It’s been a long five years since we’ve had an album from this Norwegian foursome. Which is probably a good thing, considering their last few releases haven’t been their best by a long shot. Basically, since 2011’s V, the band has struggled to retain their days-of-yore sound while trying to expand on it and deliver something fresh. Having left Season of Mist and returned to Indie Recordings, now is the time to drop something new and exciting—especially if you’ve once again enlisted the mighty Mistur’s keyboard wizard, Espen Bakketeig, to lend a hand in the finished product. One spin in and Vreid fans will find a lot of what you’ve come to expect from the band, while also exploring some surprising new directions that are sure to drop your jaw. But, is that a good or bad thing for The Skies Turn Black?

As has become the norm for the band, we’re blessed with some killer guest appearances by the aforementioned Espen Bakketeig and Djerv’s Agnete Kjølsrud, a smart decision by Kampfar on the amazing Ofidians Manifest. While Bakketeig’s performance on 2021’s solid Wild North West, I felt he was underutilized when crafting his key atmospheres or lustful piano passages. Thankfully, that is not the case for The Skies Turn Black. Outside of the emotional piano interludes, you’ll find plenty of powerful, spacey, and quirky key atmospheres throughout. And Kjølsrud’s contributions to the almost gothy “Loving the Dead” make it one of the best songs the band has ever penned.¹

The album begins on a strong note with “From These Woods,” which is one of the longer and more epic tracks. After opening with some soothing clean and acoustic guitars, the black metal assault ensues. After passing through a dark alley of echoing clean-vocal support, the new riff change is nastier and heavier than ever. But the moment you get settled in, the song comes to a screeching halt, unloading beautiful piano, soaring guitars, and lush, clean vocals. When it concludes, you’re whiplashed with a vicious attack because the fucking song still has two minutes to go. Another track that has similarities is “Smile of Hate.” This one has a simple but headbangable riff in the vein of Amon Amarth, that marches along at one point and collapses into another impressive piano passage. This time, a little less ethereal and more like the piano and key work of Dimmu Borgir.

But, like all Vreid records in the last decade, there’s a point where things get real weird. Not in a negative way, like some previous material. On The Skies Turn Black, it begins with “Kraken.” It turns out this track is part of the soundtrack to this year’s Norwegian “blockbuster,” Kraken.² But being more synth-driven than guitar-driven, it has an eerie vibe that actually would work equally well in the movie Sorcerer.³ It’s not a standout track, but it’s the perfect introduction to “Loving the Dead” because it uses the same elements. As mentioned, this song stands way out because Kjølsrud dominates on vocals. This eight-minute epic takes you through so many emotions, from Kjølsrud’s vocals to the intertwined guitar work and the climactic finish. This special piece is definitely a Grier SotY contender.

There are plenty of other high moments on this record, which is hella nice to hear for a change. The track that really loses me, though, is “Echoes of Life.” It’s not a bad song, but it’s an odd duck of ’70s progness. While it’s smooth and clean, it’s too old-timey to fit with the rest of the album. Thankfully, the follow-up closer “The Earth Rumbles” reignites the fire before the album concludes. If “Echoes of Life” ended the record, I might be a bit more upset. But, I’m pleased to say The Skies Turn Black is Vreid’s best album since V. Which is wild to say considering there are four full-lengths in that time. The master is nicely done, letting everyone shine when it matters—especially the bass, which has always been a major staple to their sound. If the skies really are going to turn black, I’m here for it. After all, that’s better than the color they are these days.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: Stream | Format Reviewed: Stream deez nutz
Label: Indie Recordings
Websites: vreid.bandcamp.com | vreid.no | facebook.com/vreidofficial
Releases Worldwide: March 6th, 2026

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Erbeet Azhak’s black metal is desolate and chaotic, but doesn’t stray far from trails travelled by C.V.B.’s other projects. Still, it finds him further flexing his vocal muscles, which are a mix of everyman blackened rasps alongside tonal shouts and growls that sound a lot like F.O.A.D.-era Nocturno Culto. Even as Erbeet Azhak brings C.V.B.’s own guitar and bass talents to bear, guest musicians S. Iblis’s (Possession) lead guitar, Onbra Oscoura’s (Abyssal Vacuum) bass, and Laye’s (Putrid Offal) drumming flesh out a sound palette that explores several black metal styles. Sargeist lurks in the riffs of galloping melodicism present on “The Wings of Liberation,” just as Blut Aus Nord fans can belly up to a bar stocked with blasting beats and decaying dissonance (“Lecherous Angels,” “Death to the Self”).¹ Further examination finds traces of Aosoth in the near blackened war metal of “Only the Vile Will Remain,” while devotees of doomier plods ala late-era Darkthrone should find comfort in the folds of “Erbeet Azhak.” Despite what seems such a mixed bag, Only the Vile Will Remain encases its twists and turns in a production that provides sonic consistency.

Raw but nuanced, Erbeet Azhak packs as many interesting details into Only the Vile Will Remain as Luciana Nedelea did her excellent cover art. I particularly enjoyed the engaging guitar leads that creep amongst the riffs and blast beats of “The Weakness of Our Cycle” as much as I did the intriguing riff patterns and spacy, atmospheric interlude that hijacks “The Inner Circle” around the 2:45 mark, segueing into a really nice melodic guitar solo. Iblis’s performance warrants particular note, as he peppers the whole of Only the Vile Will Remain with lots of satisfying, melodically intricate solo work not present on most black metal of this ilk (“The Wings of Liberation,” “Death to Self”). C.V.B.’s performance on the mic also deserves a nod. While he’s never contributed in this way on any of the other projects he’s involved with, save Aerdryk, his vocals fit what Erbeet Azhak does well and add a layer of gravelly, gothic tension and menace. The vocal cherry on top, however, belongs to Zd from LVTHN, whose inhuman screeches absolutely haunt the back-end passages of “Lecherous Angels.”

While Only the Vile Will Remain isn’t a sprawling, over-bloated behemoth by any means, it could benefit from a little nip and tuck. Erbeet Azkhak traverses the many planes of its black metal existence with relative ease and is most compelling when song lengths provide enough room for all the transitions to develop. Evident even on the albums second shortest song, “The Wings of Liberation,” which transitions from a galloping mid-pace to a blast-furnace passage before moving on toward a guitar solo flowing with melodicism and then back again, all within the span of 4:06. Ironically, this leaves the 3:46’s of the title track stuck in my craw as the album’s most boring; its straight-forward, blast-beat-overloaded war-metal approach sticking out sorely amidst the much more atmospheric fare on display. Cutting this and the mostly superfluous intro would have left Only the Vile Will Remain a more lethal beast.

Erbeet Azhak hasn’t revolutionized the landscape of black metal, neither in Belgium nor in the broader, raw-as-misanthropic scene in which Only the Vile Will Remain operates. Those intrigued by the name drops above should find something of value here. I know I got more than I was expecting. For now, I’d say there’s a fresh sprout on the Belgian black metal family tree with Erbeet Azhak’s name on it; whether that grows into a sturdy branch or not, only time will tell.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kb/s mp3
Label: Amor Fati Productions
Websites: Bandcamp
Releases Worldwide: March 7th, 2026²

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Dusk have been at it for a while now, toiling in the shadows to scrape together an acid concoction of abrasive noise and screaming menace. But who hasn’t? Newcomers to the blog, or the metal scene in general, may not have enjoyed of the deep sadness of early-2010s underground metal, when the promo pit burst with bedroom black metal from a seemingly inexhaustible trove of men who owned a guitar and made up for their lack of talent, and bandmates, and vision by pure profligacy. Though we’re now blessed with far more in the way of interesting music, the Vardans of the world are still out there, now and again transformed by their toil into something worthy of remark. And the crisp mashup of industrial synthesizers and black metal intensity has been worth a listen for the last decade in which Dusk have operated. Now it’s worth a few more.

Bunker is the Costa Rican band’s seventh record, and sixth this decade, masterminded by the eponymous producer who has had the Dusk aesthetic down to a science; enveloping low-end rumbles, echoing synths, spares instructions for his attendant vocalist and string-slingers, and a grim sense of inevitability. With the sound palette sorted out, it’s up to Dusk’s compositional skill to make Bunker worthwhile. It’s all too easy for electronic music to lean heavily into repetition; the infinitely replicable nature of composition in the medium lends itself towards riding extended grooves while adding and subtracting new elements. While Dusk certainly use this to their advantage in the latter half of the album, Bunker is front-loaded with two exciting tracks that move much faster than their tonal palette would suggest. “BUNKER I” begins in noisy ambience before introducing an Author & Punisher beat as its other sounds warp and stutter. A sudden blast of tremolo picking by guitarist Implacable gives way to more complex industrial beats and a simple, martial guitar riff, and then it’s over, transitioning into the Anaal Nathrakh-meets-Bliss Signal “Bunker II,” which vacillates between electronic blasts and subdued keys, with a lonely sonar ping accompanying both. Neither element ever overstays its welcome, and just six minutes in to Bunker, I was hooked.

Dusk can pack detail into songs even when they’re allowed to stretch out, and Bunker succeeds on meticulous sound design. In the doomy, menacing “Bunker III,” Dusk re-uses beats and samples dozens of times, but never outright repeats the same combinations of elements, making full use of the tools available to them. Though the song is slow-moving, subtle crescendos, particular spacing of instruments across the sound stage, and slowly adjusting cutoffs that amplify the intensity of a clip of breaking glass combine to keep this reprieve interesting for as long as the first two tracks lasted.

At twenty-three minutes, Bunker is an exercise in restraint that pulls ahead of the band’s back catalog in part on the strength of its concision. These songs move through ideas quickly enough to never grow stale, but there’s also a nagging feeling that Dusk’s compositions are somewhat automatic; each new idea that the songs explore is a small one, introduced almost scientifically so as to see just what that little tweak will do in the context surrounding it. No bizarre riff, jarring melody, or impressive performance could maintain this paradigm. Bunker, like most records Dusk put out, is something of a mood piece, hewing closely to a particular exploration of what this industrial/black metal hybrid can be without producing standout songs that make the sound creatively compelling. I’m left wanting something a bit less well-considered, something vital that’s often difficult for me to find in electronic music.

Nevertheless, Bunker is a compelling introduction to Dusk for anyone who hasn’t encountered the group before, and it stands as a concise exploration of their sound. Its damp, brooding atmospheres contrast expertly with moments of screaming static, and it’s all bolstered by enveloping production. Among the band’s now lengthy back catalog, Bunker’s combination of concision and vision stands out, but it’s only the sum of its many intricate but unimpressive parts. For Dusk to break through, they’ll have to break their own carefully-constructed mold.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps MP3
Label: Self-Released
Websites: duskvt.bandcamp.com
Releases Worldwide: February 20^th, 2026

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Like how tabbies are genetically diverse but visually similar, Malefic’s many ingredients blend into a kind of extreme metal slurry on Impermanence, all present but difficult to identify individually. Sure, some riffs are more typically one thing than another, like the Testament-like thrash chops opening “In Darkest Dreams,” or the Dissectionesque blackened trems on “Blood of the Throne,” or the Opethian deathly grooves of “It Haunts.” But taken as a whole, Impermanence doesn’t lean towards one sub-genre over another. Instead, Malefic’s mutt-metal manifests into an off-kilter, volatile force of hostility, recalling heavily of the genre-blending approach Xoth take. Xoth are actually probably the best comparison to Malefic, as drummer Aaron Baumoel’s rasps and screams sound a lot like both of their vocal duo, and guitarists Jason Davila and Sam Williams’ solos follow the melodically rich, whammy-friendly stylings of Xoth (“Idiocracy”). Bolstered by a rhythm section of Baumoel and bassist Andy McGraw, who both know how to lay down some serious groove when needed (“Deserter”) and a dynamic mix, Impermanence shows that those years of honing their style have paid off for Malefic. It’s a good sound!

But what confuses me about Impermanence is that it feels aimless in many places, but not because Malefic can’t edit. To the contrary, every song on Impermanence is tight and focused, only running past five minutes on “It Haunts.”¹ Malefic also aren’t indulging in extraneous instrumentals or soloing, as songs like “Of Gods and Man” and “Disembodiment” showcase the band’s restraint within their buck-wild playing. The issue is that Impermanence doesn’t stick with an idea long enough. “Blood of the Throne” and “Obsidian Earth” have, like, five riffs in their first minutes or so each; instead of expounding upon a few ideas, Malefic often churns through ideas before they’ve settled into something sticky. This pattern especially stinks when they land on something great and don’t develop it, like the swinging, discordant riff in the second verse(?) of “Echoes of Silence” or the guitar runs opening “Obsidian Earth.” Impermanence sees a band on a mission, but maybe also a band in too much of a hurry.

What this amounts to is that Impermanence possesses a sound I can’t say I’ve heard before, but also, confusingly, one that’s somewhat indistinct from other extreme metal albums. Malefic’s aforementioned style-soup is so dense with expansive inspirations and somewhat progressive tendencies (“Disembodiment,” “It Haunts”) that, besides some serious Xothisms here and there, it adds up to something not exactly like the sum of all of their influences. But at the same time, Impermanence’s loose structuring and lack of purposeful repetition hampers Malefic’s ability to craft lasting hooks. By and large, most songs start with some fanfare, rage for three-to-four minutes straight while Malefic tear through riffs with reckless abandon like a more evil, more succinct Trivium and end with little resolution. It can be very exciting and enjoyable in the moment, but I’m left with little to remember Impermanence by the time it’s over.

But there is nothing wrong with a tabby cat,² and there’s nothing wrong with Malefic. They’ve carved out a great sound for themselves that more purposeful songwriting could harness into a truly hog-wild time. But where Impermanence excels in thrills, it lacks staying power, mostly in part to Malefic’s restless pursuit of riffs above all else. Fans of blackened thrash, blackened death, death thrash or bethrashened black death could do a lot worse than giving Impermanence a spin, but it’s probably not the genre-shaking game changer the band wanted. There’s always the sophomore album, however…

Rating: Mixed
DR: 9 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps MP3
Label: Terminus Hate City
Websites: maleficband.com | malefic.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/MaleficBandATL
Releases Worldwide: February 13th, 2026

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Fortunately, the first few minutes of Rituel : Initiation act as an interesting microcosm for its whole: “Une Pleine Absence” lulls you in slowly with heavy atmosphere, wordless sighs, throat singing (I believe from lead vocalist Sébastien Defabiani), and acoustic passages, slowly building in intensity. It does this so effectively, in fact, that when the guitars do arrive, they feel overly jagged, loud, and harsh. I signed up for a post-black metal album—I expected loud. But De l’Abîme Naît l’Aube do somber atmosphere very well, and they do post and black metal well, but it’s interesting how the two can be at odds with each other in this style. Ten minutes later, this moment is forgotten, and the guitars sound as natural as anything else. “Une Pleine Absence” is still going, incorporating tremolos and depressive shrieks as a heavier atmospheric element, and you know well what to expect over the rest of Rituel : Initiation.

This intersection of rough-around-the-edges post metal, black metal aggression, and atmospheric melancholy seems to define both Rituel : Initiation and De l’Abîme Naît l’Aube. “Le Vertige d’une Descendance” is similar to the intro in that it starts slowly and gives bassist Valerian Burki a moment to shine. It leans more post than black, with some strong riffs that give the song groove and, if you’ll forgive a technical term, head-nod factor. “Un Sanctuaire de Cendres” is much more blackened than post, but when Fantine Schütz’s clean singing soars through the gloom, it’s a genuinely touching moment. Tremolos towards the end from guitarists Dominique Blanc and Kilian Caddoux counterbalance nicely with Valentin Boada’s frantic drumming, and here, the intersections work very well.

If I were to criticize one thing about Rituel : Initiation, it’s that the blended styles don’t allow for a ton of memorability. There are great moments throughout the five tracks—I’ve mentioned a few already, and want to highlight the slow march riffing around the midpoint of “Un Sanctuaire de Cendres” as well. But generally, Rituel : Initiation does not feel very strongly structured as an album. Songs, all but one over eleven minutes long, move from one idea to the next coherently and naturally, but in such a way as to evade hooks or moments of particular catchiness or impact. I always enjoy listening, but after the fifty-three minutes are done, I don’t have much impression of specific songs I liked; rather, it’s moments here and there that I know were early or late in the session. This makes sense of the style De l’Abîme Naît l’Aube play, but it also gives the impression of a dense album that I perhaps still need to spend more time with to truly crack.

Still, I like what De l’Abîme Naît l’Aube are doing here. Cold, regal, aggressive, anguished, and balanced on a knife’s edge—there’s some good metal here! As “Une Absolute Prèsence” builds to the album’s climactic end, I can’t help but be impressed. I wouldn’t have hated more editing—there’s a lot of metal here too—but too much of a good thing isn’t a bad thing. Rituel : Initiation is, in my mind, an exciting debut, the kind that speaks of genuine potential. Color me intrigued.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 192 kbps mp3
Label: Hypnotic Dirge Records
Websites: danapostmetal.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/dana.postmetal
Releases Worldwide: February 13th, 2026

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The Magus

That promise seems to have been delivered, as Daemonosophia arrives with nary a 9-minute track to be found. The two advance singles land as relatively straightforward black metal tunes but still manage to maintain The Magus’ penchant for horrific theatricality. I was tempted to embed first proper track “Psuedoprophetae,” an absolutely blistering assault that appears on the heels of a version of the Lord’s Prayer that’s a bit different than the one I was taught in Sunday school, but I’ve opted for “Magia Obscura” instead. The latter demonstrates more of the diversity found across Daemonosophia, its snarl augmented by a clean intro and majestic heavy metal guitar leads.

But don’t let those two tracks trick you into thinking that Daemonosophia is just another melodic black metal album. The variety on offer within these compositions and their 47 minutes is astounding. The title track made me realize what Iced Earth in their prime might have sounded like if they were a black metal band, “Amelia” is a hauntingly beautiful tribute to the dramatic devilry of King Diamond, and “The Era of Lucifer Rising” sees The Magus reworking a tremolo-laden black metal church-burner from Thou Art Lord’s 1994 debut record into a melodic monstrosity of esoteric might. But perhaps the greatest surprise is album closer, “La Llorona Negra,” an outstanding cover of a classic Latin American folk song. Organ, harpsichord, and piano introduce the song and its first, female, vocalist, and for a moment, it doesn’t sound all that different than the version you heard on the Coco soundtrack. That is, until your hear La Llorona herself screaming in anguish behind the beautiful singing, and before the song evolves into a metal juggernaut with The Magus on the mic near the halfway point.

There is very little for me to complain about on Daemonosophia. Its runtime feels vastly shorter than it is, and its compositional flow has made it nearly impossible not repeat over and over again. The Magus demonstrates an incredible gift for songwriting, Maelstrom’s drumming is a tympanic tempest that lives up to his name, and while El might play for Soulskinner, he should probably be called ‘Facemelter,’ as his guitar playing has made it look like I touched the Ark of the Covenant. My one critique would be that the production feels a bit heavy on the low-end tones, and this was initially a barrier to me feeling Daemonosophia’s full impact. The album is saturated with hidden touches that demand to be heard, and I had to minorly tweak my EQ settings to fully excavate them. At the end of the day, this is a small price to pay for an album that has delivered me multiple Song o’ the Year contenders in “The Era of Lucifer Rising,” “Amelia,” and “La Llorona Negra.”

In interviews, I’ve seen The Magus boldly claim to make “extraordinary music for extraordinary people.” I’d say he’s half right. I’m just an ordinary dude, but Daemonosophia’s extraordinary music has spoken to me nonetheless. The last year or so has been a bit rough for me physically, and I’m having to face the fact that I can no longer live life the way my pre-40s self could. So when “The Era of Lucifer Rising” closes with (what I believe to be) ‘Above hatred and madness/Beyond weakness and pain/I raise the veil and break the chains/My reign has just begun’, followed by a pair of powerful screams, I can’t help but feel empowered to handle whatever challenges this new era brings me.

Rating: 4.0/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: The Circle Music
Websites: necromantiathemagus.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/themagus666 | www.themagus666.com
Releases Worldwide: February 20th, 2026

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De l’Abîme au Plérôme is melodic black metal largely unadorned. Guitars are reverb-free—for the most part—and riffs, percussion, and roars alike coexist in approximately equal audibility. There is little time devoted to the development of atmospheric soundscapes or grand, poignant climaxes; the melodies herein are simple, sempiternally iterated through slight modifications of a theme played through layered strums and tremolos. With endlessly rolling, galloping drums, refrains are minimally expressed, and the effect is of a blur of onward energy, punctuated by hoarse, roaring screams. Reminiscent in this way of countless like acts, but particularly Woe² (“Sacrifé sur l’autel de la rédemption”), and in the frequent tilt of those roars into a pained kind of wail, Gevurah. Exceptions—mournful and comparatively melodically rich “Thrène pour un monde révolu,” and the unusual sidesteps towards Blut Aus Nord-esque eerieness in the leading air of “Sacrifé sur l’autel…”—only prove the rule. They are folded into the forward momentum and give the overall soundscape the hint of variation that allows it to be, in toto, a singular force.

The album’s power is overt and skilfully demonstrated. Riffs ascend, descend, and persist with malevolence (“Tabula Rasa”), pride (“Rex Hominem,” “Tour d’Ivoire”), or even hope (“Thrène pour…”), their sharpness giving them considerable bite. The rare occasions of layering prominently different guitar lines together are perfected examples of that tried and trve black metal stripped-back break, high strums spidering down amidst the soft crash of cymbals (“Rex Hominem,” “La Lumière de l’Infini”). De l’Abîme… never gets lost in ethereality, focusing on the progression of the next wave of guitars and building drums. This all creates a sense of continuous momentum, and at its best, feels raucously compelling (“Rex Hominem,” “Tour D’Ivoire”). The straightforward nature applies to the overt melody too, outlier “Thrène pour…” rising to an uplifting dénouement that is no less beautiful for being uncomplicated and predictable; in fact, the song is possibly the best of the lot for the way it marries this poignancy with the fire and grit of the remaining material. Echoes of this—in the solos that follow (“Tabula Rasa,” “Tour d’Ivoire”)—elevate their surroundings but don’t reach the same heights. The vocals are the most unusual part of proceedings, since they often transform into higher-pitched, more forceful wails, even at one point a deranged moan à la Dødsengel (“Tabula Rasa”). And the fact that the instrumentation around them remains mostly “still”, in consistent, minimally varied notes and intensity, allows this narration to guide and adorn the rushing compositions nicely.

Yet De l’Abîme is so unindulgent that it treads dangerously close to bland. The moments of melodic/manic coalescence (“Thrène pour…”) and the vicious vocal performance cannot quite hide the fact that an upsettingly high proportion of the runtime seems to be spent in an indistinct blur of similarity, tremolo melodies grey. It is the drums—unsurprisingly—that ultimately come to the rescue, and propel the album into an elevated quality. Though often delegated to the genre’s standard furious charge, Berthiaume takes many chances to shift the rhythmic underbelly to an offbeat, a d-beat, a steady trip, or simply to decorate with flourishing rolls what would otherwise be just an iterated monotony of bass beats. When these accents are combined with the wildest of howls and the most prominent and interesting of melodies, you can see what might have been.

Sanctvs can clearly make very good black metal, and if you’re a purist who prefers their black metal without atmosphere, layers of intrigue, and everything else interesting,³ then this is the album for you. As strong as the performances are, the lack of variety, and often depth, makes De l’Abîme an experience whose impression on you may be fast usurped by something with more character and mystery.

Rating: Mixed
DR: 8 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Osmose Productions
Websites: Bandcamp | Facebook
Releases Worldwide: January 31st, 2026

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State Dependent Memory crackles with gritty, asphaltic energy, casting Unmother as conscientious agitators, decrying societal urban decay in veins similar to acts like Chat Pile or Ashenspire, even if avoiding any direct auricular comparison. Departing from the rawer, denser claustrophobia of Lay Down the Sun, Unmother sought slightly warmer sonic climes on State Dependent Memory, weaving undulating post-metal textures into its mostly traditional black-metal framework. Sure, plenty of blast beats and tremolos (“My Armor,” “Bear Hug”) remain, courtesy of drummer B. and guitarists Azoso and Declwa (who also handles bass). Still, it’s what Unmother does with the spaces between that adds the most character, which begins with the varied vocal approach of V., who, like Attila Csihar, possesses a wider range of barks, croaks, shouts, and screams than his more one-dimensional predecessor, whose hissier, raw-blackened rasp overpowered much of Lay Down the Sun for me. Without dulling any of the sharp edges that, well, make them edgy, Unmother benefits from their take on “post” as a counterpoint to tradition.

State Dependent Memory tips the scales of orthodoxy with atmospheres that are as hypnotizing as they are abrasive. Pensive and creepy, the leads that skulk through the shadowed alleys of “Modern Dystopia” are effective and shroud the track with an almost Marilyn Manson-like pall, while Declwa’s bass notes thrum and throb like slow-strobing traffic lights on a dark, misty night. Venla makes a guest appearance here as well; his croaking rasp at this dose ups the fear factor and complements V.’s tortured delivery. Satisfying, too, is the eerie, haunted-jewelry-box melody and desperate howling of V., which make up the slower-paced interlude within the trad-black assault of “Bear Hug,” offering a sprinkling of Shining-like glitter. Ironically, the most black metal track on State Dependent Memory is Unmother’s cover of “Αττική – Βικτώρια” (“Attiki Victoria”) by Greek synthwave outfit ΟΔΟΣ 55, which distills the eight-minute-long original’s main melody down to a viscerally efficient, tremolo-forward beast. It’s poppy, new-wave-esque movements, filled with an almost hopeful melodicism, are set effectively against V.’s pleading screams and shouts.

Angeliki Mourgela’s mix and Roland Rodas’ master capture the essence of Unmother’s talents. With a foggy production that reminded me of Mayhem’s Ordo ad Chao, I enjoyed Lay Down the Sun but had to strain to pick out much of its instrumental intricacy. State Dependent Memory doesn’t suffer the same issue, as each instrument glows brightly in its own space, with B.’s varied drum performance and Declwa’s excellent bass work being the biggest beneficiaries. And while I can’t say Unmother wasted any of State Dependent Memory’s thirty-eight-minute runtime, closing the album with the no-burn instrumental “Magda” was a miss. The track fades in with some reflective, organ-like synths, foreign-spoke voice samples,⁴ and gently plucked guitar lines bolstered with tension-building but delicately strummed chords, which all continue to build slightly over the next four minutes and twenty seconds only to fade out again. No satisfying payoff, just a segue to silence. Whether this move was intentional or not, the addition of another well-executed track proper could have avoided such a deflating ending.

Acerbically moody, Unmother possesses a maturity that belies their short existence. This quartet of relative unknowns continues to carve their mark into the U.K.’s underground metal scene, and if State Dependent Memory is any indication, they may not be toiling down there for long.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 9 | Format Reviewed: 320kb/s mp3
Label: Independent
Websites: Bandcamp | Facebook
Releases Worldwide: February 20th, 2026

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Perhaps due to their sweltering abode, Necrofier draws black metal sustenance from the shivering environs of Scandinavia. Dissection is certainly an immediate reference point, if they excised the excursions into folky melodeath. Necrofier’s preferred melodicism swirls as a maelstrom of mobile power chords by guitarists Bakka and Semir Özerkan, propelled by the dexterous drumming of Dobber Beverly.² The influence of Watain also feels present, especially since Bakka’s rasp sounds quite a bit like E. And early Emperor reigns here as well, before they fully unbound Prometheus. Violins, synthesizers, and harpsichords are felt more than heard outright, balancing a sweet spot production-wise à la Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk. On the unfortunate side of the production is bassist Mat Valentine, who gets lost in the shuffle. Nevertheless, Transcend into Oblivion consistently delivers quality black metal that is melodic but dangerous.

Transcend into Oblivion progresses as three suites, each comprised of three songs. Together, they narrate a ‘Luciferian Night of the Dark Soul’: a spiritual awakening incites torment that ultimately engenders rebirth. Individually, they mostly play out as a collection of thematically-linked songs. “Fires of the Apocalypse, Light My Path” immediately kicks the door in (“Fires…I”) before kicking the door in again (“Fires…II”) and again—”Fires…III” is the strongest of the trio, but the listener begins wondering why these songs are presented as holistic units. The “Servants of Darkness, Guide My Way” trilogy comes closest to reaching suiteness. “Servants…I” starts with one of the album’s gnarliest trem riffs, “Servants…II” cools things down with an extended acoustic passage, and “Servants III” delightfully dips into doomy Middle-Eastern territory before black-metal blastoff. As for the “Horns of Destruction, Lift My Blade” triumvirate, it adds variety with d-beats, chunkier riffs, and a gong, but it feels like more of the same this deep into the album. There’s no real filler amongst the suites, but there aren’t any thrilling peaks either.

Keeping with their spiritualism, Necrofier nests numerology into Transcend into Oblivion, punctuating its three-song threesome with three instrumentals. For the most part, they effectively break up the black metal action. On the heels of the opening “Fires” suite, “Behold, the Birth of Ascension” conveys the onset of (re)birth pangs. Repurposing a melody from “Fires…III” with creepy bells and macabre piano, it cleverly inverts the typical function of an interlude, segueing out of a song rather than into one. More in the typical interlude camp is “Mystical Creation of Enlightenment.” Its Spanish-sounding acoustic plucks make for a soothing shift out of the savage “Servants” suite, while its ending modulation prefigures the ornery onset of the “Horns” suite. Oddly enough, it’s the eponymous instrumental that feels superfluous. “Toward the Necrofier” concludes the album with ominous space synths, incantatory spoken word, and tribal rhythms. “Horns…III,” however, ends with its own climax and a piano denouement, which makes the final instrumental feel like a coda to an album that doesn’t need more closure.

“Toward the Necrofier” does function as a serviceable springboard for a second spin of Transcend into Oblivion, an album which I ultimately recommend. It makes sense that Necrofier would cap off a work about rebirth with an eponymous song distilling the more unique elements of their sound. While Necrofier don’t fully realize their conceptual ambition, Transcend into Oblivion is sweet stuff regardless, demonstrating lots of promise for future outings. Black metal zealots of all stripes should strongly consider messing with these Texans.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 8 | Format Reviewed:256 kbps mp3
Label: Metal Blade Records
Websites: Bandcamp | Instagram | Facebook
Releases Worldwide: February 27th, 2026

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Stylistically, not much has changed since Grim1. Necrosexual still play a comedic, sleazeball form of blackened punk-thrash that sounds something like a snottier version of early Celtic Frost or a PG-13 version of Shitfucker. On songs like the opener, “High Times in Hell,” the band deliver big, confident riffs over battering mid-tempo drums, all while The Necrosexual delivers his sneering roar. A few tracks also feature brief forays into genuine black metal, complete with frosty riffs underlaid by blast beats. In a move that vaguely calls to mind Devil Master, much of the album also features twinkling synth lines in the background, an effect that makes the second track, “The Brimstone Brothel,” sound like a Venom-inspired carnival ride from hell.

For all my gripes about Grim1, variety wasn’t one of them, and Road to Rubble features a similar level of diversity with a much higher level of quality. “Kiss the Knife” stands out with its catchy, sinister verses that feature the track title sung in a King Diamond-style falsetto, while the more straightforward “Lubricator” sounds like an alternate version of Morbid Tales where the dethroned emperor has become a sex slave. As the album progresses into its final third, things get more rock-esque, with the rhythms getting stompier, the leads getting more flamboyant, and the vocals getting more adventurous. “Damned Romance,” for example, is like a blackened 80s cock rock anthem that culminates with a chorus of deep crooning cleans that are impossible not to sing along with. The closer, “Hard Leather Woman,” gives off similar vibes while reminding me of Midnight with its gruff, semi-clean vocals.

If there’s any gripe I have with Road to Rubble, it’s that stacking so many slower songs in the album’s second half saps a bit of the energy generated by the quicker songs earlier in the record. By the time I’ve reached the eighth of these nine tracks, hearing another slow song like “Nocturnal Ignition” isn’t going to make me have a nocturnal emission anytime soon. Fortunately, the stellar production outweighs this quibble, with the guitars sounding full and vibrant, and the overall sound having a slightly raw edge while balancing everything well. The guitar solos are plentiful, colorful, and rocking, and the band sound like they’re enjoying the hell out of themselves over the entirety of these 35 minutes.

In revisiting Necrosexual with Road to Rubble, I initially wasn’t sure whether my taste had gotten worse or the band had gotten better. Turns out, it’s probably a little bit of the former and a whole lot of the latter. With this album, the band has maintained their penchant for variety while stepping things up in every way, with better songs, better performances, and a better production job. Beyond all that, this album just feels incredibly endearing, with a genuine, fun, and oddly timeless quality that makes Necrosexual sound like a band you want to both listen to and root for. For those who don’t mind a little humor and playfulness in their blackened thrash, I’d say this Road to Rubble is worth taking a ride down.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: PCM
Label: Black Metal Archives
Websites: necrosexual.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/grimmestofalltime
Releases Worldwide: February 27th, 2026

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