#oct26 — Public Fediverse posts

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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https://www.europesays.com/uk/1250691/ Carnation – Symphony in Flesh Review #2026 #40 #BelgianMetal #Carnation #DeathMetal #Entertainment #music #Oct26 #Review #Reviews #SelfReleases #SymphonyInFlesh #UK #UnitedKingdom

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