#oct26 — Public Fediverse posts

There’s an art to writing long-form metal albums. Determining how much to write while keeping listeners engaged as their attention inevitably wanes is no easy task. But how long is too long? We will use that question as the launchpad for our journey into the cosmos with death metal duo Iapetus. Multi-instrumentalists Jordan Navarro and Matthew Cerami have been testing the limits of attention spans since 2010, releasing two albums built around epic compositions designed to function as complete works. Thus far, it has worked splendidly. Their 2019 self-released effort, The Body Cosmic, impressed the Eldritch one enough to earn a spot in his Things You Might Have Missed feature, and it appears Iapetus made an equally strong impression on the team at Willowtip Records, which has chosen to release the duo’s new record, The Mother Void. This third effort concludes a trilogy started by 2017 debut, The Long Road Home.

Telling a story about humanity, the cosmos, and the tension between a mortal existence and the vastness of immortal space, The Mother Void largely follows the formula Iapetus established on previous releases while refining it into a compelling odyssey among the stars. Four tracks serve as the record’s focal point across its 69 minutes, with shorter interludes providing the connective tissue between each showstopper. The compositions are seamless and as grandiose as before, seesawing between tremolo-heavy, volatile surges and soft, shimmering moments. Fabienne Erni (Eluveitie) lends her talents to wistful verses (“The Mother Void”), entrancing bridges (“Aniara,” “Parturition”) and bombastic choruses (“Red Giant”), leaving absolutely nothing on the table as she tears through the fabric of space and time.1 Cerami’s coarse growls occupy the death end of the spectrum and provide a powerful counterpoint to Erni’s soothing, soaring melodies, creating a dynamic interplay that helps give The Mother Void its robust character.

From the title track through “Red Giant,” Iapetus forms The Mother Void’s celestial nexus, swelling and expanding like the universe in the wake of the Big Bang. The title track immediately launches the listener into overdrive with a blaze of tremolo picking and relentless blast beats, evoking the melodic black of Wintersun as Erni’s ethereal vocal lines guide the song into a sea of tranquility. “Aniara” is reminiscent of Ne Obliviscaris at their best. Beginning with a crestfallen tone before returning to Iapetus’ trem-picked tendencies, the cut’s knotty yet catchy riffing shines at the bridge, striking an impressive balance between technicality and melodicism. The same can be said of the guitar solo that anchors the track’s closing minutes. Everything reaches its zenith with “Red Giant,” which melds the influences of the prior tracks while injecting Mors Principium Est’s sharp melodeath into the mix. In short, it’s an epic song that never overstays its welcome, despite stretching to nearly twelve minutes. The same can be largely said of The Mother Void’s first half, where the group’s ambitions are matched by a keen sense of pacing.

It’s at this point—as the interlude “Énouement” gives way to “TON”—our initial question comes back into focus. While The Mother Void largely avoids the pitfalls of bloat, “TON,” and, to a lesser extent the dreamlike heart of “Aniara,” find Iapetus exceeding the bounds of The Mother Void’s scale and flow. At nearly nineteen minutes, “TON” initially succeeds, pairing forceful melodeath with Frank Harper’s strong guest vocals while showcasing Iapetus’ knack for complex songwriting. By this stage, their formula has grown somewhat predictable, but that alone is not an issue. The main issue lies in the song’s second half. The track lingers far too long, settling into a tropey Gojira-esque riff that feels out of place amid the song’s otherwise more distinctive traits. The outro only compounds things, sounding as though it’s winding down before pressing on for several more minutes. Similarly, the inclusion of “The World Be Undone” feels unnecessary, as Iapetus could have ended on a stronger note without it.

Like the universe it contemplates, The Mother Void burns brightest when it keeps its ambitions in balance. Though a few songs drift beyond their natural limits, the addition of Erni elevates the duo’s sound, while the songwriting remains ambitious, emotive, and richly textured. Iapetus has delivered an odyssey that serves as a worthy conclusion to the trilogy they began years ago, standing as another impressive achievement from one of progressive death metal’s most promising acts. For death fans of all stripes, The Mother Void is well worth the journey.

Rating: Very Good
DR: 9 | Format Reviewed: 320 kb/s mp3
Label: Willowtip Records
Websites: iapetus1.bandcamp.com/music | iapetusband.com | facebook.com/Iapetus.Metal
Releases Worldwide: October 16th, 2026

Blood and Sun – Aion’s Light Review

Few bands are as kvlt as Blood and Sun, and they play folk. Luke Tromiczak has toiled away…
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Few bands are as kvlt as Blood and Sun, and they play folk. Luke Tromiczak has toiled away at his dark Americana neofolk project since the mid-2010s, mixing 70s-style folk and black metal atmosphere with the purpose of delving “into the borderlands between song, spell, and memory.” With two albums behind him—most recently 2020’s Love & Ashes—Tromiczak now reaches into Blood and Sun’s deepest history for this year’s Aion’s Light. What he found was a Tascam 414 four-track cassette, the same he used for the project’s earliest demos. On it, he recorded each of Aion’s Light’s songs as they were written and tracked, every decision and mistake put to tape and heard in the same order as they were committed. This stringent, low-tech approach to recording leaves little room for mistake. So, does Aion’s Light capture an artist’s rawest expression in unmasked clarity, or do Blood and Sun capture more recording artifacts than magic?

If you’ve longed to hear Jim Morrison sing Leonard Cohen songs with black metal production, say hello to Aion’s Light. Blood and Sun’s distinct moody Americana and Tromiczak’s booming voice are as puissant as always on Aion’s Light, but now with an even more energetic, organic, and off-the-cuff feel. Blood and Sun weave dark tones and raw production into pensive folk scores, sporting dungeon-like synths and an Aquilusesque rustic, romantic dread. Listeners are treated to strident acoustics and bombastic synths with sprinklings of percussion,1 ranging from simple and aggressive solo guitar (“A Nation Falling”) to full-blown symphonic grandeur (“All Is Bloom All Is Ruin”). “Gifts of Oneiroi” and “Aion’s Light” showcase Tromiczak’s baritone croon at its most sultry, while “Jacob’s Ladder” and “Life Lessons” flex a greater theatrical bombast. At its best, Aion’s Light is a gripping foray into American gothic and western balladry, replete with eerie tales for odder trails.

Blood and Sun set a strong mood on Aion’s Light and write like they have somewhere to be. Like a Giles Corey or Reverend Kristin Michael Hayter record, Aion’s Light often sounds like it’s at the cusp of breaking. Its strings pop and synths waver while its tape crackles under Blood and Sun’s intensity, felt strongest on the haunted “Horrid Host” and “Jacob’s Ladder.” In Aion’s Light’s biggest moments, it feels ready to burst (“Axe and Mistletoe,” “All Is Bloom All Is Ruin”). But Blood and Sun maintain lean form and keep each track tight and economical. Even when spinning harrowing stories on “A Nation Falling” or majestic scenes in “Kiss the Wilds,” Aion’s Light keeps to easily digestible runtimes and only flirts with bloat on the six-and-a-half-minute “Gift of the Oneiroi.” This keeps Aion’s Light immediate, which is largely to its benefit, as the longer songs on Love & Ashes could get away from them. Aion’s Light feels like the work of an expert storyteller, both timeless and timely and deeply enjoyable.

In recording Aion’s Light the way Blood and Sun did, however, comes certain difficulties the record doesn’t completely overcome. For instance, Aion’s Light is relatively back-loaded, with the opening title track and “Kiss the Wilds” lacking the gravitas of later cuts like “Gifts of Oneiroi” or “All Is Bloom All Is Ruin.” None of Aion’s Light is bad, but I think Tromiczak really got rolling about halfway through recording it. Also, though Blood and Sun’s songwriting has never been better than it is on Aion’s Light, they don’t sound as great as they have before. I find myself missing Love & Ashes’ lush soundscape—see “By What Road”—a reality most likely out of the reach of this album’s constraints. Nonetheless, if given the choice of having a more conventionally made rendition of Aion’s Light or the one Blood and Sun gave us, I’d take the latter every time; you’d lose more than you’d gain otherwise.

Blood and Sun rocked that four-track and gave us their best record yet with Aion’s Light. Tromiczak possesses a mightily compelling voice and an ear for song structure, imbuing his newest opus just the right amount of blackened rawness, dreamlike effects, and gothic swoon. It’s an easy listen for uneasy feelings and just what the doctor ordered for these autumn days. If neofolk’s on your horizon, then let the Aion’s Light in at once.

Rating: Very Good
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 256 kbps MP3
Label: Nordvis Produktion
Websites: bloodandsun.net | facebook.com/Blood-and-Sun | bloodandsun.bandcamp.com
Releases Worldwide: October 16th, 2026

How HateSphere has continued to find success after over twenty-five years playing their tried, true, and dated brand of Scandathrash is beyond me. With a catalog as inconsistent in quality as an Arizona highway, these Danes continue pounding out records like Mormon men with fourteen-person families. After two decades of personnel changes, the best thing going for the band is the surprise behind the mic. But since 2023’s Hatred Reborn, there haven’t been any real surprises behind the scenes. Minus a new drummer, founder Peter Lyse Karmark continues to lead the charge, even bringing back Mathia Uldall for vocal duties. With a touch more melody than the previous record, this year’s Guillotine delivers ten new tracks to either push the envelope or just… be.

Against better judgment, this will be the fourth time I review a HateSphere release. But I initially requested this prison sentence because I enjoyed records like Bloodred Hatred and The Great Bludgeoning. Not to mention, I’ve been a genre lover from the early days of At the Gates, The Haunted, and Witchery. But man, it’s been a rough few records of mediocrity and staleness. Because the entire structure hasn’t changed in the last three years, maybe Guillotine will start a focused era of output. Wait, why the fuck am I being positive?

This twelfth album opens with the aptly titled instrumental “Chapter XII.” After the soft, reverberating guitars, the distortion kicks in, and we are provided with one of the best riffs on the album.1 The opener sets the tone nicely, slingshotting us into the purely predictable but solid “Dogma.” Wrapped up tightly in every element that defines the band, “Dogma” aggressively barks and growls; guitars hammer and swirl; and alternates between groove and melody. But in the end, it’s nothing special; it’s the standard we expect from HateSphere.

Thankfully, there are a few exciting numbers, like the back-to-back “Cleansing” and “Snake Charmer.” The first opens with a standard melodic introduction before firing off into a fun main riff. When the vocals arrive, the guitars come and go, letting the bass rise to the surface. After clawing through massive overlaid barks and growls, it ends with a headbangable chug of pure bliss. “Snake Charmer” is an extra minute-plus, delivering sinister vibes and a razor-sharp riff straight from Witchery’s Don’t Fear the Reaper. Toss in some melodicness and a good balance of back-and-forth antics, and it’s a pleasing piece. For something a bit more Soilwork-meets-Dark Tranquillity, ensure you check out the catchy and punchy “Human Scum.”

But as is the case with most recent HateSphere records, filler pieces or duds distract or poison the flow. Unfortunately, it really hurts when it’s the first single and the title track. The main riff of “Guillotine” is the laziest attempt at Pantera’s “5 Minutes Alone.” I mean, I like the tone and direction, but then it drops into that slow, dissonant, overused guitar sound that bores the hell out of it. The best part is the riff transition at the end, but, ya know, it’s a bit late. “Bottom Feeder” is another slogger with a decent vocal approach, but it tries so hard to be old-school death that it never develops further than the character. The closer is the longest on the album and one of the biggest letdowns. “Heresy” feels like the expected album epic, and the band thought so too, but like “Guillotine,” it goes on and on, moving up and down for no reason, and consists of bruiser riffs and bully vocals that won’t end.

With a typical Tue Madsen master and early 2000s compression, Guillotine is just another in a long string of mixed HateSphere records. It has some kickass tunes, some predictable ones, and others that try so hard they become forgettable.2 That said, denying their drive and prolificity would make me a poser because I still come back to see if the next record breaks the mold. Guillotine has some interesting tweaks that freshen the palette for us old-time fans, but nothing cracks the surface that hasn’t been done numerous times over. But I didn’t hate everything, and what I did like will be added to my HateSphere playlist.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 256 kb/s mp3
Label: Scarlet Records | Bandcamp
Websites: hatesphere.com | facebook.com/hatesphereofficial
Releases Worldwide: October 9th, 2026

Carnation – Symphony in Flesh Review

Death metal is one of my favorite things on Earth. One of the coolest and most invigorating innovations…
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Death metal is one of my favorite things on Earth. One of the coolest and most invigorating innovations in heavy music, death metal’s focus on rhythm, groove, heft, and serrated distortions in every instrument calls to something primal and primordial. Belgian five-banger Carnation understand that primal call perhaps too well, taking a classic formula that should’ve diminished significantly in returns by now and vitalizing it with piss, blood, and vinegar. Over the course of three consistently high-quality records they’ve defied every phenomenon of nature that kills with time. Fourth onslaught Symphony in Flesh poses yet another threat. What fresh hell awaits?

WIOLENCE, that’s what! While Cursed Mortality took on a more dour character despite its tightened and streamlined songwriting, Symphony in Flesh is just mean. With no regard for human life and a complete lack of sympathy for the weak of body and will, Carnation reprises the punky and thrashy energies that imbued early works like Chapel of Abhorrence, while retaining the melodious flourish and smooth finish of Cursed Mortality. This in turn creates an interesting balance across 43 minutes of feral theatrics and viscous blood spatter. A wide array of songwriting tacks steadily shift Carnation’s sound as Symphony in Flesh’s runtime progresses. This strategy gives the whole a sense of dynamic movement and epic scale while dealing mortal blows left, right, top, and bottom—an apt representation of the album’s title. There’s no escape, and a gruesome death is guaranteed, but you’ll be transfixed on your way to your maker.

Few things in life are better than a well-placed “BLEGH,” and what better place to “BLEGH” than right at the beginning? Thus, Symphony in Flesh unleashes with the stellar opener “Blackmouth,” instantly opening a yawning pit to hell in a barrage of caustic riffs and feverish double-bass grooves. This is everything that death metal should be in a nutshell, but Carnation make sure their recipe has extra sauce. Follow-up “Flesh-Eating Frenzy” might be the most fun I’ve had with the genre all year, boasting a nasty beat that whips my spine around like a proper flail. Big grooves that I now wholly associate with Carnation’s trademark riffing style characterize stomping offenses “Kingdom of Dreams” and “Boundless Pathways,” but thankfully don’t ape Carnation’s former iterations. Instead, they carve trenches for themselves deep in the whitewater current of blood and sinew that Symphony in Flesh disrespectfully gorged out of the flesh of the earth itself. Such irrigation then provides ample sustenance to support blackened tremolos and squawking melodies that personify “Twisted Visions” and the remarkably well-paced 11-minute closing epic “Legacy of the Forefathers.” This final expulsion itself is a testament to Carnation’s continuous improvement as songwriters. It shouldn’t work at all, and yet its encapsulation of everything that Symphony in Flesh exhibits into one visceral container guarantees a righteous pathway to this symphony’s glorious end.

Carnation’s collective performance on Symphony in Flesh is fucking vicious. It’s rare that HM-2 death metal in the modern era tastes freshly killed as it did in the early days, but this does. Grotesque and writhing with guts, Symphony in Flesh is a monstrous record where guitars blaze everything to cinders and psychotic roars rattle every bone to dust. Drums pound muscle into slurry, and even the massively distorted and clunky bass tone makes quick work of tenderizing organ meat. There’s little to ask of Carnation here. Nonetheless, nitpicks arise. There’s an argument to be made against the merit of an albeit brief quietude in the back end of “Legacy of the Forefathers.” That couple of minutes and change could be cut out with no immediate danger to the whole. “Labyrinth of Silence,” while immensely groovy, also takes a little too long to kick into high gear. Even after trimming that section down, it’s still the “weakest” offering on the menu. Compared to its neighbors, it’s just a bit too lackluster to find its footing and fumbles the ball slightly. Thankfully, “Towards Death” scoops the ball right back up and shoves me back into the fray without any concern for my safety.

Safety is overrated when the only thing that matters in life is death metal. Carnation understand this mantra, and embody it with Symphony in Flesh. Without changing the classic formula, Carnation embarrass an entire army of revivalists by being one of the only bands in the buzzsaw persuasion to feel alive and imminently dangerous. I fear for my life every time I spin this beastly thing, and I rarely feel such joy in conflation with that immutable survival instinct. Yet, I’m chomping at the bit for another taste!

Rating: Great
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kb/s mp3
Label: Self-released | Redefining Darkness Records (NA Physical)
Websites: Bandcamp | Homepage
Releases Worldwide: October 16th, 2026

I am such a sucker for Nordic music. Toss in an æ, an ø, or even an ð, and I am right there, all alert and happy. Your þ is a tiny treat, and I am an excitable puppy wagging my tail to the beat of your traditional percussive instrument whose name I don’t actually know. So when I saw a project called Eivør submitted to us for review, I can’t say I hesitated much. I did briefly watch the video linked below first, so I knew that this Faroese project, from singer and songwriter Eivør Pálsdóttir, blends electronica and traditional Nordic themes together in Tungl, her eleventh solo release since 2000. Over the course of her career, Eivør has written and performed folk music, jazz, classical, pop, and more, and last year signed to Nuclear Blast Records, who describe her as “one of the most innovative Nordic artists of her generation.” That’s a lot of influences, an impressive career, and one very excitable reviewer/puppy. So how does it all come together?

It comes together quite well, but not in the way I initially expected. Truthfully, I’m always hoping I’ll discover the next Forndom with this style, but Eivør trends more ritualistic through the use of orchestral synths and electronica-style percussion. Of course, Eivør’s voice does most of the heavy lifting; synths give her a dark room to work in, but her vocal melodies, with songs sung in both Faroese and English, are the real highlight. The result is that Tungl acts as a soundscape both chilling and moving, and an album that is at times cinematic and at others deeply focused and introspective.

And the highlight of Tungl absolutely is Pálsdóttir’s singing. Even if you don’t care for the electric distortions of “Og mánin græt,” Eviør’s layered singing acts as a guide through the static and haze, powerful, crisp, and clear. The repetitive instrumentation and Faroese lyrics build a dense fog to get lost in, and it works very well. “Verjugarðar” brings in some of that cinematic scope I alluded to earlier, where the synths feel more like strings and Eivør’s high notes are a siren’s call. On the English-language side, “Everyone But Me” trends traditional, opening with little more than a quiet piano and beautiful, moving singing. In a way, Tungl is a hard album to describe, because that simplicity really is its core: whether ritualistic, cinematic, or simple, its eponymous lead is at its heart.

In that same sense, one thing I might argue feels missing from Tungl is a sense of depth. Now, this could easily be my limited metal guy worldview, but I can’t help but feel that a lot of Eivør’s ideas imply a wider interpretation than they receive. “Eon” is perhaps a good example, a straightforward ballad that can’t seem to decide if it’s resting on the modern side of dark pop or in Eivør’s traditional roots. It’s only four minutes long, but treads on the same ideas for most of it and feels a bit still compared with other tracks. Tungl is at its strongest, at least to this reviewer’s ears, when it embraces those themes. The sense of ritual, reverence, and culture is so strong on songs like “Hinumegin,” a track that, on paper, appears similar to “Eon,” but lands in a more bombastic, ascendant fashion. “Fangað,” featuring guest vocals from Elinborg Pálsdóttir, is intriguing enough to stand out, but something about the performance doesn’t quite connect. This is perhaps a drawback of the fairly straightforward nature of Eivør’s approach—not connecting with a single element of the songwriting often means the entire track feels flat.

Fortunately, I connect with a lot more of Tungl than I don’t, and I have immense respect for the project that’s created it. As an expression of an individual—and, to some extent, a culture that most of the world does not get to experience—Eivør succeeds and shows off the experience of its author. Tungl is atmospheric, intense, and enjoyable. It was, for me, a hit-or-miss experience, but it’s hard not to enjoy the album as a whole. Certainly, it’s enough for me to look forward to seeing what Pálsdóttir does next, and to better explore her past work as well.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kb/s mp3
Label: Nuclear Blast Records
Websites: eivor.bandcamp.com | facebook.com/eivormusic
Releases Worldwide: October 16th, 2026