Nytt Land often releases albums strictly preserving the ancient traditions of their homeland, like 2025’s Songs of the Shaman, but Aba Khan follows a different path. Picking up the threads first woven on 2021’s Ritual and continued on 2023’s Torem, Aba Khan captures the energy of the shamanic rites of Nytt Land’s native Siberia. Nytt Land doesn’t perform any one specific rite on Aba Khan, but rather, Nytt Land channels their significance, their substance. As such, this isn’t a direct transcription or translation, but a respectful, contemporary interpretation that places listeners in the midst of ancestral proceedings. Produced with immersion in mind, the soundstage is dynamic and beautifully utilized. You can almost smell the clean air and feel the warmth of the bonfire as practitioners’ shifting vocals and well-placed instruments surround you, each given plenty of room to breathe and shine. To get the full effect, headphones are highly recommended here.

Production and mixing would mean little here, were it not for Nytt Land’s excellent performances. Natalia is the centerpiece, providing striking lead vocals and bringing to life the chanting, throat singing chorus of this ceremony (“Aba Khan,” “Taiga”). She and fellow drummer Aleksandr Rosliakov provide the raw, thunderous backbone for the album, stoking ritual fervor and reverence alike (“The Oath,” “Tygir Tayii (Heavenly Sacrifice)”).³ All other instruments are handled by Anatoly. Flutes, both bone and wood, alternate between heraldic (“Totem,” “Mansi”) and musical (“Taiga,” “Mansi”) duties, while strings—like the talharpa—guide Aba Khan through its eight movements. A high base quality means standout moments are few here, but the instrumental bridge of “Taiga,” which features mouth harp, flute, and talharpa all playing different melodies on top of a deep stringed foundation, is noteworthy, as is the absolutely massive, constant thrum of “Prayer.” It’s like listening to a god breathe.

According to the promo sheet, Aba Khan comprises a collection of shamanic vignettes, but it nevertheless possesses a loose narrative flow from one track to the next. This is largely driven by Natalia’s singing. Aba Khan is written entirely in indigenous Serbian languages and Old Norse, but Natalia defies the language barrier through measured swaying (“Taiga,” “Totem”), raw vulnerability (“The Oath,” “Prayer”) and ritualistic staccatos (“Tygir Tayii (Heavenly Sacrifice)”) to sketch the shape and purpose of each movement. I’m normally pretty unforgiving on intros, but “Aba Khan” serves more as an invocation or invitation before the ceremony begins in earnest with “Taiga.” Aside from mid-album snag “Uitag,” which dwells overlong in ambient repetition, Nytt Land moves with purpose through each movement. Aba Khan closes in a whirlwind, shifting from the tension of ceremonial action (“The Oath”) to that of anticipation (“Prayer”), before releasing it in spiraling celebration and catharsis (“Tygir Tayii”).

I don’t think anyone would argue the value of preservation efforts, but I might argue that Aba Khan does something even more important. Whether at a museum or on recordings like Songs of the Shaman, a clinical detachment separates us from feeling the gravity of these traditions as an insider would. Aba Khan annihilates that barrier. Using every tool at their disposal, Nytt Land communicates the emotions, atmosphere, and spirit of Siberia’s shamanic traditions through music, a universal language. This isn’t meant to be known in the mind. It’s meant to be felt in the heart. On Aba Khan, Nytt Land invites you to walk in their millennia-old shoes to a time and place where spirits rule, shamans protect the people, and old gods whisper.⁴

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 8 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Prophecy Productions
Websites: Bandcamp | Facebook | Instagram
Releases Worldwide: February 20th, 2026

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Comprised of songs composed between 2009 and 2011,¹ the album is a window into a hidden alternate microcosm within Panopticon’s discography. But it’s one that lays bare seeds of growth that were carried on into the actual, later sound and spirit. Slow, dreamy, gazelike soundscapes (“The Road to Bergen,” “The White Mountain View,”), and syrupy, forlorn guitars shrouded in atmosphere (“A Letter,” “The Eulogy”), express the later music’s gentler, more often reflective aspect that plays as significant a role as the raw black metal.² You can also see the gradual maturity in experimentation, with transitions between that folk-tinged softness and wintry fury more natural than on the debut, and Collapse, albeit still less ethereally perfect than they would become (“From Bergen to Jotunheimen,” “The White Mountain View”).

Possibly the most brilliant thing about Songs of Hiraeth, however, is that it gets better as it goes on.³ This is not to say that the earlier parts aren’t good—they are; the solemn, then triumphant atmo-black of “The White Mountain View” could compete with any later fan-favourite and is really lovely. But from the first tumbling rollovers of “The End is Drawing Near” onwards, something shifts. The blackened ardour goes from a hum to a storm, and the mournful melodies pitch into urgency (“The End is Drawing Near,” “A Letter”), before they cascade down with exquisite sadness (“A Letter,” “The Eulogy”). That bewitching liquidity to the reverb-soaked tremolos—which was present from Panopticon, and which only grew in sublimity over time—dominates these three final songs. In them–particularly closing duo “A Letter,” and “The Eulogy”—you can hear and feel the heart of their creator beating in the expressive, pleasantly audible drumwork, the transcendent soaring of the guitars, and the literal grief and pain in the lyrics he screams into the haze.

2025 has been the year of Panopticon for me, with a discography deep-dive, two albums, and a surprise EP that knocked me off my feet.⁴ This has only sharpened my perception of the music’s strange magic: although my mind knows, my body forgets between listening sessions, just how good it is. Songs of Hiraeth is not just a coincidental window into the past; it’s another immersive offering of vulnerability revealed at a very specific time—just as crucial as the harrowing Laurentian Blue—and it is, as everything Panopticon creates, fantastic.

Songs to Check Out: ”The White Mountain View,” “The End is Drawing Near,” “A Letter,” “The Eulogy”

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The academic analogy suits Mongraf, given the background of its primary composer. Erik Aanonsen is polymathic; he serves as vocalist and guitarist, writes the music and lyrics, and even provides nykkelharpa (a Swedish keyed fiddle). Aanonsen also leverages his degree in film scoring as producer and recording engineer for Occultation.² With a keyboardist (Ingvill Trydal) and another fiddler in tow (Sunniva Molvær Ihlhaug), Monograf sculpt cinematic tracks that sound like a less droning Wyatt E. These songs weave serpentine riffs, atmospheric synths, and folky fiddling into a loud/quiet/loud tapestry. The fiddle melodies frequently take center stage, crescendoing into intense payoffs (“The Prophet,” “Cripplegate”). Despite being more compressed than a cinematic album should be, the production is delightfully organic, especially its crackling guitar tones. Essentially, Occultation scores its cover art: one can feel the heat rising in this druid-filled sonic desert.

Occultation explores a more metal subject than its post-rock predecessor, mostly with success. With album two, Monograf adds doom, progressive, and even extreme metal credentials to their CV.³ Aanonsen, second guitarist Martin Sivertsen, and bassist Hanna Sannes Aanonsen often begin songs with the droning simplicity of an Om-inspired riff that develops into complex noodling à la prog-era Opeth (“The Prophet,” “Occultation”). Drummer Erlend Markussen Kilane adds more complexity, roving between jazzy snare work, thundering tom hits, and scene-stealing fills (“Cripplegate,” “Carrion Seller”). Vocally, Aanonsen still delivers the ghostly cleans that dominate Nadir, but he adds a raspy shout to Occultation. For the most part, these harsh vocals create urgency that the music doesn’t quite call for. But occasionally, Monograf snags a catchy chorus out of Aanonsen’s shout (“Occultation”).

Monograf aptly structures Occultation as a whole, though the songwriting strategy grows repetitive. Occultation is a dyad; a mid-album breather (“Ashes”) divides halves comprised of two longer songs. “The Prophet” and “Cripplegate” kick things off with compelling call-and-response arrangements: the riffs call, the fiddle responds. “Ashes” is a welcome reprieve, smothering intimate acoustic chords and Aanonsen’s gorgeous cleans underneath drum flourishes that swell in volume. The track comes off, however, as a bit of an academic exercise. Once “Carrion Seller” kicks in, the listener realizes that the call-and-response song structure is something of a formula. Fortunately, closer “Occultation” varies the formula, feeling more like a slow burn than a riff/fiddle conversation.

Monograf should feel secure in their new, metal-adjacent specialization. Despite my criticism of Occultation’s repetitive songwriting, its 40-minute runtime invites repeat visitations of its alluring soundscape. Fans of drone and doom should especially take notice. While its folk-infused heaviness is not an intervention on par with the most recent Wyatt E. release, Occultation skillfully balances hypnotism and memorability in its riffwork. On monograph three, I suspect that Monograf will inch closer to the oasis in the desert that is the tenure track.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Nordic Mission
Websites: monograf.bandcamp.com/ | facebook.com/monografband | instagram.com/monografband
Releases Worldwide: November 14th, 2025

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Like its namesake, Umbra is dark, but in a soft, dreamlike way. The reverberant atmosphere slips between airy weightlessness and dense gravity, as stripped-back liquid plucks and keys trade places with downtuned riffs, and Elisa’s singing also slips between ethereal and ardent. Her voice—along with the music’s overall vibe—recalls some mixture of Darkher, Halsey, and Draconian’s Heike Langhans, and against the smoky backdrop, adds to the music’s shadowy mystique. Sometimes creeping along with shuddering gravity (“An Avalanche of Shudders,” “Crawl”) or weightlessly (“Swallowed & Disguised”), sometimes bursting forth with spirited post-black or post hardcore energy (“Irreversible,” “The Veil of Your Death”), the album ebbs and flows to the fading and resurgence of cymbals, the final breaths of a vocal line, and the gentle crescendo of synth. While traversing several moods in this manner, Ellereve’s heart stays front and centre, making every resonant strum and note, and every switch up into heavier riffs and faster drums ring with honest emotion.

Umbra is an album of opposites, again embodying the metaphor of the shadow that exists only because of the light. Through this, the music possesses a staying power that’s subtle but powerful. The melodies are melancholic and yet often hopeful, as the notes lift an octave, and ambience, or an uptempo, seeps in. This is a synecdoche for the album’s theme, which surrounds the darkness of loss and trauma, but looks to the light on the other side of the pain. Many songs begin with the stillness of hanging plucks, distorted synth, or stripped-back lamenting, but end with uplifting refrains or assertive heaviness—relative to what came prior (“Funeral,” “Irreversible,” “Trauma”). Other songs showcase the duality in a more blended form. This could be through energetic tempos and brighter chords that transmit strength belying their lyrical solemnity (“Like a moth to a flame,” “The veil of your death”),¹ or through the severe pathos of mournful tremolo and hanging plucks as the emotive singing delivers lyrics of finding strength and purpose (“Unravel,”² “Trauma”). Some songs are even palpably onomatopoeic with quavering chords (“An avalanche of shudders”), strange, creeping synth-percussion patterns (“Crawl”), or heartbreakingly sad gaze (“Lost in Longings”) aptly embodying their title. Things thus feel dynamic but not scattershot, expressive but not overwrought.

I didn’t realize it, but Ellereve is exactly what I needed to hear. Their particular sound, blurring of elements from doom to post to gaze and more, while not totally novel, is magnetic in its distinctiveness. I feel like I know who Ellereve is, because their music communicates it so well. This is only helped by a strong production that emphasises the space created through any reverb, and centres the vocals without burying the instruments. That said, Umbra is hindered ever so slightly by Ellereve’s ambition, covering a lot of ground and in quite rapid succession, as songs all span three to five minutes. Honing in a little tighter, potentially by expanding material into longer tracks, is all it would take to reach greatness.

With Umbra, Ellereve step confidently out of the shadows. As a first transition into post-metal proper, it’s impressively well-crafted and is compelling in its own right. Both deeply emotional and easy to listen to repeatedly, it signals potential for brilliance in the artist’s future.³

Rating: Very Good!
DR: 8 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Eisenwald(EU/ROW) | Eisenwald (US)
Websites: Bandcamp | Facebook
Releases Worldwide: November 7th, 2025

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Whether they “invented” it or not, Panopticon’s blend of bluegrass and black metal is distinctive in a way few superficially similar acts can match. From the very start, there was something special, and while the sound grew more refined, its core never changed—there was always an immense sense of drama, emotional intensity, and an unpretentious, honest heart that you could feel whether progenitor Austin Lunn was shrieking in fury or crooning softly.

Panopticon sits apart not only from other USBM acts, but from black metal acts in general. In many senses, the project functions as a kind of antithesis or a subversion of several unfortunate black metal stereotypes. Whereas the “trve” image of the genre is one of aggression and hatred, often to the point of edginess, Panopticon embodies something a lot closer to love, inverting the trope of isolation and darkness on its head in an overwhelming message of solidarity. The rebelliousness embodied by a particularly black metal fondness for (real or affected) devil-worship manifests instead through authentic and peaceful anarchist philosophy. “Nature worship” is delivered through environmentalism rather than religiosity. Though a solo act, there is little, if any, lyrical space devoted to navel-gazing, with the emphasis again being on common human experience, and the natural world we all share. The consistent prominence of samples provides yet another window into the spirit that lies behind every record, as they show glimpses of political fear-mongering and the dehumanization of “undesirable” groups, giving a voice to the fight for workers’ rights, environmental protection, righteous anger, and yet also, hope for the future.

And so, of all the words I associate with Panopticon, “empathy” is near the top. It’s probably the reason that I can’t get through most of these albums without crying. That incredibly human aspect to the music also makes the impact of individual albums very personal, having spoken to my fellow rankers and read their submissions, this is quite evident. Even where we align, our reasons often don’t.

Before we begin, I want to shout out Mystikus Hugebeard in particular. Were it not for him and his orb of infinite wisdom suggesting it in the first place, I would not have dragged myself out of a quiet hiatus and pulled together this piece at all. I feel privileged to be able to write this introduction, given my relative lack of seniority compared to Panopticon’s resident official reviewer, El Cuervo. I guess this shows you where keenness (and a good suggestion) can get you. I hope you’re all ready for a long and lascivious tongue-bathing of one of black metal’s most stoically and understatedly iconic artists.

The Rankings

Thus Spoke

#10. On the Subject of Mortality (2010) – Every Panopticon album has a ‘moment’ for me where I am bowled over by the heady combination of jaw-dropping musical composition and emotional intensity, i.e, a bit that makes me cry. Except for this one. I do love some of these songs in isolation (“Living Eulogy,” “To Make an Idol of Our Fear and Call it God”), but overall, there’s an intangible absence of force, a twist of a knife or sigh of despair, or heart-stopping climax, that relegates Mortality to its unfortunate position. Perhaps the lukewarm vibes are a result of Mortality’s status as a kind of compilation of past tracks initially released in splits and singles, and there’s a subconscious lack (whether on my part or Panopticon’s) of driving central purpose and weight. I hate to put any Panopticon record at the bottom of anything, but something has to be here.

#9. Collapse (2009) – While still a very cool album, Collapse leaves me oddly cold. The trajectory falters a little as it sways between the debut’s vehement rawness, a floatier, more post-black sound, and passages of Appalachian folk which would come to define later Panopticon. Sometimes, they all converge brilliantly (“The Death of Baldr and the Coming War,” “Merkstave,” “Beginning of the End”), and even when the separation is more stark (“Aptrgangr,” “Idavoll,”) the music doesn’t lack coherence, just refinement. Collapse mixes in the new with the old in a way that both evolves Panopticon’s sound and keeps things consistently unique. Its grip is, nonetheless, uneven, with highlights in “The Death…,” “Merkstave,” and “The Beginning of the End” punctuated by lesser movements. As a symptom of a developing style, this is forgivable, especially given where things went.

#8. Autumn Eternal (2015) – Look, I’m sorry; I know this is a fan favorite. I’ve just never seen what so many seem to see in Autumn Eternal when they count it among Panopticon’s best. Yes, it’s beautiful (“Pale Ghosts”) and can be epic, but so are all Panopticon albums, and relative to its sisters, Autumn Eternal’s swooping gestures and delicate caresses feel like a dilution of Panopticon traits, with much less magic than on many other outings. There’s comparatively little fire in the blazing black metal of the charges, and the melodies are simply less interesting (“Oaks Ablaze” and “A Superior Lament”). Even when the execution is—as is to be expected—superb (“Autumn Eternal,” “Pale Ghosts”), I am never as enamored as I am when I listen to other preferred Panopticon moments. This is also the record where I enjoy the folkier touches the least (except for Collapse). And though it’s far from Panopticon’s longest, Autumn Eternal almost drags.

#7. Social Disservices (2011) – Panopticon records have a habit of hitting pretty hard, but Social Disservices hits hard in a very particular way. In addition to its musical strikingness as the smoothest blend yet of atmospheric black metal, it’s also conceptually striking in the form of a brutal gut-punch at the moment you first notice what’s going on. You don’t even need to read the lyrics to experience this epiphany, just the track list. “Resident” becomes “Client,” who becomes “Subject,” and finally “Patient,” adumbrating the insidious progression of control and objectification of the individual by systems of power. As if its biting words and magnificently moving melodies (“Client,” “Patient”) weren’t enough, the distressing samples of screaming babies (“Client”) and overlapping voices of anger and despair (“Subject”) leave absolutely no escape. This effect is so powerful that it proves slightly harmful for this record’s ranking, as there is little to no peace or calm from the onslaught until “Patient”‘s closing act. But every time I do return, I remember it’s a brilliant atmo-black record, and curse my forgetfulness.

#6. Panopticon (2008). Woe to those who dismiss the debut. Powerfully intense in itself, it further blows my mind by how much of the later Panopticon is audible in it. Already so dynamic, and so emotionally and politically-charged, with Lunn’s anti-authoritarian anarchist philosophy (“Flag Burner, Torch Bearer,” “…Speaking…,” “Emma’s Song”) on full display.¹ A passionate series of epic-length, sample-splicing blackened storms, prefiguring Panopticon idiosyncrasies to come. Fluent, dynamic drumming that eschews the monotone blastbeat and gives away Lunn’s beginnings as a drummer; dramatic, triumphant rhythmic riffing;² the touch of atmosphere in resonant chords and weeping tremolos. Already, the emotional core reaches beyond the fury of the angriest moments (“I, Hedonist,” “Emma’s Song”), with “…Speaking…” delivering potent poignancy in stirring, melancholic atmoblack that builds to a fever of pathos. Yes, it needs a trim, and it’s a little rough around the edges, but as the birth of Panopticon, things could hardly have gone better.

#5. The Rime of Memory (2023) – Given the unadulterated praise I heaped upon The Rime of Memory, you’d be forgiven for assuming that this would have ended up higher. But the ridiculous calibre of this band’s discography means that from here on, all albums are at least Excellent, and this one’s being here is more a case of others’ strengths. It’s Panopticon at their most consistently beautiful in the engrossing part folk, part gaze, part blistering black metal way that no subgenre peer can match (“Cedar Skeletons,” “The Blue Against the White”). It’s a paragon of marathon-length black metal songwriting, where the immersion just doesn’t break and the musical and emotional builds and releases are earned, and affecting on a huge scale (“Winter’s Ghost,” “Cedar Skeletons,” “Enduring the Snow Drought”). Like its predecessor …And Again Into the Light, the more prominent use of cello and violin works to further pull on the heartstrings by augmenting melodies with weeping, drawling warmth and sadness. This is how you do atmoblack; or at least, this is how Panopticon is doing it currently, and it’s absolutely wonderful.

#4. Roads to the North (2014) – I consider Roads to the North to be Panopticon’s most Panopticon-sounding album of all. Unlike Autumn Eternal, which analogously distills the core musical aura and is divided into more numerous, shorter songs, Roads to the North pulls no punches in any dimension, never sacrificing the authenticity of bluegrass or the consuming force of black metal. The seamless, and emotionally stirring flow of distinct but univocal movements—especially the “Long Road” trilogy and its gorgeous final part—is nothing short of masterful. And the riffs here are fantastic (“The Echoes of a Disharmonic Evensong,” “In Silence,” “Chase the Grain”); not only vivacious and memorable but so effortlessly matching the spirit of the folk that tells the story of the record in tandem both separately, measuredly, perfectly (“Norwegian Nights”), and with clever, stirring integration (“Where Mountains Pierce the Sky,” “The Sigh of Summer”). There is precious little barring Roads to the North’s entry into my top 3; maybe with more time, it’ll end up there.

#3. Kentucky (2012). When I first heard Kentucky, I didn’t love it. This was probably a knee-jerk reaction to the tin whistle and the uptempo country vibe of the bluegrass tracks. But the characteristically stirring black metal, dramatically rent with thundering drums, gentler folk (“Black Waters,” “Kentucky”), and testimony, always took me. Soon the tin whistle’s dissonance gained a striking thrill, and the rousing, commiserating calls of “Come All Ye Coal Miners” and “Which Side are You On” claimed their rightful position as vital chapters in the tale: the moving story of the Kentucky coal mining industry that ravaged the mountains and ruined lives through abuse and corruption. Heartening, bittersweet hope (“Black Soot and Red Blood”) with uplifting scales and inexorable, battering lows. Huge drama befitting the Appalachian mountains themselves (“Killing the Giants as they Sleep”) with cascading guitar lines, and infinite atmospheres surrounding the stunned sorrow of returning to a devastated landscape. I am unfailingly moved, and can understand why this is #1 for so many, even though it isn’t mine.³

#2. The Scars of Man on the Once Nameless Wilderness (2018) – Scars’ dualistic nature—so often bearing the brunt of criticism as listeners disown either part—is central to its brilliance. With Part 1 centring on the relationship between mankind and nature, Part 2 zooms in closer on the people; the macro and the micro-relations central to the creation and deepening of the Scars. The former epitomizes its focus with wilder black metal that could be favorably compared to Mare Cognitum at times, complete with some of Panopticon’s best riffs (“Blåtimen,” “Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing”) and most dramatically beautiful melodies (“Snow-Burdened Branches”).⁴ The hinted mournfulness is felt more keenly in Part 2, whose acoustic stylings lay bare the disenfranchisement and loneliness latent under the snow. Panopticon’s best bluegrass lies here, and particularly over the last few weeks I’ve frequently found myself singing most of this album to myself (“The Moss Beneath the Snow,” “Four Walls of Bone,” “A Cross Abandoned.”) A younger, more ignorant me would have scorned my genuine love for the ‘country’-ness of this. Maturing is recognizing that the love for this spectacular double album is justified.

#1. …And Again into the Light (2020). This is not just Panopticon’s best album, but one of my favorite albums of all time. The deeply personal nature is underscored by the unpublished lyrics, and the spellbinding blend of force and delicacy here is perfected. The bluegrass is supernaturally peaceful (“…And Again into the Light,” “Her Golden Laughter Echoes”), passing into black metal with the most grace of any Panopticon example. And when it melts into gaze, in “The Embers at Dawn,” it’s so softly sad it breaks my heart. The intertwining of dizzying violins amidst the tumbling percussion in an avalanche of emotion, only an emphatic crash away from syrupy atmosphere (“Dead Loons,” “Rope Burn Exist”), is a natural and simple perfection of Panopticon’s characteristically ardent style. The heaviness which peaks in devastating “Moth Eaten Soul” is matched in goosebump-inducing ability only by “The Embers At Dawn” and the triumphant close of “Know Hope.” Every track is a monolith, yet they blend into one another so seamlessly, through exquisitely-pitched pauses of ringing chords and bird calls, that I’m practically holding my breath in awe the entire time. And if the incredible music weren’t enough in its own right, the album’s thesis of hope and light for those who feel alone, overwhelmed, and in the dark strengthens it beyond an indubitably iconic status. It’s a masterpiece that even Panopticon may struggle ever to surpass.

El Cuervo

Consigned to History

#10 Panopticon – Had the Panopticon debut arrived a decade earlier, it might have been heralded as something more than it is. Though a clattering, chaotic slice of Norwegian-style black metal, its lengthy compositions and shreddy production give it an edge that many 90s bands didn’t have. But Panopticon features almost none of the qualities that would go on to define the band. This type of music will always have an old-school charm, but in the context of Austin Lunn’s entire discography, it’s an unremarkable introduction given how much his sound would change. If you desperately desire to hear more black metal, it’ll do that job but less well than many of its influences. It’s hard to conceive this record as anything other than a formative learning experience, and it’s far from essential.

#9 Collapse – Lunn’s music frequently boils with righteous, politically-charged indignation, but Collapse is his angriest work. He channels his fury through scything leads and powerful roars, not stepping off the black metal pedal for the first ten minutes of “The Death of Baldr and the Coming War.” But the abrupt side-step into twee bluegrass for the subsequent ten minutes of the record represented a tide-change in black metal, transitioning Lunn from a quasi-Norwegian into someone distinctly more American. The songwriting and melodies here are far from Panopticon’s artistic peak. Both the black metal and folksy passages are fairly rote and lack real cohesion, as one starts and the other ends without proper transitions. But it’s hard to imagine that the band would have hit the heights that it has without the progression audible on Collapse.

Assured Steps

#8 …on the Subject of Mortality – Though Panopticon is best known for its fusion of black metal with bluegrass (blackgrass?), there are also post-rock influences in the pot. These first appear on …on the Subject of Mortality, which marks the beginning of progression away from simple black metal towards subtler black metal. The engaging layers of guitars and bold melodic lines characterize this record compared with its predecessors, even if Lunn’s vocals were still in their rougher, blacker era. And though his prior work had the fire and fury you would expect of a young black metal artist, …on the Subject of Mortality features the dramatic flair that he now evidently enjoys. This partly flows from the music that’s more dynamic – switching from blackened blasting to bold shredding to shimmering walls to lilting interludes – but also an emotive shift from pure anger to a broader spectrum. …on the Subject of Mortality was a confident step towards musical maturity.

#7 The Rime of Memory – The Rime of Memory is basically a good record. Panopticon hasn’t made a record that’s any less than good for a long time. Despite my contemporaneous 3.5 score, it was the first that I wasn’t extremely enthusiastic about since discovering the band. While a number of Panopticon records are overlong, this one suffers the worst for it. I struggle to digest it in one sitting, which defeats the purpose of the art form. And while The Rime of Memory consumes you with its heavy atmosphere and measured pace, it lacks those gilding highlights to bring you to the surface of its deep ocean. The other long albums like …and Again into the Light and Roads to the North boast awesome individual moments that elevate the whole experience, whereas The Rime of Memory holds you below. Others tell me this is the perfect ‘switch-off’ album, but I like music best when it demands my attention. This doesn’t say quite enough to me.

#6 …and Again into the Light – …and Again into the Light is distinguished most by its sense of creative comfort. By 2021, in the discography, hearing a new Panopticon record is like sliding back into a pair of old slippers. You know what you’re getting, and it’s still better than most others, but it’s not the novel experience of bygone years. Its second key characteristic is its choppiness, boasting some career highlights but contrasted by filler. The eponymous opener is arguably the best in Lunn’s oeuvre, swelling from a folksy acoustic melody into a grand arrangement with sobbing strings. And “The Embers at Dawn” is mesmerizingly gorgeous, possibly the best song he’s ever written. But the core of the record around “A Snowless Winter” does little to stand apart from the strong bookends. The highs comfortably outweigh the lows, but …and Again into the Light doesn’t reach the pantheon of true greatness.

Faltering Genius

#5 Social Disservices – After …on the Subject of Mortality, which feels closer to the post-Kentucky Panopticon, Social Disservices returns to the bleak feel of Collapse. The unsettling speed, roaring vocals, and atonal strings land this record closer to ‘depressive suicidal black metal’ than anything else in the Panopticon discography (try “Resident” for a striking, nasty opening). And even where the music does strip back into quieter passages, it’s textured with upsetting samples; electronic ambience and noise rock combine into some of the most disturbing work in Lunn’s discography (“Subject” conjures deeply uncomfortable feelings). Social Disservices is distinctly monolithic, even within a discography of potent music. Where most of Lunn’s music is marked by melodic or thematic distinctiveness, this album is surprisingly one-note. Its oppressiveness makes for a harder listen than other records on this list, but it’s perfect for scratching that dreadful itch.

#4 The Scars of Man on the Once Nameless Wilderness – This was the greatest surprise for me on this list. After the exemplary run from Kentucky to Autumn Eternal, I welcomed Scars with stratospheric expectations. But the stark partition between black metal and bluegrass, plainer compositions, and sheer length left me disappointed. Returning to the album years later yields something much better than I initially recognized. Make no mistake: it’s still far too long and repetitive. But if you enter with the expectation of a slower pace and simpler arrangements, then there are far worse ways to spend 118 minutes in darkness and introspection. Certainly, it does this job better than The Rime of Memory. I especially love the softer folk arrangements on Part II; without the flabbiness of Part I, Part II would reach higher on this list. I’m no country fan – given that I’m not American, less still rural – but Scars lures me into its sparse but beautiful world with simple melodies and plaintive singing.

The Sweet Spot

#3 Roads to the North – Perhaps due to my own discovery of Panopticon with this record, my perception is that this is the record that broke Panopticon into the international metal market. It’s easy to hear why: the expansive, blackened compositions and off-beat bluegrass pull fans from different places, while the fusion of these core components was more sophisticated and harmonious than on any record prior. Even if I ultimately prefer this album’s predecessor, it was Roads to the North that found Lunn finally finding true harmony between his black metal and bluegrass influences. I also love the sense of progression here. Just as Lunn himself underwent a journey described by the album’s lyrics, it first coaxes and later drags its listener through detailed arrangements that meander through a long but clearly demarcated journey. Roads to the North was the natural culmination of all that was Panopticon until 2014.

#2 Autumn Eternal – If Kentucky marked the starting point of Lunn’s changing circumstances, and Roads to the North marked a period of uncertainty and personal challenges, then Autumn Eternal marked a guarded acceptance of his new life. There’s a moody mournfulness, but it doesn’t sound resentful; there’s a sense of a man achieving comfort. Accordingly, it’s the most melodic, pretty, and immediate of his releases. It prioritizes bold melodies and hopefulness above his prior records, which are frequently distinguished by their anguish and rage. By Panopticon’s own powerful standards, it’s almost easy and enjoyable. This in itself distinguishes Autumn Eternal. But don’t be deceived by the melodies and slickness. There remain fringes of danger that bleed through the heavier tracks, rooted in the dark Minnesotan wilderness. For the casual metal listener, Autumn Eternal is likely the best Panopticon launchpad.

#1 Kentucky – Among Panopticon’s many depictions of working-class strife, it’s Kentucky’s raw, emotional discharge that leaves the strongest mark on me. Although grounded in the eponymous state’s history, perhaps this is because abuse of coal mining communities was commonplace where I’m from, too. It conjures an energy that’s unmatched in the discography. There were many American black metal bands doing the Scandinavian thing before 2012, but none sounded so grounded in America; it sounds like corn and moonshine and rural humility. And though Lunn’s songwriting may have progressed to smoother territory on subsequent releases, Kentucky finds that sweet spot between raw black metal and subtler songcraft that would later grow. The leap from Social Disservices to Kentucky is staggering, considering the mere seven months between the two releases. Although there are plenty of strong albums in Panopticon’s career, it’s Kentucky that feels like lightning in a bottle and one of the best black metal albums ever.

Mystikus Hugebeard

When discussing the sort of black metal that speaks to me, I’ve oft likened it to a blanket. A dense, tactile wall of sounds and emotion so thick that I imagine myself sinking into and wrapping myself in its embrace. In this regard, Panopticon is practically tailor-made to draw my gaze. I am helpless against that which Panopticon offers: spacious, blackened vistas of naturalist imagery painted across lengthy songs, the integration of folk music (in this case Americana, which, like the saxophone, should be a part of far more metal bands), and riffs with such genuine emotional weight behind them. Like any purveyor of black metal, I’ve been spinning Kentucky for years, with the rest of Panopticon’s discography periodically approaching from the periphery. I was eager to participate in this ranking to celebrate the release of Panopticon’s upcoming release, so that I might entrap you readers into listening to me prattle on about one of my favorite artists. And now, it’s rankin’ time!

#10: …on the Subject of Mortality (2010). While it may be at the bottom of the list, this is not a disaster of an album by any means, but it is an unmemorable one. …on the Subject of Mortality was the most experimental album of Panopticon’s early years, and sets the stage for various elements to be explored with more depth in later releases. The tone and atmosphere are all over the place, and the sampling/voice recordings are unlike anything else in the discography. This sense of experimentation would bear great fruit in the next few albums, but …on the Subject of Mortality is in this weird middle ground where the final result feels so flat. Songs feel like little more than 7-10 minutes of a vibe, as the riffs lack sufficient meat or heft. I do like the tone of “To Make an Idol of our Fear and Call it God,” but tracks like “Living Eulogy” and “Watching You” make little impression despite dozens of re-listens. Honestly, the sampled sections made the strongest impact on me, like the sounds of whips and cries in “A Message to the Missionary” or the bombastic orchestral opening to “Living in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.” I will say that it’s not so terrible as to be avoided altogether, but if you’re sufficiently familiar and fond of Panopticon’s other works, then temper your expectations.

#9: Panopticon (2008). In the broad spectrum of Panopticon’s discography, this self-titled debut holds up well enough but is plainly overshadowed by all the growth Panopticon has enjoyed over the years. I admire Panopticon’s diversity, ranging from early versions of the post-black heard in current Panopticon (“Speaking”) to standard black metal vitriol (“Archetype”) and even pseudo-Viking-metal (“The Lay of Grimnir”). It gives the earnest impression of an artist throwing some spaghetti at the wall, with enough songwriting chops to make some of it stick. For the debut of a one-man black metal act, Panopticon’s production is also blessedly solid. But it just lacks the more complex sound and interesting songwriting that Panopticon has refined over time, feeling overwrought by the end as the deluge of long songs lack a strong focus to justify the space. Panopticon is enjoyable enough, to be sure, and it’s fun to see where things began and pick up on nuggets of ideas that would later be expanded upon, but none of the songs truly compel me to return to Panopticon.

#8: Roads to the North (2014). I feel like I’m obliged to like this album more given its place as the second of a trilogy between Kentucky and Autumn Eternal (neither of which are present on this end of the list), but that relationship and inevitable comparison do the album absolutely zero favors. Roads to the North is an undeniably pretty album, being graced with crisp production and having been released after Panopticon really nailed their soundscape in Kentucky, and by virtue alone it is a pleasant journey to take. “The Long Road Pt. 3 (The Sigh of Summer)” in particular is a shimmering haze of post-y noodling that is a delightful space to inhabit. But on the whole, not unlike …on the Subject of Mortality, Roads to the North just feels forgettable, ephemeral. Its evocation of its naturalist themes feels less impactful than the stellar albums on either side of it, and besides a riff here or a folksy jaunt there, not enough material within Roads to the North compels much emotion or demands my attention. Nothing truly offends, and scant little dazzles. But it is nevertheless a beautiful-sounding album.

#7: The Scars of Man on the Once Nameless Wilderness, Pt. 1 & 2 (2018). This was easily the most difficult album to rank. I absolutely adore this album on a conceptual level, as it features some of the band’s most aggressively environmental theming that ought to pair beautifully with the Panopticon soundscape. In particular, a B-Side of primarily Americana/folk music should be a slam dunk after what we’ve heard Panopticon do before, but overall, there’s a sense of wasted potential. There is a lot to enjoy throughout the two-hour Scars of Man. While the heavier A-Side isn’t the most memorable of Panopticon’s work, there are some decent moments in “Blåtimen” and “Sheep in Wolves Clothing,” and the closer “Snow Burdened Branches” genuinely might be my favorite Panopticon song. The B-Side does start strong with the beautiful, post-heavy “The Moss Beneath the Snow” and the folksy “The Wandering Ghost,” but ultimately the B-Side lacks variety and suffers from poor pacing as a result. It is very pretty Americana, as always, but it begins to feel dry and meandering by the time it ends. As a whole, Scars of Man has enough strong points (and one of Panopticon’s best songs) to not place lower, but there are a few too many cracks scattered across the surface to keep it in these lower rungs of the ranking.

#6: Collapse (2009). And now we’ve hit the first album in the ranking where I can say that I just like it with practically zero qualifiers. Panopticon’s sophomore album is less dynamic and far blunter than what came directly before and after it, but it finds a singular and engaging focus on sustained aggression across its few, lengthy tracks. The use of sampling and voice recordings is also tastefully done, jamming most of it in the beginning of “The Death of Baldr and the Coming War,” with a cacophony of politically charged adverts about the Bush administration leading right into some filthy black metal. Indeed, Collapse is a particularly nasty cut of black metal within Panopticon’s discography, not quite yet striking the balance between light and dark tangible in latter-Panopticon. Funnily enough Collapse is also the first time we hear some good ol’ Americana, which is always welcome! The raw, nastier emotional tone of Collapse would be explored with a little more richness in Social Disservices two years later, but I really like the blunt nature of Collapse and its oppressive, absolute sonic discord. Even with only four long tracks that don’t cover all that much ground, Collapse does a hell of a lot with what it has, making for an impactful and enjoyable album.

#5: …and Again into the Light (2021). I’ve poked and prodded at this list ad nauseum, and now that I’m gazing at it from a bird’s-eye view, it genuinely blows my mind that this album ranks only at #5. …and Again into the Light is an absolute beast of an album. While not as suffocatingly dense as Social Disservices or Rime of Memory, in my mind I tend to classify …and Again as Panopticon’s heaviest album. This is Panopticon at their most vulnerable and exposed, as the music evokes a consistent and desperate outcry of feeling. The brutal beatdown of “Moth Eaten Soul” or the visceral climax of “Know Hope” conjure such moving heaviness that lingers across the whole album, which is made all the more powerful in its contrast with the long passages of a somber, folksy atmosphere. This heaviness in conjunction with such sweet sorrow make “Dead Loons” and “The Embers at Dawn” some of Panopticon’s best. …and Again into the Light is maturely and honestly written, a perfect window into the heart of what is so special about the music of Panopticon. The only reason it doesn’t rank higher is because the following albums appeal more to my own specific and inscrutable tastes. That an album like this is at #5 is a testament to how goddamn good Panopticon is, frankly.

#4: Social Disservices (2011). My first listen to Social Disservices was a confused one, because it stands out with its distinct theming. It’s no less emotionally intense than your usual Panopticon, but the tone paints a picture that is more urban than naturalist. Less the wintry chill and more the rough indifference of brutalist concrete, like the industrial sounding drums over buzzing guitars in “Subject.” It drips with malice, eschewing melancholy for dissonant violence in the harsh screeches of infants in “Client.” Yes, my first listen was confused, but every subsequent listen has sunk the hooks in deeper. It’s an uncompromising aural assault of heavy riffs that wouldn’t be (almost) matched until …and Again into the Light, rounded out with the usual undercurrents of beauty. Social Disservices is well-written in a way that makes the most out of this uncharacteristically sadistic atmosphere, offering barely enough room to breathe amidst the tide of brutal riffs. It’s an extremely intense and absorbing album that is unquestionably Panopticon, but a Panopticon quite unlike anything before, and mostly since.

#3: Kentucky (2012). This is basically the Panopticon record. Everything about the Panopticon sound crystallized in Kentucky, from its strong environmental theming conveyed through ancient voice recordings, the lively yet somber Americana work-songs bookending the heavy tracks, and beautiful but crushing post-black metal. Like many people, I imagine, this was my gateway to Panopticon, and it’s a wonderful album. The tragic narrative undercurrent of the injustices suffered by American coal miners is one of the most cohesive and effective narratives Panopticon has crafted. “Bodies Under the Falls” and “Black Soot and Red Blood” are dynamic epics, weaving black metal beautifully with the Americana passages, both within the tracks themselves and without. Kentucky is all just so painstakingly constructed with every element effortlessly balanced against each other. To this day, when I get a craving for Americana or bluegrass, I throw on “Come All Ye Coal Miners.” It’s at number three for me just because I’ve always felt the pacing dips a smidge through the decision to end Kentucky on the concurrent slow tracks “Black Waters” and “Kentucky,” but it’s a non-issue in the grand scheme. Kentucky is iconic, and always will be.

#2: Rime of Memory (2023). I purchased this album directly before my first trip to Austria, in December 2023. As my fiancé and I drove through the Austrian Alps from Salzburg to Zell Am See, we listened to Rime of Memory as night descended. The snowy mountainsides were streaked with shades of blackened blue as “Winter’s Ghost” traversed its steel-string crescendo, encroached upon by the jagged shadows of the pines as the guitars shift to blistering aggression; put simply, it was a fucking transcendent listening experience, and it’s given me the kind of perspective of an album that never quite leaves. Rime of Memory strikes a similarly dense emotional and sonic maximalism that I associate with Social Disservices, with the more robust folksy atmosphere of latter-Panopticon enriching the sound. Rime of Memory is a visceral and nigh-constant blizzard of noise, creating a rich and tactile atmoblack experience supported by some of the strongest material I’ve heard from Panopticon. The somber, languid acoustics that open “Winter’s Ghost,” the raking violins erupting from “Cedar Skeletons,” the crooning lead guitar melody of “Enduring the Snow Drought;” these moments, and more, of aching beauty stand like beacons of blue against the white, alighting the music with feeling. One might argue that Kentucky is the more important album, but this is the one I reach for more eagerly.

#1: Autumn Eternal (2015). This was not an easy choice to make, since Panopticon’s albums are all quite different from one another. They all occupy unique spaces, scratching a different itch with varying levels of efficacy. After agonizing over it, I realized that the unique elements that comprise Autumn Eternal just feel the most, well, right. Some of the sound’s harsher edges have been smoothed out without losing that black metal bite, creating a moving album that feels kinder, more forgiving than it’s counterparts. As a result, a stronger emphasis on melody shines through from the very first moments of “Into the North Woods.” Across Autumn Eternal, this warm melodicism becomes intoxicating, pairing like a fine wine with the album’s diverse array of songs. The riff-heavy “Oaks Ablaze,” the gorgeous escalation of “The Winds Farewell,” even the harsher “Pale Ghosts” and “Sleep to the Sound of Waves Crashing;” no matter the mood, the music radiates warmth and takes on an almost moss-like texture. As alluded to earlier, this is the end of a trilogy, but even without that context, Autumn Eternal wields finality with elegance in the sublime “The Winds Farewell.” It speaks to a powerful album that is both emotionally challenging and accessible. Autumn Eternal is the perfect blend of warm tremolos and windy acoustics, of hopeful melodies and sorrow-tinged atmosphere; it is the apotheosis of Panopticon’s songwriting in conjunction with its themes and soundscape. In other words, to my ears, this is the best version of Panopticon.

AMG Official Ranking

Possible points: 30

#10. On the Subject of Mortality (2010) -5 points

#9. Panopticon (2008) – 8 points

#8. Collapse (2009) -9 points

#7. Social Disservices (2011) – 17 points

#6. Roads to the North (2014) -18 points

#5. The Rime of Memory (2023) -19 points

#4. The Scars of Man on the Once Nameless Wilderness (2018) – 20 points

#3. …And Again into the Light (2020) – 21 points

#2: Autumn Eternal (2015) – 22 points

#1. Kentucky (2012) – 26 points

The Angry Metal Discord Speaks (and for some reason we listen)

#10. The Scars of Man on the Once Nameless Wilderness (2018)

#9. Panopticon (2008)

#8. Social Disservices (2011)

#7. On the Subject of Mortality (2010)

#6. Collapse (2009)

#5.Roads to the North (2014)

#4.The Rime of Memory (2023)

#3. …And Again into the Light (2020)

#2. Kentucky (2012)

#1. Autumn Eternal (2015)

Check out the below for our favourite Panopticon cuts*; as if Panopticon music can really be enjoyed fully in isolated snippets…

* I really really wanted to add “…Speaking…” from Panopticon to this playlist, but the album isn’t on any streaming platform. So I’m putting it here:

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Anyone familiar with Dolven’s prior work will quickly notice In My Grave…Silence sounds a little different. This is thanks to new singer, Jori Apedaile (Eneferens, Hyalithe), and percussionist, Hunter Ginn (Agalloch). Apedaile, who generally shrieks on his one-man black metal projects, sings gentle, plaintive cleans, at odds with the previous vocalist, Henry Lauer, who had a lower tenor and occasionally provided some growls. Ginn makes use of hand drums that bring a light, meditative touch, in addition to drums gently-tapped by stick. Even outside of these two n00bs, In My Grave…Silence has a much more refined and polished sound than prior outings. Main songwriter and guitarist, Nick Wusz (Snares of Sixes), remains Dolven’s heart and soul. He plays a mix of lightly plucked tunes and softly-strummed chords and provides such a soulful touch that it’s as if his guitar itself is crooning. Finally, bassist Jason W. Walton (Agalloch, Sculptured) provides a deeper resonance on his acoustic bass, reminding you of the sorrow residing behind Wusz’s sometimes uplifting, hopeful melodies.

There’s an intimacy to the musical compositions that brings the feeling of sitting around a campfire and watching Dolven play live. The phenomenal production values enhance these qualities.¹ You can clearly hear every note, even the sliding of Wusz’s fingers on the strings. The album is also exceptionally quiet, forcing you to turn it up and pay close attention. This closeness brings a sense of comfort in spite of the otherwise mournful sounds and words. Where electric guitars leave lingering noise with each strum, the acoustic instruments create empty spaces that add to the tranquil melancholy. The tracks on In My Grave…Silence are thoughtful and intentional. The nine-minute “You’ve Chosen,” for example, doesn’t feel a second too long. It mixes a catchy whistling tune, terrific guitar playing, soulful singing, and meditative hand drums to create what will end up being one of the best songs of the year.²

The issue with a 45-minute album filled with acoustic plucks is that the songs start to blend together. Each song has its own distinct melodies, but without other distinguishing features a few of them are tough to differentiate from the pack. The more memorable tracks make use of unique features, such as the whistling on “You’ve Chosen” or the string instrument (likely violin) on “Beside Me.” The instrumentals in particular, are more ephemeral in nature and don’t necessarily stay with you after the record’s over. In My Grave…Silence also gets repetitive, especially on the longer tracks. This is more noticeable with the lyrics, where Apedaile repeats himself a lot. On “Anymore” he sings, “I don’t want to talk about it,” over and over, every other time adding the lyric “anymore.”³ A little bit of editing and trimming could have helped reduce this feeling of repetition.

All that said, In My Grave…Silence is a beautiful listen. It will haunt you with its melodies and plaintive singing, and it will calm you with its lightly-played arrangements. Wusz is a talented musician, and he has made wise choices in who to surround himself with. The long-form compositions he writes are outstanding, and he plays them wonderfully. His songs remind me of classical compositions, and that a record like this gets treated as metal or metal-adjacent says a lot about what makes heavy metal such a diverse musical genre. Across three records, Dolven has made clear improvements, and I have no doubt the next go around will be even better.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 10 | Format Reviewed: 320 kb/s mp3
Label: Winding Stairs Records
Websites: dolven.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/dolven.oregon
Releases Worldwide: June 13th, 2025

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Nechochwen was always more inclined to reach for an acoustic guitar than an electric, but Spelewithiipi takes it a step further. Carey’s multi-tracked acoustic guitars enjoy near total exclusivity, plucking and strumming along like a bolder variation of older (and newer) October Falls. This is something of a double-edged sword—there is little to distract from the graceful guitar melodies, but the emotive burden of proof falling solely upon one instrument can be a challenging songwriting prospect. This may be why similar-minded neofolk albums from Thurnin and Wÿntër Ärvń in recent months opted to diversify with various other folk instrumentation, and Spelewithiipi follows suit, albeit sparingly. Here and there, indigenous drum beats (“Lenawe’owiin,” “Spelewithiipi,” “Primordial Passage”), a full drum kit (“Precipice of Stone”), and a gentle flute (“Lenawe’owiin,” “Spelewithiipi”) provide embellishment. This pared-back instrumentation is an important part of Spelewithiipi’s reverent, intimate nature.

At this point in his career, Carey can wring seemingly every ounce of breadth and depth from his weapon of choice. The acoustic guitar lines, usually appearing in pairs, flow and breathe as they fluctuate in intensity and complexity. Sometimes they’re straightforward, with clear lead and rhythm roles (“Nemacolin’s Path,” “Spelewithiipi”). Elsewhere, Nechochwen weaves multiple distinct melodies together into a more elegant soundscape (“Tpwiiwe,” “Precipice of Stone”). Unsurprisingly, the music is intrinsically bonded with nature, the rain sounds in “Othaškwa’alowethi behme” adding a mystical effect to the stream of twanging guitar notes. The best and most passionate performance lies in “Mthothwathiipi,” which features a gentle, cascading tune that gives way to vigorous fingerpicking laced with percussive slaps. The immense skill on display almost convinces me that Nechochwen might be better off in this unplugged realm.

Almost. Like a phantom limb, I find it impossible not to miss Nechochwen’s black metal side. In my view, their appeal mainly stemmed from the meticulous melding of acoustic folk with metal, not either component taken individually. Therefore, an attempt to decouple them was, perhaps, destined to yield a diminished result. Even setting aside genre preferences, Spelewithiipi lacks much of the structure and focus from when Nechochwen were grounded in black metal conventions. The first half of the record fares better thanks to more developed melodies, whereas the back half feels more barren and aimless (particularly “Primordial Passage”), but nearly every song suffers to some extent from rocky transitions or promising ideas cut short. With fewer musical handholds on Spelewithiipi, the overall songwriting needed to be more coherent and engaging to make up the difference.

Spelewithiipi is not an immediate album; it invites rather than seizes the listener’s attention. Accordingly, fans of Nechochwen’s recent work will likely need to manage expectations and exercise patience. As I spent time with it and let go of what I wanted to hear from Nechochwen, I gained greater appreciation of what they created. Aaron Carey plays heartfelt, stirring acoustic guitar lines the likes of which I’ve never heard before, and I’m in awe of his instrumental mastery. Yet, even the best guitarwork on Spelewithiipi is not quite as captivating as that of Heart of Akamon or Kanawha Black. This, plus the relinquishment of metal influence and its short 31-minute runtime, make it hard to see Spelewithiipi as a complete Nechochwen record. But, even so, this is still a pleasant walk through the woods worth taking.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 13 | Format Reviewed: 192 kbps mp3
Label: Nordvis Produktion
Websites: nechochwen-nordvis.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/nechochwen
Releases Worldwide: May 9th, 2025

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Alukta is a Belgian/French duo consisting of the renowned Déhà, whose long list of quality projects goes without saying,¹ and Marie of Brouillard and 1927 – both of whom are also sole members of atmoblack band Transcending Rites. The act formidably utilizes Déhà’s history of doom, whose weight is derived from emotive progressions, as well as Marie’s knack for hypnotic blackened passages converging in a graceful expression of grief and devastation. Debut Merok takes influence after the Torajan people of Indonesia, particularly their funeral rites: from the placement of mummified bodies among everyday routines, elaborate and lengthy rituals to ensure their safe and gradual passage to the afterlife Puya, to the mass machete slaughter of water buffalo, pigs, and chickens as gifts to the dead on their journey. While Merok lacks the teeth you typically think of in doom-inflected black metal, Alukta’s melodic signature and sonic representations of grief and devastation warrant a look.

First and foremost, Alukta feels remarkably respectful in its debut. Guided by sustained guitar melodies and raw production anchored by thunderous dirge-like doom percussion, it feels ritualistic without feeling unnecessarily sinister. The Torajan people’s relationship with death is complex, an expression of crippling grief and uproarious celebration in equal measure, and Merok succeeds in capturing this in a sound that feels nearly gentle in its rendezvous. Déhà and Marie both lend their harsh vocals and cleans, and the tremolo is unmistakably influenced by second-wave, but that melody and a heavy dosage of ritualistic elements in chanting and pulsing percussion add dimension and complexity that represent it well. That’s not to say that there aren’t moments of fury or darkened progressions, but Alukta ensures balance and restraint. From explosive crescendos building ritualistic elements (“Matampu’,” “Kombengi”) to heart-wrenching melodies (“Lassez enter ceux qui pleurent,” “Des Teintes d’éternité”) and the more ominous and haunting leads that sway between yearning and furious (“Aluk To Dolo,” “Exuvia”), the album is purposefully written and gracefully executed.

While it is very much the point of the album, Alukta lacks the teeth that give doom its impact or black metal its rawness. You will find few riffs within Merok’s particular ritual, and the “heavier” passages owe their weight to more minor chord progressions and diminished leads, and that can drag over the album’s relatively short runtime. Those looking for the next Death. Void. Terror. or The Ruins of Beverast, will be disappointed in the relatively toothless sound, but may be swayed by the shifted focus – the gravity is implied through the emotion it invokes rather than the riffs Alukta offers. Its multilayered attack makes its sound mammoth in overlapping ritualistic chanting or vocals and drums, but aside from the thundering snare, the weight is not a metallic one, recalling more so the likes of Ianai or Heilung.

While Alukta does not meet expectations for your latest trek to scream into the abyss, that does not necessarily mean it’s not worth your time. Merok is evocative and devastating in its own way without utilizing black’s rawness nor doom’s weight to communicate ritual and grief, relying on yearning melodies and chord progressions instead. For those expecting to be slaughtered like water buffalo in the traditional trademarks of the genre hallmarks, look elsewhere. However, suppose you’re intrigued by the prospects of a beautiful and gentle expression of devastation and pain in another culture’s complex relationship with death, through Déhà and Marie’s patient songwriting and performances. In that case, Merok holds treasure abound – for this life and maybe the next.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kb/s mp3
Label: Transcendance
Websites: Too kvlt for webz
Releases Worldwide: May 2nd, 2025

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Ok, that was misleading. As far as I know, Thurnin makes no use of lutes on Harmr. Instead, the majority of the work is done by Timmer’s acoustic guitars, adorned by other strings, including violins, and occasional pipes. The guitars are multi-tracked and densely layered, meaning that, despite being both instrumental (a few background vocal effects, like on “Arcturus,” aside) and largely percussion-free (save for “Heortece” and a few moments of “Eitr”), there are multiple layers to this tapestry. Whether one interprets Harmr as depicting sorrow or grief will, I suspect, come down to your own individual perception of those two words. For me, I lean more to the former. The soundscapes conjured on the album feel forlorn and melancholy, imbued with a sense of longing, but not the despair, desperation or hopelessness that I associate with grief.

As Harmr progresses, Thurnin confidently crafts and maintains the mood, its sombre tones resonating across the album’s full 42-minute run. There is something about it that reminds me of an accordion. Not in the sound—no accordions were Harmred, or used, in the making of this album—but in the breathy quality of the music. It almost feels like, track to track, the record in- and exhales, just as the air flows into an accordion, before being slowly expelled again. Perhaps breathing would be a better metaphor because Harmr feels very organic in its flow. The delicate, relatively stripped back notes of “Fylgja” or closer “Folkvangr” are at once notably different in mood from, but clearly belong alongside, the more urgent and insistent refrain of “Heortece” and the backend of “Eitr,” which feature the only percussion (it sounds like it’s probably a handheld drum along the lines of a bhodran) on the album.

Thurnin’s overall approach is perhaps best described as dreamlike. Harmr seems to slowly wander, weaving between moods and pacing, without ever breaking the spell. For me, however, this is both the charm and Achilles heel of this album, and indeed Thurnin’s prior releases. For all its richness of sound and compositional consistency, it also lacks differentiation. The absence of vocals and very limited use of percussion means that the album is crafted using a fairly limited palette, compared to the likes of Wardruna. Moreover, although there are changes in pacing (compare, for example, “Heortece” and “Fylgja”), these are relative, within the spectrum of what Thurnin does. That said, the production here is worthy of a callout, as Harmr sounds phenomenal. Although albums like this, without the backbone of drums, often seem to return high DR scores, the 11 here feels right. Its component parts breathe and sway like the wind-in-the-grass vibes that open “Folkvangr,” feeling rich enough to almost touch.

Harmr is one of those albums where I wish we didn’t give out scores or ratings. Whatever I choose will feel wrong, and mileage will likely vary significantly. On the one hand, Thurnin’s forlorn dark folk is expertly crafted and executed, but on the other, it also feels a bit limited in scope. I find myself largely unable to recall individual moments, left instead with the overall sense and mood evoked by the album, but without any details. Above, I likened Harmr to a dream, and perhaps that intangibility is the epitome of this. Either way, I don’t see myself returning to this album often because, I suspect, its virtues will fade quickly. However, if I find myself listening to it, I will no doubt be borne away again, as I was the first time round.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: 11 | Format Reviewed: 320 kb/s mp3
Label: Auerbach Tonträger
Websites: thurnin.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/ThurninFolk
Releases Worldwide: March 14th, 2025

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One of the most amazing things about Forndom’s music is how effectively it transports the listener. All of the above emotions vanished within seconds of “Tunridor” beginning, and by the time it was halfway through I’m not even sure I was in the twenty-first century anymore. Truly, the songwriting on Moþir is phenomenal; slow orchestral passages, performed by the Uppsala Temple Orchestra, build to aching heights, bringing the listener to warm wintry sunrises and faraway fields. Swärd’s singing acts as a guide, friend, and storyteller in an unknown time, with choral accompaniment from Janne Posti and Gullan Swärd. Often at the helm, Thomas von Wachenfeldt (Bards of Skaði) performs incredible leads on his violin, his emotional tremolandos and measured pizzicatos soaring atop the ancient folk harmonies. The result is both acoustic and orchestral, authentic and polished, and highly effective.

As was the case with Faþir, Moþir excels through emotional melodies and harmonies rooted in a deep respect for the history, mythology, and tradition of Swärd’s native Sweden. From the very first track this is on full display; “Tunridor” is slow to start; ritualistic chants and rhythmic percussion lull the listener into a sense of peace. Then a scream (Disa Åman) emerges from the distance and a gorgeous, reverent melody takes the song in a completely new direction. “Moderstårar” is written like a power ballad, beginning with quiet singing atop pizzicato strings and slowly, slowly building on that theme to an emotional crescendo over seven minutes that fly by. “Jord” is one of the two instrumentals, and even these are effective, despite the absence of Swärd’s emotional delivery; such is the strength of the songwriting and the impassioned playing by every involved musician.

Moþir is unmistakably a folk album, but the inclusion of von Wachenfeldt and the Uppsala Temple Orchestra overtakes a lot of the traditional acoustic stylings of past Forndom releases. The result is an album that toes the line between cinematic orchestral music and dark, ritualistic folk. As I mentioned earlier, it is entirely acoustic, but the orchestra blurs that line a bit. “Den kärlek s om vi gav,” the album closer and, in my view, the best song, is a great example both of the balance needed and the way Swärd approaches it. It is a cinematic journey that builds and builds, with a memorable and evocative chorus wherein the layers of strings, chorus, singing, and lead violin are haunting. Just as you think the song is about to end, the violin returns with a solo, transitioning the song to its orchestral conclusion. It’s a fine balance, but Forndom does it well, and I appreciate the direction. It helps that the production, by Swärd, and mastering, from Tore Stjerna, offer warmth and balance to the music, allowing each instrument to shine and contributing to an accessible whole.

Moþir is a powerful album. It is a feat of storytelling and an amazing expression of culture, history, and tradition. Forndom is the kind of project that you can put on for thematic, intriguing background noise—but the more you listen and pay attention, the more lost you become in the details, the more swept away you are by the evocative, cathartic melodies. Moþir is an album that attempts to defy time. I can’t seem to stop listening to it because it succeeds.

Rating: 4.0/5.0
DR: 9 | Format Reviewed: 320 kb/s mp3
Label: Nordvis Produktion
Websites: forndom.bandcamp.com | forndom.com | facebook.com/Forndom
Releases Worldwide: December 6th, 2024

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