Prog, of course, is known for technical musicianship and songwriting complexity above all else, a reputation well-earned by the early giants of the genre and happily maintained by their progeny ever since. It’s also true that those things have come together too often in gratuitous grandstanding, leading to Prog’s reputation for soulless wankery, also well-earned and happily maintained.

One reaction to Prog’s chronic masturbation problem has been a focus by many more modern bands on atmosphere, texture, and cinematic scope over technical musicianship, still frequently intricate and complex, just not in the spotlight hungry kind of way. The common problem with that style of Prog is that it’s boring as shit.

Montreal’s Karcius navigates the space in between. Founded in 2001 as an instrumental jazz fusion band by four pals, Karcius spent the better part of two decades melding jazz with whatever complementary style best suited a musical idea. Their eclectic prog fusion echoed the sounds of luminaries across the musical spectrum like Return to Forever and Weather Report, Pink FLoyd and Electric Light Orchestra, Ozric Tentacles and Liquid Tension Experiment.

For 2009’s The First Day, Karcius introduced new lead singer and bassist, Sylvain Auclair, and in 2018 they released The Fold, the first of a planned trilogy of albums exploring the complexities of relationships and their underlying emotion and psychology. The Fold and 2022’s follow-up, Grey White Silver Yellow & Gold, are excellent albums that showcase the band’s ability to make complex songs that hold the listener’s attention with creative musical storytelling and without relying on technical flash. Black Soul Sickness is the band’s seventh album overall and the final chapter of the trilogy.

Looking at the cover art, the shift in tone from Grey White Silver Yellow & Gold’s bright and variegated palette to the stark black and white of Black Soul Sickness hints at the musical development within. Each album in the trilogy has been heavier and darker than what came before and Black Soul Sickness continues that trend. Similarly, the lyrics are cryptic and sharp, acknowledging the complexity of human experience in both our vulnerabilities and our tendency to exploit those of others.

Though the turn from instrumental jazz to dark, heavy prog was completed long ago, the structures now more closely modeled after prog rock and metal, the essence of jazz remains, particularly in the drumming, rhythmic interplay, and in the way each player fills the spaces between crafted pieces. The influences now tend toward well known quantities: Genesis by way of Dream Theater, Opeth, Porcupine Tree, and Riverside, Pink Floyd, Marillion and Pain Of Salvation.

But the new listener, however schooled in that class of influences, will surely be ill-prepared for the breadth of pop and R&B inspiration driving Auclair’s vocal melodies, coarse and stout as they can be. It’s not obvious whether he or the band made the conscious decision to pull from the FM radio melody makers of the 80s and 90s, or if he just has that soul, but the end result is supremely inspired vocals that add passionate fire to each song, especially in the choruses.

As if top notch vocals weren’t enough, Auclair is an extraordinary bass player, which is on display from the get-go on “Wallow.” The 13+ minute opener burns a low, slow crescendo from anxious, searching piano and guitar interplay to big riff prog metal of the modern style. It takes a few minutes to get there but the payoff is so sweet. Auclair’s prechorus and chorus are the kind that have you reaching for a lighter you (probably) don’t even carry anymore and he’ll have you headbanging in the bridges. The midsection breaks it all down for a bit of fanfare from Simon L’Espérance on keyboards, but it’s Auclair stealing the show again as he matches L’Espérance’s keys with the bass all the way up front in the mix. It’s very neat.

“Out Of Nothing” is a supreme combination of tension and release within a fairly standard prog metal structure and alt rock melody. The build to the first chorus is amazing, chirping riffs and propulsive beats driving the melody from underneath to such an effective pre-chorus that you might find yourself punching through the ceiling when the chorus hits. Like so many of Karcius’ songs, “Out Of Nothing” does not feature a solo. There is a bridge with a bit of melodic lead but the job of rousing the listener is left entirely to the song proper.

Like all good prog, there’s plenty of extras at work here around and between those killer riffs and powerful vocals. “Darkest Heir” uses keyboards tuned to sound like modulated vocals to emphasize the duality of human desires. “Rise” features guitar that makes it feel a little like the blues, especially in the clean picked bridge, which is a clever way of highlighting the song’s theme of struggle and resilience. “Slow Down Son” is bare bones piano, lo-fi scratchy rhythm, and gentle riffs that, together with a warm and poignant melody, answers the burning question of what it might sound like if Marillion covered a Seal song written by Peter Gabriel in 2026.

“Awakening The Spirit,” opens with a jazzy intro and a vocal performance that highlights the range and agility of Auclair as he moves effortlessly from light, smooth, cleans to gravelly roar and back. It’s a beautiful song that maximizes the power of slow crescendo to its ascendant chorus. And it’s here that Karcius finally offer up some fireworks, beginning with an understated guitar solo, a keyboard solo, brief and low-key, building together from simple to complex and then finally interweaving in a bit of dual soloing, albeit for a relatively short run.

At 45 minutes for 7 songs, Black Soul Sickness is an efficient album, especially after the long opener. That’s important because it seems to be consistent with the band’s aim of prioritizing the feel of the songs and their lyrics. There are virtually no instrumental acrobatic tête-à-têtes in the way of the old school. At the same time, these songs are made up of so much more than just emotive sounds and layered textures. Rather, the intricacies at work are crafted in service of the themes. While that means opportunities for showing off are dismissed in favor of musical devices that support the themes, the flashiness isn’t likely to be missed except when one is actively looking for those things. Deep listening, on the other hand, with lyrics and mindful attention, will surely be rewarded deeply by an album that speaks to the heart, because it comes from the heart.

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In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that I’ve always found the concept of the split to be flawed. It works best when there’s a shared theme or the band’s involved cover each other’s songs, but when it’s just one band on side A and a label-mate on side B for the purpose of… well, apparently just sort of holding hands together, the inevitability of a clear winner in some sort of imaginary scrum gets pulled front and center. Making matters even trickier, those victories often seem to be landslides. I don’t know why, I’m just here as a casual listener. The solution? Show up to the fight with your A-game ratcheted up to the Nth degree, or, you know, just stick to the always reliable EP.

Thankfully, in this case we don’t quite have an avalanche victory, but it’s pretty close. And once the dust begins to settle, I would definitely confirm that one side rambles from the veil as the ultimate conqueror: Mystic Storm.

Am I a shitty human for treating these sorts of releases like a Thunderdome tournament? Potentially! But at this point I can no longer avoid it, and the Mystic Storm side of the coin just so happens to hold a more intriguing story arc and delivers more impactful songs.

Were you there for Mystic Storm’s debut, 2021’s ear-shattering Из хаоса древних времён (From the Ancient Chaos)? It was a fairly big hit around these parts, thanks to the sheer force of its melodic thrashing glory. Here’s how I described it in one of our Missing Pieces write-ups from that year:

“…an aggressive and aggressively melodic style of thrash reminiscent of the Teutonic scene in the late 80s—Vendetta, Grinder and the raw fury of Protector—with enough galloping Sword & Sorcery trad metal that one could make just as strong a case for tagging them #fuckingepicheavymetal as they might #conanthrash.”

And adding to that windfall, there was this in regards to the band’s kick-ass vocalist:

“Anya conjures the ancient spirits of Debbie Gunn (Sentinel Beast), Tam Simpson (from the mighty Sacrilege) and especially Dawn Crosby (Detente—whose song “Vultures in the Sky” gets covered as a closer for the record), and that’s honestly something we could use a lot more of in thrash and thrash-infused metal in general.”

Fast forward one year later and we finally have our first evidence of where Mystic Storm is headed, and it is… rather different compared to what was being pushing five years ago. I’ve lost count how many times a thrash band has gone light(er), but working in Mystic Storm’s favor is the fact that they’ve always had a strong Sword & Sorcery tilt, so the shift from their debut LP to Wandering Time isn’t exactly shocking in a thrash-to-doom “Sacrilege from Within the Prophecy to Turn Back Trilobite” sort of way. It’s definitely in a nearby neighborhood, though.

The good news is that the music still packs plenty of power, but that energy is a little more magickal than it is outright RAGING in 2026. So, instead of Detente fueling the thrash, think of any number of 80s’ bands that brushed thrash but mostly just heavy metalled: Heretic, Metal Church, etc. And in lieu of Eternal Champion for the trad influence, now look toward any modern throwback band that pushes an atmospheric form of trad metal built on the foundation of Queensrÿche’s The Warning or Sacred Blade’s Of the Sun + Moon. So… FFO Vulture’s Vengeance, essentially.

The title track from the Mystic Storm side of the coin is a great example of most everything mentioned above. It’s the shortest of the three new cuts and takes about a minute and a half to finally kick into a steady gallop, but once it’s there you will eventually hear that sort of ‘nocturnal atmosphere’ tattooed up and down the melody provided by the guitar. Svetlana wails and has a bit more range compared to Anya, which matches the new face of the band that explores a more diverse assemblage of moods, and the rhythm occasionally flashes these deep, cavernous booms to help increase the overall weight. That dip into a much mellower face about 3:20 in is done much more elegantly compared to the way they managed similarly on the previous LP, and it gives the overall mood a bit of a King Diamond flare—the only thing missing is King’s penchant for layering a wide range of sinister laughter to augment the dark atmosphere. Sweet burnin’ lead in the closing 30 seconds, too.

By contrast, the Savage Master side of the split really does nothing new, so expect more of the same straightforward, hard rockin’ classic metal that’s basically tailor-made for fist-pumping exercises at the very front of the venue as your back takes a beating from the occasional moshing tubbster in a freshly stitched battle vest. As a studio band, Savage Master has always been consistent enough to draw interest, but they don’t exactly emphasize a ton of exploration, which is something that feels even more stressed here because the three songs just aren’t as catchy as works in the past. They’re short—just shy of 9 minutes total, compared to the Mystic Storm flip-side that serves up 18—and they mostly chase past with only a splashy lead to give them anything truly notable to grab hold of. It’s nothing I’d dismiss outright, and I’m sure Stacey Savage would bring them more life from the stage (they are, at their core, a live band), but compared to all that’s new with Mystic Storm and Wandering Time, The Power side of this split just can’t help but fall short.

Bottom line: the split has once again done what splits always manage to do, which is pit combatants in a battle of the bands to the death.

TWO BANDS ENTER, ONE BAND LEAVES. TWO BANDS ENTER, ONE BAND LEAVES. TWO BANDS ENTER, ONE BAND LEAVES!

And in this clash, Mystic Storm wins the day.

Left: Savage Master // Right: Mystic Storm

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Petrichor, the sixth full length album from Greece’s epic metal stalwarts Battleroar, commences with the sound of rain and an invitation to reflect. That word, “petrichor,” is a relatively new one (coined by scientists in 1964) but it marks a sensation as old as our ability to perceive it.

pe·​tri·​chor 

: a distinctive, earthy, usually pleasant odor that is associated with rainfall especially when following a warm, dry period

The smell of fresh rain on dry ground; it’s a pleasant but portentous thing. We don’t always know what comes with rain, especially if it’s an infrequent guest. Anyone with four walls to call their own knows how much of our mental forces are marshaled toward finding ways to divert it from our doorstep. But we nevertheless bask in the smell of petrichor, appreciate it for what it is, and stiffen our backs to face what is to come.

To my ears, this is Battleroar’s most stout offering to date—a disposition you may be inclined to associate with American practitioners of this style—yet Petrichor also finds them sounding more European than ever. The compositions march with a heavy footfall, but I don’t hear swagger on the track, I hear something like resoluteness. Take for example “Atē, Hybris, Nemesis,” a mid-paced wanderer that really only embraces its inner berserker once a bit of chaos strikes at the 4-minute mark in the form of a storm-calling violin solo performed by newcomer Alex Papadiamantis. Here the song shakes itself awake with something like the urgency of a prizefighter tasting his own blood for the first time. Here we get that full-spectrum feeling of thunderous drums and galloping guitars. Here we get that subtle barometric shift from “something is coming” to “something is here.” Petrichor.

Longtime fans of Battleroar oughta know that Petrichor features the debut of vocalist Michalis Karasoulis. I don’t think I’m being too hyperbolic by describing Karasoulis’ performance as a significant departure from those logged by former vocalist Gerrit Mutz on Codex Epicus (2018) and Blood of Legends (2014). Mutz was game and gritty, but Karasoulis is, frankly, a fuckin’ killer. While not a paint scraper, he’s soulful, sturdy and emotive despite never sounding taxed by his vocal lines. You hear his full bag of tricks on mid-album highlight, “The Earth Remembers, The Rain Forgives.” The rich, weathered timbre of Karasoulis’ voice is one thing, his expansive range is another and yet another still is the cheek-piercing hook of the chorus’ vocal melody. It’s easily my most replayed moment on an album that offers more than a few. You’ll want to hear it, feel it, again and again.

If any fans are harboring suspicions that Karasoulis’ refinement might rob Battleroar of its rugged charm, I’d like to collegially suggest you just drop that. Because, here’s the thing, the instrumentalists in Battleroar have sharpened their game as well. On a song-by-song basis, this is some of the heaviest and most melodic work the band has put to wax. Memorable riffs abound (“What is Best in Life?” might have more “damn, I wanna learn how to play that” moments than any track I’ve heard this year).

The guitar leads throughout Petrichor are melodic but rarely ornate, and while Papadiamantis’ violin adds a dash of flash, his focus seems to be coloring in some emotional shades not present on the band’s earlier work. It’s not the time to definitively argue that this is the best Battleroar album, but they’ve put their noses to the grindstone to create an album that’s both technically accomplished and emotionally resonant. I think it’s something the band oughta be proud of and fans oughta embrace. 

It’s notable to me that this is the first Battleroar album to be released since the passing of longtime mentor / collaborator Mark Shelton. Shelton’s Manilla Road is tops among Battleroar’s similar artists list on Metal-Archives.com, despite the fact that the two bands don’t really sound all that similar. Of course, Battleroar plays epic heavy metal, a style Shelton pioneered–but the connection is deeper than just that. Shelton means so much to so, so many because he told stories in his own voice. It’s why Manilla Road’s style could dramatically shift from one album to the next (stop to consider that Crystal Logic precedes Out of the Abyss by just five years) and fans would embrace the progression as nothing less than totally natural. Because it was Shark being Shark. Is Battleroar on that level? I have a feeling even founder and mastermind Kostas Tzortzis would slap me if I suggested such a thing. But they’re telling their own story, and they’re only getting better. The something that’s coming might already be here. Petrichor. 

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A revision is necessary: you and I don’t really know each other, but I do know you are already tired of this. Friend, same. Shall we invite Ignobleth to join the conversation? If you just cried aloud, “No! I want to talk more about Ferdinand de Saussure!” kindly leave the hall (but gimme a sly high-five on the way out). So… Ignobleth! They are three people from Italy and on this their debut album, they make a whole lot of fucking good noise! To further tarnish my already-suspect writerly credibility, I don’t even particularly think Ignobleth is playing in the war metal sandbox on Manor of Primitive Anticreation! So, what the fuck, right? Well, try this on for size, toots: whatever style they might be playing, Ignobleth’s excellent album has got me thinking a lot about… visual art.

Just like music, visual art is a big tent, and it’s also just as rife with asininely arcane microdistinctions in lineage, technique, influence, intent, and style. But just to wrap our arms around a more manageable comparison, let’s think about drawing as death metal. Think of a kid fat-fisting a set of crayons in brownish reds and sickly yellow-greens, tongue poking out the side of the mouth while a waxy sheen gathers on the side-heel of the hand. Imagine an evocative, abstract monochrome of charcoal shadings, and then picture a sharp, stark geometry of ballpoint lines and scaffolded angles. All of these are death metal, so of course war metal can be, too, but… it’s mostly scribbles, right? Like, if I listen to war metal while thinking about drawing, I can easily conjure the smell of pencil shavings, the pile of broken graphite tips, the garish and glossy furrows delved into fibrous paper. The point is, all these expressions belong to the same basic artistic idiom, but often the only true way to parse them is to point your perceiving apparatus at them and… see if it moves.

Manor of Primitive Anticreation is satisfying and magnificently destructive across its 44-minute runtime, but of course it is hardly sui generis. When I listen to Ignobleth’s persistent racket, my busted ears mostly hear a kinship with bands like Embrace of Thorns, Blasphemophagher, Demoncy’s Joined in Darkness, Ascended Dead, Archgoat, and Ectovoid. Where some listeners likely find the rough stylistic ballpark that we’re mapping out with that constellation to be relentlessly frantic, in truth the best acts in this milieu are the ones that balance fast, frantic intensity with a relative economy of songwriting. So yes, Ignobleth spends plenty of time mashing their strings and bashing the drumkit with the fervor of an industrial meat grinder on PCP, but within each song, they are moving between a relatively small number of distinct sections with a clear, internal logic.

“Obelisk of Deformity” starts things off with a massive death-doom heft and a patient lead-in before things whip into a full-on frenzy at 1:30 in. “And the Lunar Mass Shatters” is one of the least forgiving tunes on the album, but even here it pulls back for a (heavy) breather midway through and adds some extra layered octave guitar. Elsewhere, at around the 2:30 mark in “Warped Abyssal Architectures,” the band drops into a surprising, nearly funky half-time bridge with some slight guitar bends, and then again just before the 4-minute mark of the album’s closer, I could swear they’re having some fun (especially in the drumming). 

The two-part “Proselyte Pig” might be the album’s finest section, though. Part I is a six-minute marathon of various hypnotically rhythmic sections of slipstream-quick drumming and head-nodding low tones, but as it burns out into Part II, the band pivots to an incredibly sparse drum and distorted bass opening, which patiently re-amps up to a core menacing tone. They string you along as if the whole piece will sit in an almost Blut Aus Nord-queasy churn, but then kick the chair out from under you. Listen carefully at about 2:27 for the album’s snakiest, most sneakily melodic riff, but then after that quit worrying about being careful about anything, because you know where you are? You’re in the [manor], baby. And you’re gonna [be anticreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeated].

Bryan Maita’s excellent artwork for Manor of Primitive Anticreation is instructive. At first glance, you might almost mistake it for something in the style of Gustave Doré’s famous wood engravings, especially with the winged figures in the sky. But then the eye settles into the squish factor, with mouths and tentacles and pustulated tree roots, and you consider how the composition could almost lean towards Seagrave-ish architecture. There’s dotting, curling, sideways slashing marks, and if the top leans mystical and ominous, the foreground seethes with playful malevolence. Doesn’t that tell you more than enough about the sounds behind the scenes? Be better than me: shut your trap and listen to Ignobleth. Grind your teeth, bang your head, coat the earth in the penstrokes of your intent.

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Admittedly, Infectious Pathological Waste may be third Cryptworm LP but it’s the second Cryptworm LP I’ve heard. A brief journey on the wayback machine to the year 2022 would likely reveal me reclining ever so slightly in my rocking chair—earbuds on, iced coffee in hand, a tired but genuine smile on my face, listening to Cryptworm’s debut, Spewing Mephitic Putridity at approximately 7:15 am, another episode of Daniel Tiger blaring in the background. I can picture that brown and yellow cover vividly enough. What a fun little sojourn that record was. Yet I don’t recall ever having heard the follow-up, Oozing Radioactive Vomition. Not sure why, aside from sheer ignorance, because this new one may just end up my favorite OSDM of the year.

It’s a weird, almost embarrassingly contradictory exercise, what I am doing now, in attempting to carefully describe a record titled Infectious Pathological Waste. But it deserves that careful description. What we have here is a grimy death metal record that exists in a world free from apology, free from irony, free from revivalism, and in some sense free from the trappings of criticism and consumption. If you should understand anything about this record, it’s that there’s a free-spirited, jackassery level of fun happening here. Imbecilic fun. Nay, inherently critic-proof imbecilic fun. Almost.

Tibor Hanyi’s top class gurgling is all the announcement a listener needs to know Infectious Pathological Waste rules. But if you need to know what the album actually sounds like, a wiser colleague once described Cryptworm’s sound as Demilich but played like Autopsy. And that seemed entirely accurate and fair to me; that specific and pulverizing mix of distortion and technicality, double dipped in filth, grime, and pus. That Cryptworm executes it so flawlessly is what makes it so impressive. In its raw form, it’s delightful enough; as performed by Cryptworm, it’s art.

Highlighting or even discussing specific songs is kind of pointless when an entire album delivers like this one does. If pushed, the impossibly catchy title track, the also impossibly catchy and frenetic “Drowning in Purulent Excrementia,” and the punishing and extra gurgly “Embedded with Parasitic Larvae” are among the standouts. Those infrequent but not totally uncommon moments of doomier respite are where the Autopsy creeps in. And it’s where Cryptworm play with that dynamic the most—the freneticism, the filth, and the fun—that they sound best.

Shockingly impressive, this one. I am probably not recommending it to family or anything. Certainly not my wife. But if you have any interest at all in death metal of any variety, you owe it yourself to give Cryptworm’s Infectious Pathological Waste a listen.

The post Cryptworm – Infectious Pathological Waste Review appeared first on Last Rites.

Neurosis’s willingness to push past the boundaries of metallic hardcore early in their career has influenced scores of bands across a wide range of subgenres. Hardcore, metal, and untold strains of avant-garde and experimental music have all benefited from Neurosis’s creative determination. In fact, if you’re wondering who to blame for that glut of sludgy post-metal we had to endure a while back, look no further than Oakland’s finest.

Neurosis’s fan base extends well beyond the expected parameters, and the band’s been hyped and hailed in the underground and mainstream press for decades. Neurosis are unquestionably revered, for very good reasons, and like many others, I’ve found the band’s music to be profoundly cathartic and equally rewarding.

Neurosis are often cited as preachers of pain. Through their purging of rage, distress, and all manner of existential torments, the band became the avatar of our own liberation. But the same tortured art that Neurosis produced also included the voice of a very real torturer.

Questions arise. What were we listening to? What are we celebrating? Again, no one in Neurosis defended Kelly’s behaviour, and no one in the band is guilty by association. Still, the fact remains, Kelly played a crucial part in Neurosis’s history, and we’ve been applauding an abuser.

Not knowingly, of course. I’m not pointing any fingers here; I applauded as loudly as everyone else. But for some, thinking about the art we consume – asking ourselves questions about its intent and impact – can feel necessary when secrets are exposed. Neurosis are renowned for exploring dark emotions that many of us try to bury. It’s neither unwarranted nor strange to re-examine our own feelings after shocking disclosures.

Of course, Neurosis are one of countless bands that’ve had a vital member commit atrocious acts. We all incorporate that kind of information into our listening choices in different ways. Many of us love musicians who’ve done awful things on and off stage. Does it matter? Obviously, that’s up to you to decide. Separating the art from the artist is the eternal conundrum. (Or not. If your mind’s already made up.)

Still, the raw emotionality of brand Neurosis paints a complex picture. Clearly, for some, the band’s gift for expressing our darkest imaginings might feel a little unnerving now. People opened their hearts to Neurosis. But faith may have been lost; trust may need to be reestablished. For others, of course, Neurosis reign supreme. The band remain undiminished, untarnished, the eternal prognosticators of hope and despair.

Internal (or external) debates about music aren’t a bad thing; it’s always good to think/talk about the art we imbibe. However, what isn’t up for debate is the fact that Neurosis’s recent surprise return was a huge relief for scores of fans.

As you’d expect, the band’s first album in a decade, An Undying Love for a Burning World, was greeted with overwhelming enthusiasm. Even better, learning that SUMAC and ISIS member Aaron Turner had joined the good ship Neurosis made perfect sense, too. There are obvious musical and metaphysical ties between Turner’s work and Neurosis, and unsurprisingly, Turner slots in alongside Steve Von Till and the rest of the Neurosis crew like a natural.

An Undying Love for a Burning World was recorded over three weekends, lending the album a strong sense of energy and immediacy. Clearly, recording the album provided a much-needed cathartic exorcism for Neurosis, and there’s no question the band’s legions of fans appreciated that fact as they rapturously welcomed An Undying Love for a Burning World into their arms. That said, there’s nothing in the album that updates Neurosis’s canon in a revelatory way.

Obviously, untold fans and critics will be losing their minds about Neurosis’s return. There will be endless calls to remind us that the darkness within An Undying Love for a Burning World is, in fact, a guiding light. But that’s business as usual for Neurosis, right?

Also in the ‘business as usual’ column are the contents of An Undying Love For A Burning World. The album features the same ol’ atmospheric music. It features the same ol’ mix of hot/cold riffs and vocals. The same ol’ ambient soundscapes. And the same ol’ gentle saunters followed by the same ol’ thundering explosions.

None of that is to say that An Undying Love for a Burning World isn’t full of dynamic musical pastures for fans to luxuriate in. The album sounds fantastic, and some of An Undying Love for a Burning World’s psychedelic sections are sublime. You’d be a fool to have any kind of beef with Neurosis’s continued brawn, too. The band sound as mammoth as ever, and songs like “Seething and Scattered”, “First Red Rays”, and the truly hypnotic epics “In the Waiting Hours” and “Last Light” will amply reward Neurosis’s fans’ patience.

Of course, many felt that Neurosis were done and dusted, and, as a result, An Undying Love For A Burning World will no doubt feel acutely cathartic for some. But perhaps we’re confusing a sense of overwhelming relief for a sense of genuine awe. An Undying Love for a Burning World has a fittingly heart-gripping title – again, that’s de rigour for the always-theatrical Neurosis – but the songs within follow a familiar post-this-and-that script.

Neurosis are reborn, and for those who’ve drawn succour from the band, that’s understandably thrilling. But Neurosis aren’t birthing anything new here. I realise none of this matters; fans will worship An Undying Love for a Burning World as if it were the word of God, and critics will continue to fall over themselves to praise the album to high Heaven.

All of that goodwill reflects the diehard support that Neurosis have worked hard to foster, and none of that respect is undeserved. Neurosis have clearly helped many fans endure life’s endless trials, even if the band have essentially been turning in the same album since 1999’s Times of Grace.

There’s nothing wrong with staying in your lane, of course. Plenty of the bands that we hold dear have built respected careers sticking to what they do best. But most of those bands aren’t accorded the same critical esteem as Neurosis, nor are they held to the same philosophical or creative standards.

There’s nothing wrong with not delivering a masterpiece every time, btw. Music-making is as mercurial as any other art form. Creativity, like life, is capricious. It’s fine to miss the mark. And it’s important to fail sometimes, too. There are valuable lessons in all of that.

In any case, Neurosis’s ongoing journey through the fathomless depths of the human condition is deliberately designed to provoke powerfully dramatic responses. As such, we should gauge the band accordingly.

If the latest music from Neurosis doesn’t stir your soul like it once did, don’t panic; you’ve done nothing wrong. We’re all moving through changing emotional states, and sometimes, our relationship to X band or Y album reorients, too. Sometimes, music hits. Sometimes, it doesn’t. And sometimes, music simply takes its time to filter through.

Maybe one day I’ll wake up and decide that An Undying Love for a Burning World is my favourite Neurosis album. But not today, my friend. As it stands, I’m very much in the minority. An Undying Love for a Burning World has received a staggering amount of positive press coverage, and to be clear, I’m not suggesting that Neurosis have let themselves or anyone else down. An Undying Love for a Burning World isn’t a damp squib or any kind of disaster. It’s just, you know…¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

We shouldn’t force ourselves to love things that don’t feel right, and it’s fine if you’re feeling underwhelmed by An Undying Love for a Burning World. It’s also fine if you feel that the last few Neurosis albums circled a cul-de-sac of diminishing returns, too.

It’s more than a-okay to also argue that 2007’s Given to the Rising was Neurosis’s last best effort. Music is extremely personal and inextricably tied to moments in time, space, and where we’re at, mood-wise. If an album doesn’t fit, it’s no biggie; there’s always another coming around the corner, and you can always try again tomorrow.

Call me a heretic, but I’m giving An Undying Love for a Burning World a 3 out of 5 – a solid 7/10. Obviously, it’s great to see Neurosis rising like a phoenix, and long may they soar. But An Undying Love for a Burning World isn’t a stone-cold classic return.

At times, An Undying Love for a Burning World is deeply resonant and emotionally bruising, but much of it feels like a too-slow build-up to the album’s second half, which absolutely explores awe-inspiring territory. For that, we should be thankful.

Scores of much-loved bands have returned from the dead, dragging crushingly disappointing albums behind them. That isn’t the case here. Neurosis aren’t dialling it in by any means. But neither are they at their breathtaking best.

I know – fuck me. I’ll see myself out.

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“Nostalgia is probably overrated, at least the most common notion of it, the poignant sense that ‘what was’ is somehow inherently better than ‘what is’. It’s a lie of which we are well aware, if we’re honest, and which we willingly allow. Logic says it can’t be true that all the best times preceded real and measurable progress, and yet we cling to the past. No tangible aspect of the past, though. What we yearn for is The Past. Nebulous, ephemeral. The particulars of those golden olden days for which we pine aren’t actually the point of nostalgia, after all. It’s the feeling. A deep and personal remembrance of goodness that serves as an anchor in an uncertain present. An apparently experience-based evidence that it can all be good again.”

That’s the opening paragraph that our very own Lone Watie used to open his 2019 write-up of In Another Time, the debut from NY hard rockers Tanith. I think he nailed it, and I will now admit to spending a solid amount of time thinking about how people that did not actually exist during a targeted nostalgic era end up tapping into its spirit so mightily. I suppose it’s because everyone is capable of imagining / conjuring ‘better times’, particularly amidst ‘harder times’, and our past is an easier target because the notion of comforting familiarity is a vital ingredient for nostalgia’s success. Plus, our collective obsession with nostalgia ensures that virtually every tangible aspect of any given era will never be forgotten. In other words, you can absolutely pull off being a 25 year-old Sweathog in 2026 and actually make it believable if you have the dedication and resources. Don’t get caught carving your initials into your desk.

Probably pretty clear where this is headed.

Trinity of Suns is essentially a love letter to that golden stretch on music’s timeline where hard rock very intuitively shifted into metal. That obviously includes the NWOBHM, but mostly that scene’s more fantastical face in lieu of the bands that hauled a heap of punk into the design. Accordingly, expect loads of aged metal riffs here, but also an equal emphasis placed on a myriad of ‘70s hard rock bands that understood the potency of mythical escapism and folk elements, and whose album artwork looked like covers torn from an array of classic 70s’ DAW Books. Bands like Uriah Heep, Wishbone Ash, Rush, BÖC, Sir Lord Baltimore, et al.

So, yes, clearly the members of Lynx have found themselves haunted by nostalgia, the world’s true ‘friendliest ghost’ (get in the trap, Casper, you absolute wanker), and the results produce a charming ‘modern throwback’ snapshot of a bin of estate sale LPs that once belonged to an individual the rest of the neighborhood likely assumed was a pensioned sorcerer. How does that separate Lynx from the near endless amount of other bands doing similarly in the modern age? Well, it doesn’t, really, but the whole of Trinity of Suns feels classic without sounding outright dusty in a dexterous sort of way that verifies the band is notably proficient at songwriting, which is clearly the key. So, instead of going missing amidst a gaggle of two-bit mimics, this album sets up Lynx as possible tour buddies alongside other throwback specialists such as Hällas, Phantom Spell and, as it happens, Tanith.

“Oppressive Season” delivers an ideal illustration of the band’s legitimacy. The track is a hot rocker that jumps from the gate with a slightly proggy proto-metal swagger that conjures the best years of Sweden’s Witchcraft, followed by a terrifically catchy NWOBHM riff about 30 seconds in that’s lifted to the sky on the wings of the accompanying melodic fret run. The chorus is as potent as it is catchy, and the majority of the song’s rear half is dominated by a series of super fun and highly enthusiastic lead barrages. New singer / synth player (synthist?) Amy Zine is a wonderful addition to the overall sound, which sets the stage perfectly for the following statement:

Trinity of Suns stands as one of the more significant advancements / progressions from one album to the next that these ears have heard in some time, and that’s coming from someone who enjoyed the band’s debut, 2021’s Watcher of Skies.

On the whole, though, I would confirm that Zine’s presence leaves the most blunt and impressionable fresh stamp, as hers is a voice with a much wider range that’s better suited for shifts in pace and temperament. So, when things push a more folky mood—the stark and psychedelic “Seven Days of Darkness,” for example—she nails the whole Wicker Man vibe. And when it’s time to really belt it out, she has the pipes necessary to fortify the classic metal riffing when things are at a full gallop.

While Zine’s presence behind the mic is justifiably underscored, vocal duties are actually shared with Janni, which only intensifies the Tanith comparisons. (This is a very good thing, mind you.) And as mentioned above, and further akin to Tanith, Lynx is down for mixing things up across the album’s full 40 minutes. We get a whiff of Hällas’ triumphant “Above the Continuum” with the notably epic “Voyager,” a song that opens Trinity of Suns with a gloomy, portentous midsection that features a booming voice cautioning of a world “once prosperous and thriving, now hardened into a frigid sphere of glass”; there’s the brighter, more playful romp of “Stranger In the Sky” that quickly brings classic Rush to mind; and you’ve got darker, moodier numbers like the title track, where a wonderful bubbling bass takes center stage to provide the crux of the song’s scoot:

If I could alter one thing—and it’s a minor quibble coming from the heart of a classic progressive hard rock nerd—it would be a suggestion to stretch out that closing track. Let Zine’s synth and some leads lift, drift and stray a bit more to really escalate the drama at the album’s conclusion. Of course, it’s also worth noting that the track already manages to run over 8 minutes, but it also feels… primed and ready for an even longer and more theatrical finish.

Just how essential an album like Trinity of Suns ends up being for you clearly swings on how heavily invested you happen to be in all things nostalgia. I mean, there’s not exactly a dearth of great works actually born in the late ‘70s / early ‘80s right at your fingertips, as well as a superabundance of worthy emulators already warring for attention. But again, if you have an affinity for the crème de la crème modern throwback specialists such as Hällas, Phantom Spell, Tanith, et al. that almost seem as if the ghost of nostalgia seeks them out due to a level of veritable legitimacy, I think Lynx and Trinity of Suns will find a notably cozy spot in the sunshine of your life.

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Back in 1978, upon the release of their self-titled debut, Village Voice rock critic Robert Christgau panned Van Halen for making music that “belongs on an aircraft carrier.” It’s one of those lines that was legible as a diss to Christgau’s urbane readership, but probably came across as a salutation of the highest order to the legions who got it.

Right now, a lot of people get Archspire.

242,473 monthly listeners on Spotify.

562,000 YouTube views on “Carrion Ladder,” the lead single for their forthcoming fifth full-length album Too Fast to Die.

More than $280,000 raised on Kickstarter to fund and independently release Too Fast to Die, with a remarkable $125,000 raised in less than 12 hours.

It’s difficult to determine what constitutes success for a technical death metal act, ‘specially in a media environment that resembles a porcelain figurine spiked onto a travertine countertop. And yet, it’s hard to deny that 16 years after the release of their debut EP, “All Shall Align,” Archspire have kinda “made it.” Harder still to deny that they’ve earned it.

This is a very, very talented band. Even judged by the exacting standards of their genre peers, the Vancouver, B.C. quartet sits comfortably in the upper percentile w/r/t speed, dexterity, and complexity. But, Archspire’s greatest skill – beyond the sweep arpeggios, land-speed-record-defying blast beats, and even the mind-bogglingly red-lined yet articulate vocals of Oliver Rae Aleron – is their ability to serve their fans.

They make music to breathlessly utter “holy fuck” to. To “guess the BPM” in the comments. To inspire terabytes of play-throughs, tutorials, and gobsmacked reaction vids.

Just listen to “Carrion Ladder,” which provides the full-spectrum Archspire experience. It begins a cappella, with Aleron’s M134 Minigun vocal delivery setting the table for an explosion of mondo-techicale instrumentation that makes me wonder if my instruments ever dream of growing legs and running off to the home of a real musician. This track is a monster-truck vaulting over 12 flaming school buses before getting swallowed by a Greenland shark, then being shat out in the form of a vending machine that only dispenses Four Loko.

There’s a lot of that feeling in the opening rounds of Too Fast to Die …

• The vocal battery at 4:30 of “Liminal Cypher” that would make John Moschitta Jr. blush.
• The bass solo break into a near-symphonic eruption of tremolo at 1:00 of “Red Goliath.”
• The attack of everything faster, louder, and trickier than everything else, and all at once, at about :30 of “Limb of Leviticus”

Archspire are savvy enough to recognize they’ve got to work some slow and sweet into their repertoire to round these moments into form, so we get the rib-sticking melodic refrain in “Red Goliath” and the symphonic black metal surge in “The Vessel.”

But just as Cristgau’s “aircraft carrier” dig read as praise to Van Halen fans, my description of Archspire’s strengths may scan as weaknesses to the readership of Last Rites. I say “effortless mastery” and you ask “what about the raw, bloody, and embodied human effort that lowers the interpretive drawbridge between artist and listener?”

One man’s critique is another fan’s selling point. So, if I were to say something like “Archspire’s music belongs on an aircraft carrier,” it doesn’t follow that I’d discourage you from hopping on board. And just because I haven’t fully seen the light, doesn’t mean you won’t feel the heat. 

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