Crafting delicate atmospheres remains Tuesday the Sky’s bread and butter. Taking notes from Sigur Rós and Brian Eno alike, Indoor Enthusiast drifts between moods and genres. On the minimalistic end of the spectrum, dreamy and introspective electronica tracks like “Zugzwang” and “The Last Lonely Lamppost” act as the base sound for the album. Drums and guitars provide additional instrumentation as counterbalance in both accentuating and maximalist ways, occasionally entering familiar metal territory (“The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You,” “Set Fire to the Stars”). While Matheos experimented with things like this alongside Kevin Moore in OSI, the material on Indoor Enthusiast is generally more low-key than OSI’s most somber moments. And sans vocals, the onus is even more on the songwriting to prove the album’s worth.

Indoor Enthusiast takes much better advantage of layers and texture than prior works. Drift kept its loadout of strange but exciting ideas separate, and most of The Blurred Horizon stuck to a quiet, minimalistic gloom. In contrast, Indoor Enthusiast fuses its elements together more often in both subtle and unsubtle ways. This leads to a stronger active experience while still making sense album flow-wise. Improved composition allows some of the quieter material to shine and pop (“Get Lost,” “Between Wind and Water”), and “Does It Need to Be So Loud?” even brings back the electronic alt-rock gloom of Disconnected. Deep build-ups lead to satisfying crescendos, with “Set Fire to the Stars” using the record’s full arsenal to make a case for the strongest Tuesday the Sky song yet. Not all of the record’s quirks land equally well. For instance, some of the glitchier effects used (“The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You,” “Memento Mori”) are distracting and take away from the album’s introspective vibe. But overall, Indoor Enthusiast’s songs have both the variety and quality to be distinct and interesting.

The instrumentation of Tuesday the Sky sounds as crisp as ever, a quality expected of Matheos. The rock instruments sound excellent, accentuating the wide variety of electronic effects at the core of the album. The album’s elements combine naturally and have plenty of room to breathe. Though wonderfully produced, it does feel like there is too much downtime between Indoor Enthusiast’s highlights. Matheos’ greatest strength is undoubtedly his tasteful and subtly complex guitar wizardry, and sometimes the nature of a project like Tuesday the Sky gets in the way of that strength—the back-to-back of twins “Ghost Train” and “Zugzwang” slowing down momentum early on. The second half of the album, fortunately, avoids the “background music” pitfall. While I do feel like the album still leaves something on the table, its strong highlights make the record a pleasant experience front to back.

Though wandering slightly off course at times, Indoor Enthusiast is the most cohesive Tuesday the Sky record yet. Its individual ingredients of rock, metal, and ambient electronic mix together better than before, with memorable dynamic shifts keeping things going. Compared to last year’s North Sea Echoes debut, Matheos has certainly improved the minimalistic experimental side of his songwriting; the album as a whole feels like it develops towards something. I do still think he can do even better, but he is making it work. I don’t know what direction Tuesday the Sky will go to next—if any—but Indoor Enthusiast gives this side of Matheos a fresh and solid foundation.

Rating: Good!
DR: 9 | Format Reviewed: 256 kbps mp3
Label: Metal Blade Records
Websites: tuesdaythesky.bandcamp.com | tuesdaythesky.com | facebook.com/TuesdaytheSky
Releases Worldwide: October 24th, 2025

The post Tuesday the Sky – Indoor Enthusiast Review appeared first on Angry Metal Guy.

Though third outing Destroying Ourselves for a Place in the Sun unites sludge and dance, it wasn’t always so, as Modder has evolved with each release. On their self-titled debut, Modder trod the well-worn doom path with low-end crunch and abundant fuzz, recalling Sleep and Electric Wizard. Sophomore album The Great Liberation Through Hearing injected quicker paces and subdued attitudes, delivering a rich variety of textures that plays like Inter Arma sans vocals. Destroying Ourselves for a Place in the Sun continues the evolution of Modder’s sound, this time embracing dance-ready pulses and electronic trappings that occasionally approach Fear Factory’s Remanufacture (“Chaoism”). It’s a direction hinted at on The Great Liberation Through Hearing, but here Modder triumphs in fully fleshing it out.

On Destroying Ourselves for a Place in the Sun, Modder succeeds in evoking an assortment of influences while maintaining the band’s distinct identity. From the Korn-fed intro of “Stone Eternal” to the Gojira-glazed grooves of “In the Sun,” the album packs a broad range of sounds into its forty-two minutes. Each one of the album’s six tracks brings unerringly heavy riffs. “Mather” begins with a Prodigy-induced flourish, then drops into a disgustingly dense lurch that shakes the room like a herd of mammoths tromping past. Guitars, bass, and electronics weave an intricate tapestry, with melodies and countermelodies coalescing into grooves thicker than a bowl of oatmeal (“Stone Eternal,” “Mutant Body Double”). The drumming flits and hammers, with actual and programmed drums enabling quick shifts between sludge and breakbeat (“Chaoism”). This five-piece flaunts chops, and they pack them into an easily digestible package.

Even if Modder’s latest is a barrel of fun, its imperfections hold it back from greener pastures. For starters, the mix is distractingly crowded. I suspect the goal was to create a concussive bombshell that rattles listeners to the core. While effective on that front, there are times when the sludgy crunch warps into over-compressed artifacts (“Stone Eternal,” “Mather”). This may be a challenge with the merger of styles, where the electronic elements don’t require the auditory depth needed to express the timbre of acoustic drums or bass. Instead, the music gets rammed through the aural equivalent of Fat Man’s Squeeze, coming out the other side flat and jarring. Another issue with Destroying Ourselves for a Place in the Sun is immediacy. Both sludge and dance emanate a hypnotic sheen onto their styles, whether through towering, droning riffs or persistent electro-throbs. This makes great music for focusing on other tasks, but rarely did I stay engaged for an entire listen. If the goal is to surpass the novelty of instrumental electrosludge, something more is needed. As it is, Modder has strung together fun moments without enough cohesion. If you remove one of the songs or reorder them, the end result doesn’t change substantially, indicating that the whole is no greater than the sum of its parts.

Destroying Ourselves for a Place in the Sun is a study in cross-genre pollination that bears fruit worth sampling, but won’t sustain you for long. I really like the idea of what Modder has concocted, but the album would have benefited from further refinement. A more dynamic mix would immediately boost listenability, and upping their songwriting game could help push their brand of electrosludge past the point of novelty and into territory with more active engagement and longevity. Modder oozes potential, but there’s ultimately not enough on Destroying Ourselves for a Place in the Sun to keep me coming back.

Rating: Mixed
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kpbs mp3
Label: Consouling Sounds / Lay Bare Recordings
Websites: Bandcamp | Facebook
Releases Worldwide: October 3rd, 2025

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-ii- is not a metal band. They play what they seem to call “ghost wave,” which sits somewhere between post-rock, goth, darkwave, trip-hop, and industrial, at times recalling HEALTH or Nine Inch Nails. If this sounds fairly electronics-heavy, it is. But on Apostles of the Flesh, -ii- eschews the drum machines and some other electronics of their debut in favor of live instrumentation, and it’s a resounding success. With l’Huillier’s lively drumming and Racine’s unique instruments,² Apostles of the Flesh feels alive. This organic improvement over Extinction would be nothing to write home about, however, without the impressive songcraft Racine showcases here. Whether it’s a distorted, electronic bridge amidst tribal yet airy instrumentals (“Lotis”), impactful usage of audio effects (“Pearls Beneath the Embers,” “Virginia’s Mirror”), or shimmering synths draped over wistful strings (“The Fountain of Helicon”), everything fits together and flows effortlessly. Of particular note is “When Beauty is a Crime,” where -ii- mirrors its lyrical violence with a tense and uncomfortable atmosphere that refuses to let the listener move on. Apostles of the Flesh is intentional. It’s meticulously crafted. And metal or not, -ii- undoubtedly possesses the Metal Spirit™.

Two elements in particular drive this album’s high caliber: Ruzic’s vocals and l’Huillier’s drums. By turns conflicted (“The Birth of Venus”), seductive (“Sisyphus in Red”), defiant (“Where the Diamonds are Hurled”), and spiteful (“Under the Skin”), Ruzic guides the listener through an examination of the body and its inextricable link to the spirit. Lyrically, she’s transgressive like Ethel Cain or GGGOLDDD, but less direct. Her delivery hies closer to Chelsea Wolfe or Darkher, although -ii- fosters a greater sense of rhythmic urgency. This is largely accomplished by l’Huillier’s standout performance, both carnal and tribal. Hammering at his kit with artful brutality, l’Huillier drives ritualistic numbers (“Sisters of the Coven,” “Digging for Blood”), stricken passages (“Under the Skin,” “When Beauty is a Crime”), and enraptured crescendos (“The Birth of Venus”) with the same skilled hand. The spiraling climax of “The Fountain of Helicon” is a high point, as l’Huillier recklessly hurtles the listener toward the fabled spring. L’Huillier brings an intensity to Apostles of the Flesh that, combined with Ruzic’s provocative and emotive singing, cements this album not just as a collection of good songs, but as an intense, ritualistic experience.

Not only is Racine responsible for the musical arrangements, but he also handles much of the production. The mix is big and spacious, and each instrument gets plenty of room to flourish. Even in the most chaotic moments of Apostles of the Flesh, when drums, vocals, strings, or synths rise to a fever pitch, each element is clear and vibrant (“The Birth of Venus,” “Lotis,” “The Fountain of Helicon”). His use of the soundstage is equally impressive, and because of this, Apostles of the Flesh excels in a pair of headphones over a speaker system. Quivering strings and ethereal synths dynamically float through the space, creating a lost, forlorn sensation on “When Beauty is a Crime” and “Virginia’s Mirror.” Ruzic sounds so close and so private amid the waves and rainfall of spoken word piece “L’Onde et l’Abysse,” it’s as if she speaks to the listener alone.

Apostles of the Flesh is not an album to play in the background, and it’s not for everyone. It demands both your attention and an emotional investment to shine, but shine it does. Some might balk at a 65-minute runtime or note that several songs go on long after Ruzic is done singing. I consider it a testament to Racine’s compositional prowess that these longer outros feel valuable and that the album holds my attention front to back. Apostles of the Flesh is passionate, vulnerable, and cathartic. For those willing to commit, -ii- offers an intense, surreal journey you won’t soon forget.

Rating: 4.0/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: PCM
Label: Self-Released
Websites: Bandcamp | Facebook | Instagram | Youtube
Releases Worldwide: October 3rd, 2025

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Genre is a funny thing. Calva Louise will almost certainly be called “Crossover.” Their sound is a combination of elements that, if I read each one individually, would make me cringe or shrug my shoulders. Seen grouped on the page, I might ask, “How would that even work?” What I wouldn’t expect is an album that excites me. The kind of excitement that drives one to spin the record again immediately. The kind of excitement that leads to sharing the record with anyone who will listen and lengthy discussions of the details of whether someone else noticed the Fleshgod Apocalypse piano arpeggios in track four.¹ But Edge of the Abyss is a rare record that manages to feel wild, unpredictable, and yet addictive—evocative—all at once. And while it’s apparently a concept album, the real story that I’m following is the one told in the songs that add up to something greater than the sum of their parts.

The strength of Edge of the Abyss lies in its fusions, and I mean that in every sense. Calva Louise doesn’t blend styles; they smash them together. “Tunnel Vision” rips open the record with a sugar-rush hook, bouncing within three minutes from pop-chorus to dubstep drop to metallic groove. “W.T.F.” is exactly that: frenetic, agitated, and punky. “Aimless,” the album’s first single, is a real highlight, threading unpredictable melodies, classical piano runs, and crunchy metal riffage into something that feels like “Justice for Saint Marie” (Diablo Swing Orchestra) but with a dembow beat.² Each song can be emphasized for such moments: “Hate in Me” swaps between Katatonia and Kate Bush without skipping a beat; “Under the Skin” gives Lacuna Coil while “Barely a Response” blends 3/Coheed and Cambria and Muse to create something that just vibes right—blending proggy post-punk with The Fall of Hearts.

The balancing act is accomplished by Edge of the Abyss being extremely well-composed. These songs, while poppy—slick, catchy, memorable—aren’t glued together Frankenpop. Instead, they’re meticulously assembled homunculi, each with its own little soul.³ There’s a sense throughout the first half of this record that you’re listening to something much more thoughtful than its surface chaos might suggest. I might be imagining things, but this is where frontwoman and primary composer Jess Allanic’s background in composition seems to play a major role. The fact that Calva Louise can evoke so many different bands, sounds, and seamlessly traverse genre boundaries in seconds—from harmonized vocals over Latin folk beats to crunchy groove to house in moments (“El Umbral”)—without seeming scattered speaks to a deep understanding of music.⁴

You can feel that deep understanding of music in Edge of the Abyss’s most daring material: its multilingual, rhythmically tangled, and emotionally exposed core. “Lo Que Vale,” which may be my favorite song, strips things back enough to let Allanic’s small-but-commanding voice—reminiscent of Catalina García (Monsieur Periné)—to shine. “Impeccable” evokes The Kovenant’s “New World Order” before erupting into harmonized guitar leads and New Wave vibes. These are songs with giant choruses, and while Allanic has a remarkable presence and extremely deft melodic sense, she never dominates the mix. Whether screaming, speaking, or singing, her voice is expertly integrated, capable of balancing Kate Bush and Jonas Renkse depending on where she is in a song (“Hate in Me”), with harmonic sensibilities that bring me back to 3’s The End Is Begun. Her presence does for Calva Louise what Serj Tankian did for System of a Down or Trim for King Goat. But unlike the aforementioned vocalists, she’s playing guitar, piano, and writing songs.

Edge of the Abyss is not perfect, however. First, the record’s energy flags a bit in the back half, where “The Abyss” pulls its punches and “Under the Skin” leans too hard on its mid-tempo groove. Nothing here fails, but the band’s frenetic, genre-defying dynamism seems more concentrated in the first six tracks. Still, even at its weakest, Edge of the Abyss brims with detail—piano breaks, synth arpeggios, key changes—that keep it from feeling inert. And repeated listens have only deepened my appreciation for these later tracks. If the front half is where Calva Louise erupts, the back half is where the ash is beginning to fall. Second, while there is supposedly a concept here, I have no idea what it is. In the tradition of Coheed & Cambria, who famously have a massive story but lyrics that read like “girl doesn’t like boy and boy gets mad about it,” a lot of this just reads as angst.

Some records sound big, and some records feel big. Edge of the Abyss does both.⁵ It feels big because it has ideas, and it succeeds because it commits to those ideas with zero regard for genre gatekeeping, scene politics, or what guys like me think is cool. It’s weird, catchy, and gleefully sophisticated, with every song bringing something unique to the table. Every arrangement counts. It’s a banger parade, and it’s hard not to feel like it’s also smart as hell. Is it perfect? No. But it’s addictive, it’s fun, and it’s going to be the most controversial Record o’ the Month since Gazpacho.

Rating: Great!
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kb/s CBR MP3
Label: Mascot Records
Websites: calvalouise.com | calvalouise.bandcamp.com
Release Date: July 11th, 2025

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From the first notes of intro “Déistin,” with pulsing electronica and deep, thrumming guitars, it’s clear that Níl mo chroí in aon rud is going to be a different record from its predecessor. And so it proves. Fós has focused not just on song structure but also album structure this time, with an overall flow to the music that strives to match the rise and fall of ní Cholmáin’s voice, which soars and dips and twists. Deftly combining everything from post-doom (“Bádaí na Scadán”) and rumbling drone-adjacent noise (“Táim i mo shuí”) to stripped-back neo-folk (“Molly na gCuach Ní Chuilleanáin”), Níl mo chroí in aon rud is a far more accomplished record than Rinne mé iarraidh. This sense is helped by the fact that ní Cholmáin’s voice is ever so slightly deeper and less ethereal (though no less beautiful) than her predecessor’s. Imbued with a rich silkiness, it somehow blends better with the music than Cadden Patel’s did.

The objective Fós set itself of blending traditional Irish folk singing, with a diverse array of almost-metal styles, was no small task. Yet it is one they have come close to achieving on Níl mo chroí in aon rud. Despite the heavy use of throbbing electronica and thudding percussion, there is a somber beauty and resonance to much of the material here, that leaves me with a deep sense of longing and loss after each spin. The album makes use of interludes (“Trua” and “Maolaitheach”), in addition to the intro, something I am not usually a fan of. However, in situ, these feel both integral and necessary to the album, with “Maolaitheach” bridging well from the fire-and-shadow neofolk tones of album highlight “Molly na gCuach Ní Chuilleanáin” to the bright, buzzing edges of album closer “An Mhaighdean Mhara.”

The change in singer, coupled with much more focused songwriting, has done wonders for Fós. Where Rinne mé iarraidh meandered, Níl mo chroí in aon rud feels focused and purposeful. Still tight at only 37 minutes, the clearer structures feel as though they were written with the vocals in mind, rather than simply acting as a sonic backdrop to them. That said, not everything works, with the first half of “Slán le Maigh” feeling aimless. Still, as the rumbling, distended chords give way to brighter synth work, which recalls Unreqvited in places, Fós recapture the magic they conjure elsewhere. Similarly, the down-tuned groove that dominates the first third of “Bádaí na Scadán” is a somehow jarring way to kick off the first song proper but they settle into their rhythm and these are really the only musical missteps on the album. Were the production better, Níl mo chroí in aon rud could have threatened the score safety counter. Although undoubtedly a step up from the last outing, feeling denser and more textured than the last album, the mix is off. The drums, in particular, are too far forward and feel over-defined, threatening to swallow the vocals in the record’s heavier moments (back end of “Bádaí na Scadán,” for example).

When I saw that Fós was back with a new album, I was genuinely pleased. Despite having dolled out a meager 2.5 last time, I found them genuinely interesting and packed with potential. After nearly four years, I assumed that was last we would hear of them. The fact that Níl mo chroí in aon rud not only arrived but delivered on the promise is fantastic. Fós have done exactly what I hoped they would, better blending the music with the haunting, poignant vocals (even if delivered by a new singer) and I hope we get more soon. Please don’t let Murray do the cover design again. I’m begging you.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kb/s mp3
Label: Fiadh Productions
Websites: fosmetal.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/fosmetal
Releases Worldwide: January 27th, 2025

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Though incepted as a fuller band effort with the heart of an electronically urgent, less symphonic Nightwish or Epica, Elyose now falls under the primary care of vocalist and composer Justine Daaé. With collaborative assistance from djent veteran Anthony Chognard (ex-Smash Hit Combo), Elyose has shifted from pop heavy metal-rooted hop to a sound more Kemper-fied and modern. But unlike other popular female-voiced acts who sport a melodic focus around extended range rhythms, like Spiritbox or Poppy, Daaé sticks to the power of her full and trained clean timbre, finding vocal play in lush harmonies and playful percussive runs.¹ Maintaining Évidence in almost entirely her native French tongue, Daaé brings both an earnestness and extra depth of pronunciation expression to each passing phrase.² Though Évidence has an undeniable musical catchiness and air of accessibility, its bones remain too personal in aim and adoration for an industrial/alternative past, and too metal in dramatic spirit, to land neatly in a pop lane.

Despite the layers that Daaé peppers into triumphant choruses and textured verse articulations, Chognard maintains a workmanlike framing with riff accompaniment to build rhythmic tension around hypnotic synth lines. On the most electronic leading tracks, Elyose’s warbling hooks grow from subdued fluctuations to whirring guitar squeals to strobe-blaring crescendo with a cinematic scope and effortless swagger (“Mission Lunaire,” “Théogyne 2.0”). And in a manner reminiscent of the smart and slamming groove from the most successful VOLA works, Chognard weaves jagged thumps alongside powerful, character-driven vocal tethers to sink Évidence’s teeth even deeper into the urge to hit the replay button (“Ascension Tracée,” “Immuable,” “Abnégation”). Out of context, bits and pieces of the modern guitar work can feel like patchwork constructs from a mind informed by ’10s djent memories, but in context it maintains a careful balance with Daaé’s unique presence.

That familiarity of riffcraft does hold Elyose from striking harder throughout parts of Évidence, though. It’s less the note-for-note déjà vu of a nasally amp-simulated tapping run or a seven-string Periphery preset note crushing than it is the overall flatness of guitar production that takes away some of the mystique that classic crunchy layer can offer. Again, many of these clips that offend in this way serve as short segues or setups for Daaé to mark with greater lasting power the peaks of each composition. And a few licks that warp and chime alongside intense bridges hold a particularly nostalgic resplendence in their carry (“Étoile Solitaire,” “Ascension Tracée”). But for a couple of tracks that follow patterns on a similar path (namely “Tentatives Échouées” and “Prête au Combat”), the escalating flow that pervades through Évidence can lose its way.

Not all pleasures in life have to be complicated, yet it would be disingenuous to call Évidence simple. While the formula for Évidence hasn’t changed much from Déviante, Elyose continues to perform with an idiosyncratic style rooted in detailed, memorable mic work and addictive, groovy instrumental backing that is hard to put down. There’s no secret to Elyose’s success—every song shoves an undeniable chorus through the trials of verses and bridges and reprisals that fall exactly where they should. But Évidence powers through the complacency of chorus worship with a voice determined to soar. The only feeling that could make the joy of Elyose’s music more rewarding is perseverance, a feeling which Évidence embodies with a glitching and gliding charisma and a catharsis-clenched fist held high.

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: PCM³
Label: Self Release
Websites: elyosemusic.com | facebook.com/elyoseofficial
Releases Worldwide: January 10th, 2025

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One of VOLA’s best qualities is their inventive genre-mashing, absorbing progressive metal, electronic, and djent – to the extent this can be described as its own genre and not just a way of playing guitar – into a cohesive, catchy whole. Although the band has consistently played with these tools, they’ve successfully staved off any accusations of repetition because they developed them across their discography. Inmazes was the striking debut of this sound, while Applause of a Distant Crowd doubled down on each aspect to create a bolder, catchier, and better album. Witness saw a greater drift towards electronica, even featuring some trip-hop verses. Unfortunately, I’m forced to deliver the news that Friend of a Phantom sees the creative wheels spinning in the mud for the first time. It could be described as Witness 2.0 as it tonally and musically feels very similar; the closest of any of their albums.

This would be an acceptable position if their outrageous hooks had been redeployed, but this one is simply less fun and catchy than previous releases. There’s no track here that would obviously join an El Cuervo ‘best of VOLA’ playlist, though “Break My Lying Tongue” is the energetic highlight. Despite the band’s genre-blurring creativity, their real lifeblood was their melodies and grooves. And that blood is thinner here. I look to the opener called “Cannibal” as an example. It plumps for the fat grooves and catchy chorus that we’ve historically heard; no doubt its melodies are solid. An additional layer of harsh vocals lent by In Flames frontman Anders Fridén beef up the chorus and second verse. But among the big dual vocal performance and grooving lead, it’s actually the crisp drum rhythms that catch my attention. This isn’t a strength for a band like VOLA because I want the guitar, vocals and/or keyboard melodies to be the focal point. If I’m most engrossed by the drums then that tells me that I’m insufficiently engrossed by the bold instruments that should be engrossing me.

I’ve mentioned “Cannibal” and “Break My Lying Tongue” as two tracks that aren’t the best in their discography, but they’re at least energetic and easy to enjoy. But the run of tracks after this, from “We Will Not Disband” to “Bleed Out,” all open quietly, resulting in a languid, faltering pace across the first half of the record. While two of these tracks ultimately speed up with faster material, their chorus melodies are only okay and don’t really justify the time it takes to get to them. There are some tracks here that just aren’t particularly exciting and “Bleed Out” feels worse because it’s not particularly exciting for over six minutes. Likewise, the closing few tracks do little that isn’t done better elsewhere on the record, ending things on a limp note. Even if I get more from the beginning of the album, the weakness of the ending means I’m not compelled to hit replay when I get to the end. I’m usually excited and engaged listening to VOLA but this album slips to the background and is easy to skip when I’m choosing what next to listen to.

VOLA’s style is a style that fundamentally works for me; their core sound is fun. I think they’ll struggle to publish an album that I actively don’t like. But Friend of a Phantom is comfortably my least favorite of their work and – unlike prior records – an exceedingly hard sell for metalheads that don’t already enjoy some type of electronic music. To a lesser extent than previously it continues to demonstrate the band’s melodic strengths, but not much here sticks with me once it’s over. ‘Unmemorable’ was not what I wanted or expected for VOLA.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: N/A | Format Reviewed: Stream
Label: Mascot Records
Websites: volaband.com | vola.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/vola
Releases worldwide: November 1st, 2024

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Speaking about writing and recording GREIF, Gagneux said he switched things up. Rather than flying creatively solo, as he has previously, he brought his band fully into the fold because the five guys “basically gave this project seven years of their lives on tour, so it felt odd to be the only one on the albums.” The change this has wrought on Zeal & Ardor’s sound is clear to hear. Many of the black metal influences that made the likes of “Row Row” and “Ship on Fire” (Stranger Fruit) or “Götterdämmerung” (self-titled) are gone, replaced by a greater reliance on electronica (“Go Home My Friend” and “369”), as well as something that sounds suspiciously like radio-friendly post-rock (“Kilonova” and “Solace”). Gagneux’s talent for writing raging, heart-wrenching lyrics remains, as do his beautiful, emotive clean vocals, and venomous, half-spoken snarls.

But they are deployed together with some very different material on GREIF. If this was your first exposure to Zeal & Ardor, you would be forgiven for being somewhat bemused. Both “Sugarcoat” and “Disease” feel like rejected B-sides from Queens of the Stone Age’s Songs for the Deaf sessions, while “une ville vide” sounds inexplicably like a reimagining of the Stranger Things theme.¹ The bright and bouncy first half of “Kilonova” could easily have been penned by the likes of post-indie act Foals, albeit with a darker, gritty note of threat dancing around the edges, while “Thrill” borders on being an Arctic Monkeys track. “Clawing Out” takes the industrial, Nine Inch Nails sound (plus a little late-era Slipknot), which Zeal & Ardor has dabbled in previously, to the next level, and not in a way I enjoyed. On the flip side, the album is bookended with some great cuts. Pretty opener “the Bird, the Lion and the Wildkin” sets a grand stage for “Fend You Off,” which is brimming with frustration, anger, and hurt. So much for the start, closing duo of “Hide in Shade” and “to my ilk” are stunning. The former wouldn’t be out of place on any of their previous albums, seething with a barely controlled rage that boils over into black rasps and blasts in places, it’s energized and vital, while “to my ilk” is a gorgeous, percussion-free lament that tugs at the heartstrings.

To say that GREIF feels disjointed would be a significant understatement. Like the first two Zeal & Ardor full-lengths, there’s some quality material on here (“are you the only one now,” which reintroduces some of the blackened fury, being another one) but it’s hedged about with perplexing writing choices. Having seen Zeal & Ardor live (they were a highlight of 2022’s ArcTanGent festival), I have nothing but praise for Gagneux’s decision to bring his touring band into the writing and recording process. But, perhaps inevitably, GREIF sounds like the record of a band trying to find its voice and experimenting with various possibilities that simply don’t coalesce. Zeal & Ardor has always been experimental but where the self-titled album felt like Gagneux had found a balance between pushing the envelope and writing a (more or less) cohesive record, GREIF takes us back to square one.

I found this review almost as frustrating to write as GREIF is to listen to. It’s categorically Zeal & Ardor but, for a lot of the record, that’s only because of Gagneux’ hugely emotive and distinctive voice (now ably enhanced by the vocal talents of Marc Obrist and Denis Wagner). Change lead vocalist and I would struggle to identify a lot of this material as Zeal & Ardor. Maybe this is the price we need to pay for this enlarged iteration of the band to finetune its creative processes but it’s infuriating, following the riotous success of their last record, to not only find the band reverting to inconsistent type but also abandoning much of what defined it, in the gospel and black metal fusion. Sadly, that uncompromising drive to evolve has compromised GREIF.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: N/A | Format Reviewed: Stream only²
Label: Self-released
Websites: zealandardor.bandcamp.com | zealandardor.com | facebook.com/zealandardor
Releases Worldwide: August 23rd, 2024

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Moiii is quite simply baffling. You don’t know whether to reserve judgment until you feel like you understand it—perhaps accepting you never will—or heap scorn over its fickle irreverence and jarring bizarreness. Each track feels like an experiment, almost a jam apart from the fact it’s been well-mixed and mastered. Common quirks shared between them—flickering, bassy static (“Turtle Legs,” “Scarab of Ra”), pervasive waves of noise (“Tangled Chords,” “Motion Picture”), and a penchant for dissonant combinations of all kinds of sound, as well as generally slow-to-medium tempos—help provide some coherence, but that’s where it ends. Don’t expect closure, catharsis, or completeness in these compositions. Moiii are intent on subverting your expectations in this respect—or at least, they seem to be—as they use individual pieces as microcosms for genre subversion, maintaining their states without evolution, abandoning them, or perhaps even following them through in an expected fashion, just as a little surprise.

As strange as it is, Moiii can be quite charming. I didn’t know I wanted to hear xylophonic chords being played alongside foghorns and sludgy riffs (“Tangled Chords”), but it was great. I also didn’t know how brilliant a groove could be achieved through intense, rhythmic breathing and steel drumming so sharp and tinny it sounds like it’s being played on a set of saucepans (“You Won’t Be Alive To Feel It”). Nor did I expect to be so viscerally affected by the humming, clicking, stalking, and whatever else is going on in “Motion Picture.” Though generally averse to utilizing the pretty side of electronica, in favor of that which makes you feel slightly ill in its constantly crescendoing, dissonant lurchiness (“Turtle Legs,” “Motion Picture”), Moiii make another play out of left field with the suddenly pleasant “Shhhhhhhhhhhhh”² which begins in something akin to synthy shoegaze, played drunk, and eventually transforms into more-or-less straightforward sludge. Moiii create some surprisingly cool sequences with interspersions of bass feedback, guitar, and bubbly, fluttering synths (“Turtle Legs,” “Scarab of Ra”), and injections of wonky rhythm (“Tangled Chords,” “You Won’t Be Alive To Feel It”). And with a runtime that barely scrapes past half an hour, the record works a fun little mini-trip, the perfect length of time needed to indulge your weird side before returning to back-to-back replays of Ulcerate (or whatever else you people are listening to).

And yet, Moiii leaves me very conflicted. While there’s plenty to enjoy, at least in snippets, it’s hard not to see the offerings as unfinished drafts, as though each was a idea sketched out but never filled in. With the exception of “You Wont Be Alive To Feel It,” songs barely maintain enough momentum, enough dynamism to keep you truly invested, which is a shame considering the obvious talent and genuinely interesting fusions on display. “Motion Picture” has bags of potential hidden in its near-cinematic crescendoes of synth and spine-tingling ascending plucks, but Moiii refuse to develop it, and its eight-and-a-half-minutes begin to drag. Overall, the character of the album leaves it in the awkward position of being too odd and too jarring to comfortably act as background music, but not compelling enough to adequately occupy your attention all the way through.

But is Moiii perhaps a genius I fail to recognize? While it’s impossible to say, my gut tells me no. It’s clever when it needs to be, but possibly too clever for its own good, sacrificing substance for an over-commitment to kooky style. If Moiii make more music in future, it’ll be worth checking out, but for now, judge for yourself how far your curiosity can take your taste. You may even find you love it.

Rating: Mixed
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Someoddpilot Records
Websites: Bandcamp | Facebook
Releases Worldwide: August 2nd, 2024

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Sticking with our tradition of reviewing every other Sumac record,³ I am here to help you digest fifth album, The Healer.⁴ This gargantuan record is healing in much the same way a serious car crash, followed by a prolonged and medically-induced coma, is healing. Sumac’s longest outing to date, The Healer is a sprawling affair, as wandering, static-laced noise, introspective warblings and languid, dawdling melodies swirl and eddy around bludgeoning, rough-hewn sludge. This will come as no surprise to fans of Sumac. Their work is an experience, and one you have to allow to wash over you and pull you under. Like the tide coming in, The Healer surrounds and submerges you, before washing you away to distant shores, where it leaves you broken on the rocks. It sets out to explore the parallel experiences of creation and destruction, emphasizing periods of expansion and contraction, corruption and regrowth. Comprising only four “songs,” and clocking in at 76 minutes, Sumac allows this album to breathe.

Opener “World of Light” is already six minutes old before drawn-out electronica, static, and free-form drum fills are joined in the mix by something resembling a riff and Turner’s trademark, sulphuric roar. For over 25 minutes, this first track slides in and out of focus, as sonorous notes are left to hang in the air. Sometimes these fade off into the ether, sometimes they are replaced by a surprisingly clean, melodic note, at others still you slam into an abrupt wall of sludge. In some ways, The Healer is like a more melodic, less unrelentingly bleak, version of Old Man Gloom’s No. It’s the album’s middle two cuts—each just shy of 13 minutes long—that particularly showcase this. “Yellow Dawn” opens to ponderous percussion and rising reverb, which gradually opens up into a bluesy guitar line that recalls, of all things, the opening to Kyuss’ “Whitewater.” Unlike that track, however, which builds into a stoner blues classic, “Yellow Dawn” morphs into a jagged, unrelenting sledgehammer, that slams into you, over and over. “New Rites” has more overtly sludgy overtones from the outset but gradually descends into full-blown chaos and cacophony as it progresses, with Sumac slowly hauling its scattered pieces back together at its conclusion.

The Healer’s closer, “The Stone’s Turn,” is another 25-minute beast, which opens as its counterpart, opener “World of Light”, finished: raw and crushing. More ponderous, contemplative notes and melodies gradually leak back in, before a bass-driven urgency overtakes and the record throws itself toward its close. This album is not an easy listen, but it’s a rewarding one. Not nearly as bleak as it first appears, there are deep seams of silvery melody to be mined here, if you’re willing to smash through the jagged walls of sludge, and sift the electronic slag. Cook’s bass is instrumental in providing something vaguely resembling structure, while Scott Evans’ production is raw and organic, giving Sumac the textures and layers needed for this style to work. At only DR5, however, The Healer is loud, where perhaps just a little more sonic nuance could have been deployed but this is such a minor gripe, it’s hardly worth mentioning.

If you know Sumac, The Healer will do nothing to change your current opinion of them, whatever that may be. If you’re new to Sumac, you’ll know within a few minutes whether you’re up for the ride that they’re offering. Abrasive, spiky, challenging, and curiously beautiful, The Healer’s pulsing, percussive, almost-free-form experimentation is like Isis’ Celestial on a bad acid trip. And I’m all in on this one.

Rating: 4.0/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Thrill Jockey
Websites: sumac.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/sumacband
Releases Worldwide: June 21st, 2024

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