Borgir’s sound this time around – and they often take center stage in the choruses, but their melody lines are generally minor key and more malevolent-sounding. Listen to the catchy “Aetheric” or the monumental “Alpha Aeon Omega” for excellent examples of this. I’d say these two tracks, along with opening number “The Unveiling,” best exemplify Dimmu Borgir’s new vision for Eonian.

The other two new elements here are a greater use of tremolo riffs throughout the album, and a fondness for delicate piano or vibraphone-like tones. You’ll hear the tremolo right from the get-go – a wicked-sounding, serpentine, and echoey riff that erupts after a choral prelude on “The Unveiling” and plenty of places beyond that. I would have chosen that track as the first single – it builds to a similarly colossal chorus as “Interdimensional Summit,” and the second half is majestic and cinematic.

The piano/vibraphone sound is an unique and surprising choice that I’ve grown to love. You’ll hear it in the mid-section of “The Empyrean Phoenix,” the ending of “Archaic Correspondence,” and peppered throughout the thrashy “Lightbringer,” just to name a few. These ringing tones add a touch of mystique and Danny Elfman-like playfulness, but it also rises above all the bombast as a clear and ringing counterpoint. It’s also a nifty throwback to Burzum’s Filosofem and Hvis Lyset Tar Oss, which used something similar as a textural counterpoint to the ugly rawness of those albums.

If there’s one thing I can’t quite decide about Eonian, it’s whether Dimmu Borgir is now a band writing metal songs or classical compositions. The guitar and melody lines aren’t as direct as they were on Puritanical or DCA – they’re certainly present, but I wonder what these songs would sound like without all of the adornment. It seems like the next phase for Dimmu Borgir is just to go with that and write a full-on four-movement symphony. Just don’t take another eight years to do it, okay?

Deus Salvatis Meæ (“God of My Salvation”) is from the ‘ugly’ half of Blut Aus Nord’s oeuvre. (Actually, if you’re keeping score it’s probably Vindsval’s dominant expression by now.) You’ll find none of the alien, astral beauty of the Memoria Vetusta series here or the sepulchral, inverted grace of the 777 trilogy. This is more in line with the boiler-room industrial aesthetic of The Work Which Transforms God, MORT, or last year’s Codex Obscura Nomina split with Ævangelist, though it drops that last album’s beats in favor of sludgy, doomy crawls and frenzied blastbeat mayhem.

That’s not to say it’s a more of a doom or black metal album, though. Melodies, when they do emerge, are simple and repeating, and each song’s structure sounds like it’s about to collapse into decay. It’s best to just absorb the whole experience as one continuous, plague-infected fever dream, though there are moments that stand out. “Apostasis” sounds like backwards-masked Slayer played at half-speed, while “Revelatio” lurches back and forth between several distinct and cogent (well, relatively speaking) segments. The rest of the album yowls, slithers, pulses, and screams by like some Lovecraftian incantation. Ambience warbles, melts, and re-knits its flesh, keening strings and Arabic chants rise out of the gloom, and the vocals are a corroded gargle. Sounds lovely, right? 

As a work of sonic necromancy, Deus Salvatis Meæ is impressive, creative, and thoroughly deranged. Your mileage may vary if you prefer your compositions less… unraveled, but if this is your sort of thing, then perhaps your mental state is more ready to accept its gifts.

It’s a sound at once thunderous and hypnotic, but you need to tune yourself to its frequencies. The songs hurtle by in an asteroid-belt barrage of percussion and twisting, shifting, otherworldly riffs, same as they did on BTSLM. Yet while those built up from a foundation of Morbid Angel-inspired churn, On Strange Loops finds Mithras working with a new approach. The compositions still shift and morph from minute to minute, but they’re focused on sharper melodies and looping patterns. Hence the album title, I imagine.

“The Statue on the Island,” for example, starts with a simple, chiming melody – a lone voice trilling and echoing in the stars. Then the song repeats that melody in a more brutal and relentless fashion, building upon that central loop, reworking it over time, and evolving it in an fractal progression. “Part the Ways,” “Howling of the Distant Species,” and “Time Never Lasts” (taken from the 2009 EP) also use that same kaleidoscopic approach, first establishing a pattern and then exploring it over time through repetition and constant change. “Between Scylla and Charybdis” takes a slightly different approach, with a call-and-response structure that is apt for the title (and evokes a battle between alien warships as much as it does mythological terrors on the ancient seas.)

Despite the focus on more discernable melodies (at least as a initial fractal seed), Mithras has not gone melodic death. The melodies range up and down the scales in a measured and mathematical way, which gives them an alien and unfamiliar cast. It’s a refreshing change from the minor-key malevolence you get from most death metal. The relative simplicity and repetition of the melodies and churning percussion also create space for Macey’s bizarre and sparkling solos, which are much more exploratory and out-there. What’s amazing is when every element goes supernova-weird all at once – layer upon layer balancing perfectly between chaos and coherence.

Album-wise, the star of the show for me is “Odyssey’s End.” At 7:47, it’s hardly a staggering epic, but it’s the longest track on the album (the title track is just behind it), and the most expansive journey. Like “The Statue on the Island,” it starts with a quiet, almost whimsical prelude that erupts into a much heavier refrain. As the track swirls into a colossal celestial groove like planets in orbit, it launches into one of Macey’s most improvisational solos on the album. Rayner Coss’ fairly-intelligible growls also contort into a nastier tone and snarl here, and given that his vocals are by necessity less colorful than the music, the variance is welcome.

On Strange Loops is far from a casual listening experience, but it is mandatory in today’s ever-splintering metal landscape. I find Mithras’ approach to be more impactful and precise than most of the restless djent or unfocused tech death I’ve heard, and more rewarding with each play. There’s a lot to take in, but when all of the elements lock into place, it’s simply sublime – or as sublime as you can get with brutal cosmic kaleidoscopic technical death metal, of course.

Seven years ago, I reviewed their debut, The Sea of See-Through Skins, and called out the band’s obvious similarities to Meshuggah, while also praising the injection of melody throughout. Over the years, the band has clearly changed and grown. The songs on Harmonic Confusion are more adventurous overall, lurching and cruising from hard-edged, strutting djent passages to nimble, proggy interludes, and sometimes downshifting to simple but effective sludgy groove. Think Textures as well as Meshuggah. I hear a lot of Mastodon at times too, particularly their psychedelic-Appalachian opus Blood Mountain, in the raucous and squiggly intro to “The Electric Sun” and “Savior Complex.”

However, by and large these songs just don’t hold my interest. Most, like “Fire Red Glass Heart” or “Concentric Waves,” start strong and interesting, with plenty of energy and poly-rhythmic aggression, but then abruptly switch up into something slower and droning just when a good groove was starting to settle in. I’m a big fan of post-metal sludge bands like Iron Thrones, Burst, and Cult of Luna, who use dynamics to grab you by the throat, rattle you senseless, and then soothe you back into submission, but the impatient compositions here leave me feeling restless, and not in a good way. More in the itchy skip-finger way.

The vocals are also more effective when they play it safe – they’re a good, throaty bellow to match the djenty lurch. There’s also a clean vocal that has a more Southern drawl and twang, kinda like Baroness, to match the sludge components of the sound, but those are less successful. They’re fine in the verses, when they need to simmer and drone, but when used in the choruses, they just sound flat and mire the songs down just when they need to be big and cathartic.

Three songs do work really well for me on Harmonic Confusion, though. “Self-Destructive Haze” lurches along with stuttery djent and post-metal with a relatively straightforward structure and pace. It eventually switches up into vocoder-assisted drone, and it comes in at an appropriate place. I also like that the mellow, languid bridge is an echo of the harsher, earlier passages of the song. The other two tracks are “Insertion” and “Chronicity,” two instrumental and mostly post-metal tracks that climb up slowly and effectively as they naturally pull in some more strident sounds and rhythms. They are also the intro and outro though, so that’s not exactly an endorsement.

Still, there are lots of promising elements here, and an obvious drive to do something challenging and interesting. That frown could yet be turned upside-down.

Heritage saw the band experimenting with a new prog-rock direction, oftentimes more successful than not, but it was still the first stumble in an otherwise pristine and brilliant discography. Pale Communion was more surefooted and cogent, with a relaxed yet confident energy. Sorceress, then, is the work of a band very much at peace with their identity. Opeth is once again free to be who they are – which is to say, shaggy and capricious and inspired and beautiful and often just plain fucking weird. And so Sorceress is just a joy to listen to.

First of all, that cover art. The peacock is garish and sublime, the jumbled corpses a bit silly, but the combination is outré and ostentatious. And yes, it’s a bit obvious too. It’s the band’s new sound perched triumphant upon the bones of the old, and while there are plenty who still mourn those old bones (death roars and emotional crescendos and all), you can’t deny that the band is free to employ a much broader and vibrant palette of color today. In fact, if I had to retouch that cover, I would have turned those salmon-and-mauve corpses to gray and blacks, just to better underscore the link to Opeth’s more somber yesteryears.

That look-at-me riot of color is unleashed throughout the album with a variety of textures and moods. “Sorceress,” “The Wilde Flowers,” and “Chrysalis” dominate the first half of the album with jazzy, rollicking groove, but so down-tuned and sludgy as if to say, “There, we’re heavy again, you happy? Now shut up and let us get on with it.” Later on the album, “Era” adopts a brighter, more positive rock-star stance as well, but death metal or no, the riffs on these tracks all rock. The rhythm work is serpentine and seductive, then pummelling and thunderous, and the organs are bolder and more baroque than ever before. Mikael also sounds more free and confident as well. Unchained from the constraints of his earlier heavy-light duality, he croons, screams, and wails with the personality and bravado you’d expect from a 70’s frontman. I love all of the now-classic Opeth sound, but those songs and moods didn’t always free him to be quite so expressive as he is now.

That Opeth other-ness also hasn’t disappeared despite all these other shifts. The warmth, the sweetness, the big choral blooms and delicate, wafting dreaminess – it’s all still shimmering and slithering through these tracks, and accented with ripples of quirky, proggy phantasmagoria. I still hear the old band I know and love – moments that are big and bouncy like “The Funeral Portrait” and “The Baying of the Hounds,” or exotic and unleashed like Damnation’s “Closure.”

And of course, the more overtly quieter moments are here as well. The album unfurls with a lush and lovely Mediterreanean ballad called “Persephone,” and a few tracks later, second single “Will O’ the Wisp” charms with straightforward, summery goodness and a flat-out gorgeous solo. “Sorceress 2” recalls the murmuring beauty of “Patterns in the Ivy,” still a heartbreaking favorite. Mostly-instrumental arabesque “The Seventh Sojourn,” seems to flow by too quickly despite its 5-minute length, but maybe that’s more because it’s so effortless and pleasing, with no sudden shifts to disturb your reverie.

If there’s one black spot on Sorceress that did disturb mine, it’s the aptly titled “Strange Brew.” The other heavy-prog tracks on the album sound loose yet still purposeful, but this is a jumble of moods and influences and jarring shifts. The Cream reference in the title is likely intended, as there’s some great bluesy groove worked in (not to mention some wah-wah nods to “Swlabr,” my all-time favorite Cream track), but I could have done without the orangutan freak-out that precedes it. It’s probably the one track here that will never cohere for me, but who knows, maybe that was the intention. 

Luckily, it’s followed by “A Fleeting Glance,” perhaps the oddest, and most oddly charming track on the album. It starts as a playful medieval ballad, then switches up to a staccato, sing-songy confection shot through with soulful soloing, like Steely Dan covering Abbey Road. Some heavy groove, back to the balladry again, and then the song swells in its final minutes to become full-bodied and sunny and wonderful. I remember the old days of waiting to hear what new instrument the band would unveil on each new album – brush-played drums on Still Life, bongos and mellotron on Damnation – but I never would have predicted that they’d one day do a song like this.

Mikael Akerfeldt has described Sorceress as purposely diverse and adventurous, where one song is not like the next. That’s not entirely true, as I think the album is fairly cohesive overall: massively-heavy prog, lovely interludes, and whimsical atmosphere piped directly from Mikael’s infamous record collection. I don’t know obscure 70’s prog well enough to pinpoint any of his inspirations, but it’s obvious that he does. Sorceress feels like Opeth’s interpretation and modern-day activation of that hazy, haunting sound, blended in with other famous cues like Jethro Tull and Deep Purple. It’s still much more than a backwards-looking homage – it’s confident and fresh and pleasurable, but most of all, it still sounds like Opeth to me. And the band sounds happy. So I am too.

Well, now the rest of us get to hear that EP, plus a bunch of other hidden gems. Two of the tracks on Death Resonance, including the title track, are brand-new. Then we work backwards through bonus tracks (again, mostly from Japan-only releases) from The Ride Majestic back through Stabbing the Drama.

“Helsinki” starts off lurching and speedy, crests to a huge, soaring chorus, and boasts a sparkling bridge and solo. Yeah that’s pretty much modern-day Soilwork in a nutshell, but it’s so good it could have easily been included on The Ride Majestic. There are also some buried synths/orchestration throughout “Helsinki” that might just be an experiment, or a hint at a broader palette for the next album. “Death Resonance” is a slower, more swinging track with some nifty organs as background coloration. Good chorus and big crescendoes too, so it’s another keeper. There’s also one more add-on from TRM, a bonus track called “The End Begins Below the Surface.” I’m actually fine with this having been Japan-only, as it’s a weird one. The thrashy verses and clipped shouts sound like a throwback to the early albums, but the lurching and unappealing melody in the chorus makes this a skipper for me.

Luckily, Beyond the Infinite’s five tracks are all entertaining and pummelling, and two of them are so good, like “Helsinki,” that they also should have been on their parent album, The Living Infinite. Seriously, either the band wrote “Forever Lost in Vain” after TLI was already wrapped, or someone had to lobby really hard for it to stay off the double album, which was already jam-packed with incredible material. The second half of that song alone is the best thing on “Death Resonance” and one of my favorite Soilwork moments ever. (Hell, it’s the best Tool anything you’ve heard in over a decade.) “My Nerves, Your Everyday Tool,” with its ear-candy chorus, is pretty damn amazing as well.

After the Beyond the Infinite tracks, we move back to The Panic Broadcast, and if you are a longtime Soilwork fan, you may share my opinion that this is when the band got good again. Sworn to a Great Divide and Stabbing the Drama are fine now that I go back to them, but at the time I was disappointed – they weren’t as arresting, catchy, or fun as Natural Born Chaos or Figure Number Five (let alone their classic melodeath sound from the late 90s). It wasn’t until The Panic Broadcast that I felt a revived energy in Soilwork’s writing and sound again, and bonus track “Sweet Demise” is another strong case for that. It’s also particularly notable for its dreamy bridge, with Speed affecting a breathy murmur that I haven’t really heard since. The other TPB bonus track, “Sadistic Lullabye” isn’t new at all, but a re-recording of the second track off of Steelbath Suicide. As such, it’s rapid-fire melodic death with a shouted chorus that is different and less colorful than what the band writes now, but it’s still a killer example of their early sound.

The final five tracks come from Stabbing and Sworn, and as I hinted at before, they are a bit of a mixed bag. I tend to expect great choruses from everything that Soilwork do these days – guess we’ve been spoiled. So tracks like the shouty “Sovereign,” with its flat, forgettable chorus, or the vaguely nu-metal “Wherever Thorns May Grow,” just pass into one ear and out the other. “Martyr” and “Killed by Ignition” fare much better, with compelling melodies and good choruses. “Martyr” even flirts with some spacey synths, which I haven’t heard much in later material but would welcome again.

If you’re even a casual Soilwork fan, this is a must-listen, as there’s enough strong material to make a melodic death album that an average band would be thrilled to have produced. “Forever Lost in Vain” and “Helsinki” are also worth the entry fee alone, giving me continued hope for the next amazing album – but let’s face it, given the stellar streak that Soilwork has been on for the past 5 years, I hadn’t lost any in the first place.

“At the end of Vertikal, we stood in the cold harshness of the mechanical city and looked up onto the stars. We lost ourselves in the awe of their grace and thought that maybe the answer is to be found above. The ship was leaking and by the look of it, our home was dying. No room for fear when a greater call demands your full attention. So, we left… Onward, forward. Like the old seafarers, we explored the vastness of space. Not bound by physical laws we pass the speed of light and chase the expansion of space until we reach its limit. And then, we continued on and disappeared. This is our story.”

And then they returned. Changed, and now with a challenging and captivating new voice in Julie Christmas (ex-Battle of Mice, ex-Made Out of Babies), but in many ways, still the same.

I’ve never heard her before, but she’s an inspired addition. Part Bjork and part Siouxsie Sioux – sometimes affecting a childlike call (“A Greater Call”) and sometimes a mysterious sneer (“Chevron”). It’s a welcome and magnetic performance. Her screamed and feral vocals are a bit of an acquired taste, but the music helps ground them – it’s hard not to be swept away by the power of tracks like “Cygnus” or “The Wreck of the S.S. Needle.” The juxtaposition of shrill screams and sludgy, martial thrum does gel much better with headphones; you’ll also catch a lot more of the cold, otherworldly effects flowing in and out of the mix.

As for Johannes Persson, his vocals are more accompaniment this time than starring role. He provides shouts and bellows as counterpoint to Christmas’ croons and sighs. Together, they create a wonderful complement to the band’s soft vs heavy dynamics. Persson only takes the lead on the mournful “Approaching Transition,” with a haunted and watery gurgle for most of the track before he finally fills his lungs and explodes with a roar.

As for the music, it’s as cinematic and thrilling as Vertikal, and works with a very similar palette. If you loved that album – as I did – then you can consider this a satisfying reprise. Once again, Cult of Luna has found catharsis and beauty in crescendoes and crashes, and in the layered murmurs of each deep and atmospheric track. Christmas’ vocals ultimately make the greatest impression here and bring the most life to another gloriously desolate and hypnotic journey – one I’ll be making many times throughout the year.

Ihsahn explains it best: “My focus for this album was to write within more traditional song structures and still give each song a strong individual identity, be that through a re-occurring melody, a chorus, sound design or a good old guitar riff. I also wanted to explore this on the production side, blending organic rock sounds with more modern expressions.” If that was his goal, then he’s succeeded brilliantly – this is an exceptionally rich and textured album, and its varied compositions and palette shows just how much his vision and creative confidence have expanded over the years.

Longtime fans will be pleased with the more metallic tracks, like the muscular blackened-prog of “Disassembled,” and “Until I Too Dissolve,” which rips with big, swaggering ’80s riffs like something off of Ozzy Osbourne’s No More Tears. Other tracks like “Mass Darkness” (featuring guitar from Matt Heafy of Trivium) and “Pressure” are constructed from busy progressive death or discordant sludge, but are then shot through with flourishes of neoclassical heavy metal. (In fact, the only thing I don’t hear much of at all on Arktis is traditional black metal.)

One of the most noticeable new additions to Ihsahn’s palette is a much heavier use of electronics and textural studio wizardry. “South Winds” exemplifies this with its Skinny Puppy whispers and industrial lurch, which are then followed by a swoony clean chorus. It’s the same juxtaposing approach as has been heard in previous work, but now Ihsahn is working with a palette that’s unlike anything he’s employed before. It’s inspired and wonderful, and reminds me of when Trent Reznor started playing with a brighter sonic palette and unexpected melody on The Fragile (still my favorite nine inch nails release). “Frail” is another strange industrial/electronic stomp, built from loops of rumbling piano and UFO death-ray sound effects. It’s the type of song that seems less composed than it was assembled, through experimentation and layering and bursts of inspiration.

It’s the increased use of clean vocals throughout the rest of the album – with increasing degrees of warmth and vulnerability – that really wow. “Disassembled” crests to a chorus that’s reminiscent of the sunny sweetness of The Beatles, and then in the bridge, guest vocalist Einar Solberg (of Leprous) croons like David Gilmour atop a Pink Floyd daydream of tremulous strings and bass. That breezy British psychedelia makes a return again on “My Heart is of the North” – this time with Ihsahn affecting a David Bowie-like croon. The passage stands out in stark contrast to the rest of the song, which is undulating and bluesy and punctured by stabs of jazzy organ.

“In the Vaults” is meditative and intense, with a minimalist palette that lets his clean vocals take center stage. The highlight on this track is the duet he performs with his own rasps – harsh and scraping pitted against impassioned and soulful. Noir ballad “Crooked Red Line” offers yet another battle of vocal personas: one sultry and low, another roaring and vengeful. This is also the first time I’ve truly enjoyed the appearance of Jørgen Munkeby’s sax – perhaps it’s the genre, where this sort of instrument is typically heard.

In the crushingly emotional closer, “Celestial Violence,” Ihsahn rasps and roars against a monstrous, tragic melody in the choruses, while Einar Solberg returns to handle the clean vocals in the verses. Given how polished and beautiful Ihsahn’s vocals have become, it’s a bit surprising that he gave Solberg the album’s climax – though maybe it’s ‘cause the guy absolutely kills it. If this were on a Broadway stage, it would bring the house down.

Arktis is Ihsahn’s most listenable and richest album to date, and certainly will be one of the year’s finest. While the songs are, on the whole, more conventional than the ugliest and most amorphous experiments on Das Seelenbrechen and Emerita, this is still not something you’ll just throw on in the background. Arktis is an album to savor and marvel at. Each song invites you to lean closer and consider each choice he made, even as you just want to let its power sweep you away. Bravo.

Album #2 sees the trio hopping and bopping atop that same collision of style and saccharine, with some new metal influences screaming to the forefront – for better and for worse. On opener “Road of Resistance,” Su-Metal, Moametal, and Yuimetal team up with DragonForce guitarists Herman Li and Sam Totman, and as you’d expect, the combination of hyperspeed power metal + hyperactive J-pop vocals works as well as chocolate + peanut butter (or green tea flavor + KitKat, if you prefer). There’s more to follow with the DragonForce-like attack of “Amore,” though I don’t think Li/Totman return here. There’s also a heavier use of electronics on a bunch of songs, and while nothing is quite as audacious as the hip-hop/deathcore/techno one-two-three from “Iine” on the debut, there’s still plenty of wtf glee to be had from “Awadama Fever,”which sounds like a Prodigy track gone very, very wrong, or the spazzy mash-up of techno, ska, and dubstep on “YAVA!” The album’s weirdest moment comes from “Meta Taro,” which starts techno and then turns Viking, with a folk metal anthem (think Ensiferum or Amon Amarth) as its template, but with a nursery-rhyme Barney melody for the vocals. Once you get past the lunacy of the mash-up, you realize that Babymetal singing a children’s song is annoying as hell.

Honestly, as entertaining as all of the mash-ups can be, the formula shows its seams when the metal gets heavier and darker. Perfect example is “Sis.Anger,” where the sing-songy vocals feel Frankensteined into what is otherwise a death metal/deathcore attack. It’s here that Babymetal feels like way more of a gimmick because the music is so frenetic and brutal, but the vocals are so silly and sweet. I’d also like to sweep the leg on first single “KARATE,” which layers grating, staccato vocals atop chunky, stuttery nu-metal/’core, and although the chorus is fun, it could use a more melodic framework in the rest of the song to support it.

The best moments on Metal Resistance are actually where the songs play it fairly straight. “From Dusk til Dawn” is my favorite track here – a moody, gothic metal epic with sweeping synths and skittering percussion, like Nightwish meets M83. The girls’ normally chirpy vocals have been transformed into ethereal falsetto dolphin-song, which works beautifully with the echoing piano and strings, and it all builds up to a soaring chorus. Yeah, the song has a briefly distracting breakdown shot through with chaotic dubstep, but where other tracks feel kitschy and silly, this feels grand and honest.

“No Rain, No Rainbow” is also pure and uncluttered. It’s a heartfelt ballad that wouldn’t feel out of place on a Dream Theater album or over the ending credits of an anime series. It’s got a lovely melody and it’s nicely orchestrated, with great uplifting guitar solos, and it never gets jumbled up with breakdowns or dubstep or growls. (Follow-up “Tales of the Destinies” also sounds like Dream Theater at first, but it fares much worse, as if someone were playing Images and Words and choppy Eskimo Callboy-style technocore at the same time.) The finale, “The One,” has the most ambitious Dream Theater sound of the three closing tracks, with proggy, soaring solos, off-time drumming, and a big gorgeous melody (sung in English!) If you see Babymetal on tour this year, I bet it’ll be their big blue-rectangles-everywhere encore (kids don’t use lighters anymore, you dig?)

As with the debut, if you’ve got an open-mind and don’t take yourself so seriously, you’ll find a lot to like here. On the other hand, if DragonForce, Dream Theater, nu-metal, deathcore, and ska are not your thing (and three of them aren’t mine either), well then you’re excused. I’ll be very curious to hear how the balance shakes out on album #3 (and there will be an album #3, the band is still packing stadiums). Maybe the insane mash-ups will give way to a more even-keeled approach – but given that Babymetal hails from a country that likes tuna, corn, and mayo on pizza, ehhh probably not!

Grift – a one-man project from mastermind Erik Gärdefors – takes the haunting, peaceful lonely character of early Burzum or Ulver and shapes it into laments with a richer sonic palette, though the overall effect is still stripped-down. Tremolo carries the melody, but it’s not thin, reedy, or buzzy – it sounds smoothed and burnished to the point where it could be a choral voice from a synth, yet totally organic. Bass and steady, speedy drumming are balanced and fully present in the mix below that. The vocals also recall the howls from Burzum or In the Woods…, but they’re delivered from a lower register, more like Master’s Hammer but with the same tortured yowls and cries you know from Aske. The howls may be the breaking point for some of you, but I love them – they have so much more character than a monochromatic rasp.

Songs are impeccable and although the entire album has been designed as a complete experience, none are homogenous or ambient. There’s enough variety to engage your attention. You’ll settle in and get carried away, and then the occasional solo or brief appearance by piano or harmonium will rise up and catch your notice for a moment. Openers “Aftonlandet” and “Svältorna” and the closer “Eremiten Esaisas” carry sweetly despondent melodies atop thunderous rhythmic currents, while “Det bortvända ansiktet” is a more skeletal and simpler dirge. I usually get bored with spoken word/ambient interludes like “Slutet hav,” but the creaky harmonium and layered, building atmosphere kept me floating along. “Undergörare” is much more relaxed and airy than the two openers, and is carried by strummed acoustic guitars and unhurried martial drumming.

The entire effect of Syner is like a long, thoughtful walk in the woods, and the booklet features photos and drawings of the mountain close to Gärdefors’ home, so his intent was successful. Bedroom black metal this is not, so my advice to you is to take this out of the house and find your own mountain, forest, or miserable rain-sodden hovel so that you can properly enjoy this.

The UK’s 2-man Ahamkara (vocalist Steve Black and Michael Blenkarn of Wodensthrone on all other instruments and programming) has all of the hallmarks of a terrific atmospheric black metal experience: long, rangy compositions (the shortest is 10 minutes); indecipherable shrieks; percussion so relentless that it’s evolved past rhythm, and cresting swells of malevolent and majestic melody. It’s also unfortunately got some mix and rhythm problems that distract as often as they gel, but we’ll get to that.

Opener “Midwinter’s Hymn” is simply glorious, with a central melody that’s more triumphant than black and furious. Play this for anyone who’s unaccustomed to the scrawling riffs, the Wrest-like shrieking vocals, and frantic drums, and you’re likely to get a quizzical reaction, but there’s no denying how cinematic and powerful this is. Once the song slows down to its stately midsection, the beauty becomes more apparent. It’s also worth noting that Ahamkara achieves this emotion without dipping into post-metal or shoegaze, lately the go-to in black metal whenever you want to add more swoon to your tune.

The synths come to the forefront on the somber follow-up, “On the Shores of Defeat,” creating a mood that recalls the late 90s Finnish band Throes of Dawn (a gem; look ‘em up). I also hear the bass a lot more on this track, wandering up and down its own simple melody below the rushing drums and plaintive guitars. Despite the blasts, it’s a slower and more depressive track than the opener, but still a strong composition with a lot of variety in its almost 13-minute running length. The minimal midsection, with its lapping waves, shimmering chords, swelling synths, and Summoning-like bass line, is a memorable moment.

“Lamentation of a Wraith” brings in a few new elements and techniques as well, like a fragile tremolo riding high above the thunder in the first minutes, and a plinky-plunky synth sound that comes in a bit later to add some fantasy whimsy. The central melody on this track is not as strong as its predecessors’ though; it’s more stretched out and languid, and when other elements like the synths or tremolo don’t rise up, the abrasive vocals have to fill up most of the space from minute to minute. The midsection is more successful, as the drumming slows down to make room for the bass once again, and the composition feels more cohesive as a result. Same with the final minutes, when a stronger tremolo guitar comes in to take control from the wall-of-noise approach.

Final track “To Invoke the Stars Themselves” creates a long break in the action with a 2-minute ambient intro, but then dives into a intense torrent that’s darker and more determined than the other tracks. As with the previous track, the main melody suffers from a lack of definition and clarity, but I love the atmospheric midsection (starting to see a pattern here?), as its bass melody and synths combine to create a mood you’d expect from Pink Floyd. That also gives way to a gorgeous third section, with a much stronger melody that rolls along for awhile at a gentle pace before cresting to a speedy and stunning closer.

Impressive as it is as a whole, The Embers of the Stars is not without its problems. There’s just so much going on during the faster moments of each track that the elements can pull away from each other. The mix is the biggest culprit, as it varies the presence of different elements at different times. Maybe that was done intentionally based on the needs of each passage, but I found it distracting. Given all of the chaos in the faster sections, I prefer when the melodic elements – the guitars, bass, and synths – are pushed up, and the vocals and percussion recede. When the drums ride high in the mix, it’s easier to notice when they move too quickly for the wall-of-sound guitars. The percussion is generally on point and in sync, but when it’s slightly off, you get a disjointed and uneven effect.

Any black metal album with 10+ minute compositions is also not going to be the sort of thing you just toss on to blare around the house – it will quickly become background noise – so I wonder what Ahamkara could accomplish with slightly shorter songs. Around 6 to 7 minutes rather than 10-12. Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk comes to mind. Keep the rangy atmospheric midsections, but craft even stronger melodies in each, on the level of “Midwinter’s Hymn,” which I think is still the standout here.

I’ve returned to this album many times over the year, and although I’ve become accustomed to some of its quirks, the occasional looseness does keep it from being an absolute knock-out like last year’s Phobos Monolith. Still, if you are a fan of any of the aforementioned bands (all fantastic company), then The Embers of the Stars is well-worth your time and focused attention.

I expect that to change with the release of Under the Red Cloud, their 12^th studio release. This is going to get a lot of plays over the next few years as well, because it’s Amorphis at their absolute best. All of the signature elements are here: gorgeous folk melodies played with clear, singing lines atop heavier guitar; cavorting flute and pounding Hammond organs; Tomi Joutsen’s soaring, ragged-king vocals; and a progressive-rock melding of all of these elements that’s both ambitious and effortless. There’s also a much stronger focus on bigger riffs and death vocals than in years – many of the album’s songs are dominated by growls, though there’s a stirring chorus in each as well.

“Under the Red Cloud” is a rousing anthem with a clear folk melody, a melancholy vocal, simple guitar crunch backed by stately organ, and a classic Amorphis chorus. Add in a touch of growls for accent and a rapturous keyboard–driven solo, and you have the best album intro since Skyforger‘s “Sampo.” Then Amorphis switches it up in the verses for the next one, “The Four Wise Ones,” with commanding growls and no cleans. When was the last time they did a death-only song? A softer dirge-like bridge, backed by flute, soft choral voices, and a heavily distorted angelic vocal – as if bubbling up from beneath still water – keeps the mood somber, though melancholy does not mean listless.

The faster riffs and the effect of all of these textural and melodic layers working together in each track are thrilling. That layered approach really shines throughout the rest of the album – as well the band’s renewed embrace of both light and dark. I also love how the band has developed a varied palette even within this approach.

Some tracks enlist lighter instruments like flutes to help carry the main melody, but others, like “The Skull” go heavier and groovier with crashing organs. “Dark Path” kicks off with a delicate piano, but turns out to be one of the album’s darkest and most crushing tracks, with its most malevolent vocals yet.  “Death of a King,” the exotic first single, and soon to be another band-classic, pulls in Middle Eastern sitar and tribal drumming into its intro before trading them up for a whistling flute. Instant cue back to Tuonela, though that album was fairly light compared to this one so it’s the best of all worlds. “Tree of Ages” pulls both halves together – dancing folk melody and pounding, percussive riffs – for a climax that embodies the spirit of folk metal, and then somber album closer “White Night” brings in a whispery female vocal (guest Aleah Stanbridge) for a cinematic and satisfying denouement.

Although there are no significant experiments or changes to Amorphis’ sound on Under the Red Cloud, it simply shines with a renewed vigor and energy. The return of consistent death vocals is a much better showcase for the band’s versatility than on the previous two albums, but without losing any of the soaring and stirring melodies that they’ve mastered over the years. Everything has been polished to the point where I would give this, Skyforger, and Tales from the Thousand Lakes as my top 3 picks to anyone curious about Amorphis’ sound. Instant classic for the band and one of the year’s most refined releases.

So it’s not surprising that their new release, Genexus – so shiny! so chrome! – recalls classic moments from throughout their discography – especially after Mechanize and The Industrialist reset the bar. The FF template just hasn’t ever changed enough to give any other impression.

“Autonomous Combat System” does open with cinematic orchestration, but then it’s the soul of a familiar machine after that. By the time the chorus kicks in, I felt like I was listening to a reworking of “Shock” (still one of their best all-time tracks). Same with “Dielectric,” right down to its distorted warbling intro. Great track all the same; the classic FF sound is always invigorating, and the Andy Sneap production and return of a real drummer (Mike Heller, formerly of Malignancy) are welcome as well. Next track though, the first single “Soul Hacker,” is less so, with more of Digimortal’s nu-metal lurch (“Linchpin” in particular) and a sing-songy chorus. Compared with the much stronger follow-ups “Protomech” and “Genexus” – both of which sound like more electronic-accented versions of Demanufacture tracks – “Soul Hacker” just feels out of place and thrown in, possibly to hook the Five Finger Death Punch crowd out there.

There’s another more ‘accessible’ track later on called “Regenerate,” but oddly enough, it’s the album highlight for me. That’s largely because of its chorus, which is anthemic and satisfying. I can’t say the same for many other tracks’ choruses, unfortunately. Take the chorus on “Battle for Utopia” for instance – it should be uplifting and heroic (it’s the climax of the album’s concept narrative), but instead sounds warbling and indistinct, without a strong hook. And although Fear Factory and Burton Bell deserve credit for successfully bringing clean choruses into death metal – long before melodic death bands did in the early ’00s – the bar has been raised considerably since then (Soilwork’s The Living Infinite being the current gold standard.) Even much more brutal acts like Cattle Decapitation and Anaal Nathrakh have been employing ‘clean’ vocals lately to impressive and epic effect. FF’s choruses could be so much bigger in order to match the awesome firepower of the metal in the verses.

In my review of The Industrialist a few years ago, I also noted that some tracks freed up longtime collaborator Rhys Fulber to incorporate more electro elements than ever before. I was hoping for an even more powerful presence on this next one. That didn’t exactly happen, though “Battle for Utopia”’s synths recall 80’s new wave, while closing ballad “Expiration Date” has a more modern and dreamy electro feel. I still would love to hear Fulber truly unleashed one day; whenever his main act Front Line Assembly incorporates metal into their industrial dance sound (check out the timeless Millennium, or 2009’s IED), it’s well, electrifying.

In some ways, Genexus feels like a greatest hits album – a time-travel jaunt back to the days of Demanufacture and Obsolete. You could consider it as the pinnacle refinement of the FF sound, but to me, and especially after the big surprise of Mechanize in 2010, it just feels like another enjoyable album off the assembly line. And in a time when movies, for instance, are reinventing and reinvigorating classic franchises with bold new executions (some successful, others not), Genexus is disappointing for how little it wants to innovate.

Starting with 2002’s The Odyssey, Symphony X started working with darker themes and more aggressive, groove-oriented songwriting. Aside from a few shining moments, these albums were far less airy and captivating than the band that penned power-prog anthems like “Evolution (The Grand Design),” the heroic “In the Dragon’s Den,” or the cinematic and gorgeous “Egypt.” 2006’s Paradise Lost was my least favorite of these; aside from the beautiful title track, its songs felt overly heavy and weighed down (despite the deluxe version of the album actually having fold-out wings). 2011’s Iconoclast fared much better, with more listenable songs and a dystopian/futuristic concept that warranted the rougher attitude.

Allen’s vocals were the most noticeable difference throughout this period; they grew coarser and more growly to match this new and fiercer tone. The grit and roughness are really nothing new, as he’s worked them into his delivery since as far back as The Divine Wings of Tragedy – but over the years, it’s been sometimes so pronounced that it sounds forced.

Underworld‘s first single “Nevermore” opens with more of these overdone growls, and when I first heard them, I cringed. Not a promising start, and given the dark mythological theme, likely to be used throughout the album. However, the growls are only used at the start of the verses on this song (and a few others), and when Allen reaches the chorus, his voice brightens and becomes more buoyant. Whew. Rougher vocals aside, “Nevermore” is another Symphony X marvel of frenetic melody and syncopated, technical rhythm work, and I’ve played it a lot since. Still don’t care for its intro though.

There are more gravelly snarls in “Underworld,” even more pronounced than before, and yet they work a little better. Allen even cranks to some genuine roars and those work much better. The track has a meaner, more wicked sound than “Nevermore,” but they’re offset by fantasy synths, a classic Symphony X gallop, a dramatic chorus, hellfire choirs, and a dynamic prog-metal second half. And the growls return once again, heaviest of all, on “Kiss of Fire,” at which point I thought, well, why not just go full-on death vocals? The rest of the album’s vocals, I’m happy to say, are a cleaner throwback to the Symphony X of old – and the songs feel that way as well.

They still have the heaviness and aggression of their last few releases, but they also feel lighter, more nimble. More neoclassical hooks and fireworks like in the old days, and above all, more brilliant melodies and appealing, catchy choruses. “Charon,” about the legendary ferryman of the Styx, has a serpentine, Middle-Eastern inflected verse, and its chorus could be the sinister cousin to “Egypt,” while “In My Darkest Hour” (no Megadeth cover here) and the rock-radio-ready “Run with the Devil” are both tightly-crafted rippers with killer hooks. Just before them, album centerpiece “To Hell and Back” (a trim 9:23, which is short for an opus), kicks off with a shimmering synth-and-guitar duet that wouldn’t sound out of place on a mid-80s Foreigner album. It turns dark and groovy as it spirals down into, well, you know. Once there, it becomes contemplative, soothed by Russell’s crooned vocals, and then begins the climb back up to the light with a kick-ass second chorus (“On and on and on, no quarter asked, no quarter given”) and more trade-off pyrotechnics between Romeo and Pinnella.

There are also two excellent ballads. Symphony X‘s slower tracks are usually sumptuous and delicate, like their classic “The Accolade.” “Without You” (thankfully not a Motley Crue cover) instead starts as an early ’80s AOR piece, with its stripped-down acoustics and addictive chorus, and soon transforms into a mid-paced rocker. “Swan Song,” much later in the album, does sound like it could be the fourth part to “The Accolade” though (Part II is on The Odyssey, and Iconoclast‘s fantastic “When All is Lost” may as well be Part III), as it opens with the same gentle piano lines. Instead of cresting to a triumphant chorus, it remains muted and somber, except for a hypnotic, Rush-like prog-odyssey in the bridge.

Then there’s closer “Legend,” a song so majestic and satisfying – with a chorus that’s nothing less than ebullient – that I had to listen to it three times in a row on my first album playthrough. Anyone yearning for the rhapsodic days of ’90s Symphony X will be very happy.

Symphony X has long been one of my favorite power/prog bands. They tick the necessary boxes off for dizzying technicality, pummelling rhythms, and a self-aware and shameless sense of grandeur and fantasy, but above all, they’ve always been able to write catchy, tightly-crafted songs that are as effortless to listen to as they must be difficult to write and play. However, the last fifteen years’ worth of darker, more intentionally aggressive albums (and the exaggerated, rougher vocals that came with them) weren’t as satisfying as the albums that made me a fan in the first place. Hopefully that phase is over now, because it’s been too long since I’ve heard a collection of their songs that has delighted me as much as Underworld. Ironic that I expected it to be more dark and forbidding than ever, and yet it’s turned out to be their most dazzling album in years.

If you’re not familiar with the band, they play a unique and beautiful blend of classical/medieval music and melodic black metal. 2011’s excellent Suspended in the Brume of Eos made my year-end list back then and received a lot of praise from other founts of good taste and wisdom as well. Aria of Vernal Tombs is only their second full-length. I am guessing Neidhart von Reuenthal and Blondel de Nesle (now identified as Tanner Anderson and Andrew Della Cagna, and joined here by Vincente la Camera Mariño on medieval harp) have been otherwise occupied during the last four years. Or maybe it just takes a damn long time to shape, craft, and hone an Obsequiae release.

Most noticeable change is that some songs are more muscular and speedier, but harsh vocals aside, this is still not exceptionally aggressive music. The raspy howling does create an odd bit of anachronistic sacrilege though. Medieval music was both sacred and secular; the songs devoted to subjects from love to war to deeds of heroism, chivalry and sometimes debauchery. The intent was likely never to brood or frighten. Perhaps listeners of that age would have heard them as the calls and caws of Death himself, if not for the loveliness of the music. I don’t know if these songs would work with traditionally melodic/clean singing anyway; the droning, monochromatic vocals are probably best suited as a counterpoint to the busy-ness of the music.

Some tracks – “Autumnal Winds,” “Anlace and Heart” are mid-paced and stately, like a slow processional across open fields, while others like “Pools of a Vernal Paradise” are more lively and spirited blastbeat-driven gallops. The guitar and bass work together as a single unit, layered and intertwining and restless, even as they are guided overall by repetitive motifs. They generally buzz and drone, but when they crest into glorious melodic passages, they glint and shine like power metal solos.

I do love how this isn’t just a medievally-inspired version of mid 90s folk-driven black metal – there’s a lot of classic heavy metal bravado and heroism in songs like “Orphic Rites of Passage” and “In Absence of Light” as well. They’re never quite as bombastic due to the slightly muted tone of the guitars and measured pace, but it’s still thrilling. The harp-strummed interstitial tracks that punctuate the album like “L’Amour Don’t Sui Espris,” “The Anchoress’ Orison,” and “Des Oge Mais Quer Eu Trobar” are also enchanting – in fact, it would be fascinating to hear a harp & lute-only version of the entire album.

Aria of Vernal Tombs is rather relaxing for black metal – and it achieves this without a trace of shoegaze warble or ambient drone. I just wish I were more of a musical scholar and could begin to dissect and put names to Obsequaie’s classical techniques. Perhaps the band will do a commentary version – how many metal bands can claim to educate as well as excite, enchant, and entertain?

Slovenia’s Dekadent, on the other hand, has truly earned the cinematic tag, not least because their brand of black metal has been crafted with a uniquely majestic melodic sensibility. They also earn it because for the second time now, their album has been written to accompany an actual short film. They did it in 2008 with the stunning and moody The Deliverance of the Fall, and their newest masterpiece, Veritas, is also accompanied by a 22-minute short. More on that in a bit, as I focused on the album first as a complete experience before taking in the film.

When I covered Dekadent’s previous album, 2011’s Venera: Trial and Tribulation, I noted that the band not only strained against the boundaries of what would typically be considered appropriate melodies for black metal, but they also did it in a way that was more complete, and ultimately, more cathartic, than the then-nascent blackgaze sound – a sub-genre that has recently earned a lot more attention and definition thanks to polarizing releases by USBM act Deafheaven, or, in the case of Alcest, elevated and then simply abandoned.

Make no mistake though – this is not a willowy, swoony blackgaze album. Dekadent still forges its own transcendent and triumphant sound, but they also churn in more darkness and chaos than on any of their previous albums – or than any other band which combines fuzzy blackened fury with brightness and positivity. “Of Acceptance and Unchanging” may open with soft, chiming acoustic guitars and dirge-like organs (could easily be something from Porcupine Tree or Brit-pop band Doves), but that’s just the airy prelude to the dense, thunderous scrawl that follows. I’ve never heard Dekadent this brutal or corrosive, reaching Anaal Nathrakh-like levels of black/death malevolence before the melody lifts skyward without sacrificing any heaviness. The addition of Alice in Chains-style croons are also a surprising and effective touch, more subtle than just yanking the mood out of the gloom with soaring, power metal-style cleans.

Follow up “Dead Mountain” sounds most like the band’s sound on Deliverance of the Fall – a blend of black metal and film score. The melody here, riding atop a hammering battery of blastbeats, is sweeping and langorous, rather than hitting you with a blizzard of notes – but the rest of the Veritas is even more aggressive and metallic. Take the lurching, groovy “Pasijon,” the monstrous “Valburga,” or “The Beast Beneath the Skin” – all are more dissonant and destructive than anything the band has done before, but no matter how chaotic their tone and energy, you know they’ll crest again to something brighter. Dynamics are part of this band’s DNA, and you’re always assured of a varied and entertaining experience – I’m amazed this time around to see that the band has been able to do it while pushing their sound even further, darker, and weirder.

“Enervation’s End,” in particular, exemplifies this creative confidence more than anything else on the album. With its whacking percussion, blastbeats, pulsing electronics, and ragged vocals, it’s like something off Emperor’s swan song Prometheus. Sweeping guitar solos have been a part of the band’s sound for years, but there’s a yowling, almost showy 80s rawk bravado to them now, and on “Enervation’s End,” they even take on a Southern, stoner twang at times. Somehow, all of these additions – the Alice in Chains croons, the yowling guitar solos, the strutting basswork, and heavily distorted, almost pig-like squeals – should come off like a band casting about for a identity, but the eclecticism is kept in check by a masterful grasp of dynamics and control. The band’s name is aptly chosen – decadent, but never disjointed.

As for the short film, it’s beautifully shot and crafted, but I found the storyline – about a terminally-ill young man spending his final day with his girlfriend – to be too tentative and far less tragic than it was probably intended to be. Veritas the film is never as emotionally investing or passionate as Veritas the album. It’s also interesting that mastermind Artur Felicijan chose to craft a narrative rather than use imagery and editing to complement his already rich sonic vision. The music is not used as a score per se, but is relegated to the background via the car’s blasting stereo as the couple drives into the woods for their final moments together. It felt incongruous and forced in, which is a shame considering that the album’s bold and wild musical choices always stick their landings.

In any case, I still have immense respect for the drive and vision it took to not only shoot, edit, and produce the film, but also to do it while delivering such an incredible album. It’s not enough that Dekadent sets themselves apart from the rest of the black/death herd by embracing gorgeous and transcendent melody in a genre that’s exclusively focused on dark and destructive energy. With Veritas, they’ve now also gone darker and more metallic than they ever have before, and have become more creatively successful as well. There are few artists out there this assured, ambitious, or invigorating – Enslaved, Blut Aus Nord, and Ihsahn come to mind – so if you are new to Dekadent, prepare to be amazed.

Granted, that’s because the band that catapulted to MySpace stardom and a Metal Blade signing back in 2005 is long gone, aside from vocalist Jonny Davy, the lone remaining founding member. The latest incarnation of Job for a Cowboy has since been fleshed out with former members of Cephalic Carnage and Despised Icon (plus session drummer Danny Walker of Intronaut), and they’ve brought new elements and styles with them. And while 2012’s Demonocracy wove some melody and complexity into its speedy attack, the balance has been completely upended on Sun Eater, resulting in a sound somewhere between progressive and technical death. Whatever you wanna label it, it sure ain’t deathcore anymore.

Oh sure, you’ll hear fragments and chunks of ‘core here and there – burly breakdowns and cavernous growls – but they’re mostly eclipsed by a stunning palette that pulls far more from death metal masters like Cynic, Death, Opeth, and Morbid Angel than any of the band’s former multi-word splattered-graphic T-shirt-slinging peers.

The songwriting across Sun Eater is unpredictable and amorphous, the atmosphere murky and forbidding. Guitars have a bright and prismatic coldness, alternating between moody riffs and post-metal ambient shimmers, while the basslines – with Focus’ classic warble – are the undulating, roiling currents beneath the waves. Vocals are equally as mercurial, changing tone and delivery often instead of always going for the throat as on the band’s earlier releases. And not a pig squeal to be found; I like pig vocals just fine – love ’em on this year’s Benighted – but the goal here seems more to be restraint than all-out-craziness.

In fact, it’s that interplay between control and creativity that’s most impressive about Sun Eater. I’ve listened to each of the opening two tracks a dozen times now, simply because of their unusual and hypnotic structures, and the way that the guitars, bass, and drums coil and twist amidst the wreckage of the band’s former sound. The moody and mid-paced “Eating the Visions of God” was a bold choice to kick off the album, showing that the band is more interested in making a statement and showcasing their new direction rather than simply going for a brutal stance. “Sun of Nihility” slithers into some busier, more technical passages, and the opening guitar riffs – mysterious at first, then epic, stalking, doom-laden – recall Opeth in their glory days. Both tracks also boast fluid, soulful leads and solos which are very, very un-core (producer Jason Suecof contributes some killer work on “Sun of Nihility.”)

Subsequent tracks like “The Stone Cross,” The Synthetic Sea,” and “A Global Shift” crank the energy level a lot higher, similar to the frenetic pace of Demonocracy, but again, that sound has been melted down and reforged here into even more elaborate technical death. Think Obscura or The Faceless, with the busy fluidity of the former, and yet none of the latter’s recent and overcooked eccentricities. And the surprises aren’t over yet. “Buried Monuments,” which comes late in the album, opens with neoclassical power-metal melodies and bravado, then pulls it through as a lively contrast to the brutal stutter-and-lurch across the rest of the track.

As with any worthy tech or progressive death album, Sun Eater eventually coheres after multiple and dedicated listens, and so I expect I’ll be returning to this one pretty often. And while I’ve found a lot of unique, exciting, challenging albums in 2014 to get lost in, it comes as a great surprise that a former deathcore band will also make that list, thanks to an impressive release with layered and interesting songs, dense atmosphere, varied pacing and structure, and moments of flat-out awesome musicianship. Now, about that name…

I poked my head down into an oubliette once while touring Warwick Castle in the UK, and it was an awful little jolt to my imagination. I took a deep breath and wondered how many souls had perished and rotted away in that little dark space, ending their lives in the same state in which they started – fetal and alone.

The mind-warping oblivion of Ruins of Beverast, Portal or Deathspell Omega would probably better capture the misery of actually rotting away in an oubliette, but USBM act Oubliette is a little livelier than that. The sound is somewhere between melancholy acoustic-driven darkness (think Fen, Agalloch, or October Falls) and melodic death/doom like Rapture and Insomnium. In other words: gorgeous, flowing, melodic black metal that is more likely to make you swoon with sadness than succumb to insanity.

Hailing from Tennessee, the band features a member of Aether Realm (their excellent Viking melodeath release, One Chosen by the Gods, hit my year-end list last year) and one from Inferi (who released a strong tech/melodeath album this year), with both male and female vocalists. Both of those bands are intensely melodic but quite different – one rousing and triumphant, the other chaotic and contorted – while Apparitions occupies a softer, more thoughtful sphere.

That’s not to say that this is a mellow journey like something from Les Discrets, though I certainly hear a lot of their nostalgic, heartbreaking chill through Apparitions. Opening track “Whispers” shudders beneath the weight of thunderous blastbeats, with forceful vocals riding high in the mix and chiming ambience and tremolo layered deep below – buried like in a you-know-what. Keyboards are graceful rather than Grand Guignol-garish (unlike so many other 90s acts), and the overall effect is dramatic without ever becoming cheesy or overbearing. Very enjoyable. The track settles into loping, mid-paced death/doom later on, and carries forward into “The Fog,” which, with its gauzy atmosphere, rolling acoustics and rousing melodies, recalls a black metal version of Insomnium.

“Withering Dreams” is one of the standouts here, most notably because of the seamless way it changes from a stately Alcest-like ballad to a more aggressive melodeath/doom anthem. Guest vocalist Egan O’Rourke from Daylight Dies does a wonderful job in a duet here with female vocalist Emily Low – seriously, when was the last time you heard vocal harmonies in any form of black metal – and both guitarists have plenty of opportunity to show off with tremolo melodies that coil, twist and soar through the song’s serpentine second half. Breathtaking stuff. Another high point comes late in “Howls of Death,” with more Damnation-era Opeth cues briefly shining through the gloom before the song blackens again and races towards a frosty finish.

Emily Low’s lilting soprano also weaves through “A Beautiful Suicide,” complementing the flowing tremolo melodies and bringing ethereal grace to an already lovely and somber lament. She also haunts the opening and bridges of “Creatures of the Endless Slumber,” one of the speediest tracks on the album, and one which recalls the relentless attack of classic Light’s Bane-era Dissection. Low deserves the accolades currently being piled on Myrkur, plus the metal segments here are far more accomplished and nuanced. Apparitions closes with the lengthy and ambitious “Palingenesis,” which shifts assuredly between the band’s two sounds – clattery aggression and mournful elegance – before peaking halfway through with an Enslaved-like series of stuttering riffs, and then completes the odyssey with satisfying heft and scope.

I had originally gone searching for another Oubliette when I came across this one. That one hailed from the UK, but appropriately enough, seems to have been forgotten. This Oubliette, on the other hand, deserves a lot more recognition and attention. Fans of the acts I mentioned above or anyone who prizes both melancholy and malevolence in their black metal will likely enjoy this as much as I did. Excellent find, and sure to make my year-end list in a few months.

This year’s model is full of propulsive dance boogie as usual, but after the obligatory bouncy first track, “Genau” (“that’s the German in you!,” Sascha barks), Our Time Has Come settles into a slightly more sinister groove. You see, there’s plenty about today’s world to be pissed about – inequality, warfare, injustice, corruption, and stupidity galore – and that’s perfect fodder for rabble-rousing and subversive snark – all set to an electro-metal soundtrack, of course.

Like last year’s excellent, high-intensity album Kunst, Our Time Will Come is solid and consistent – which, as a longtime listener, is my #1 requirement for a KMFDM album. No weird experimental tracks or sludgy clunkers that bring the fun to a halt. Though the pace varies, and leans more towards mid-tempo menace than all-out ass-kickers, almost everything here’s got danceable momentum, sinuous synths, bumpin’ beats, and plenty of heavy guitar crunch (some of it more massive-sounding and downtuned than ever before). There’s also an even split between Lucia-and-Sascha-led tracks on the album; when she first joined the collective, there were only a few tracks per album, but by now she’s been well-established as half of KMFDM‘s sound.

Album standout this time goes to “Salvation,” a Sascha-fronted dance-floor monster that has him dropping down to a deep, sonorous chant (I had to check to make sure it wasn’t En Esch) in the chorus. Combined with the deep, rumbling guitars throughout, it feels like an old Sisters of Mercy track. The second half, which brings back the chorus from 1990’s “Naive,” completes that throwback feel. I’m sure “Salvation” will be a crowd favorite and a definite add to the setlist rotation for years to come. “Respekt” is another fave. It starts with bouncy synths and a distorted vocal, but quickly builds up to a dense, multi-layered and angry electro-metal anthem. It’s not as bombastic as a classic like “DIY,” but slyly funny lyrics like “I will punch your head until you say ‘I respekt you'” and a vocal trade-off between Sascha and guest vocalist/co-writer Tom Stanzel (of German electropop outfit Spiritual Reality) also ensure a fun live performance.

https://soundcloud.com/kmfdm_official/salvation

Other strong Sascha-led tracks include the shadowy skulk of “Brainwashed,” which sounds like it could have been a Pig track in one of the band’s previous incarnations, the fast-paced electro of album-closer “Make Your Stand,” (with second guest vocalist William Wilson of Seattle industrial-rock act Legion Within), and “Blood vs Money,” which has Sascha adopting a rough melodic croon unlike anything I can remember from his normal, gravelly delivery.

Lucia doesn’t have anything quite as pulse-pounding as past favorites like “Looking for Strange” or “New American Century,” but that fits with the album’s moodier stance. Her most effervescent track is “Get the Tongue Wet,” an upbeat rock stomp with chiming guitar riffs, police sirens, stuttery beats, and a staccato selection of vocal treatments: chanteuse croon, vocoder snarl, and saucy shouts. Her other moments are slower and smokier, like the sultry, “Vogue”-like funk of “Shake the Cage,” or the sturm-und-drone gloom of the title track, an understated dubstep ballad that promises to build to an explosive crescendo – and yet it never does.

That title track kind of sums up my feeling about Our Time Will Come as a whole. The album cover depicts a revolution ablaze, but the music within feels more like a smoking fuse; a snarl but not a roar. It’s got fun energy, but it never fully explodes with rage. Perhaps that was intentional, otherwise we might have gotten ‘Our Time Has Come’ – but given the critical, mocking stance of the album’s lyrics and that Molotov cover art – something more aggressive, unleashed, and pissed-off might have been a better spark to that overpacked powder-keg. Explosion or no, Our Time Will Come is still another fun collection of well-crafted KMFDM tracks, and sure to please longtime fans of the band.