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Danish Band, Doom Metal, Folk Music, Metal23.09.2026

Musikkanmeldelse (Review): Maunah – Hjarta (2026)

Some musical encounters begin with a discovery. Others begin long before the first note is played.

My journey to HJARTA does not begin today.

Søren Sol Koldsen-Zederkof has already crossed the pages of my reviews around the world, and on Nordavind through LOS. Maunah itself had already visited us with Heimaland, in 2025. On that occasion, I found a band that seemed to carry something far greater than those three tracks could contain. There was weight, melancholy, a strange feeling that the guitars were not describing a landscape, but carrying its temperature — and, above all, the impression that our first encounter was merely a door left ajar.

I ended that review by calling Maunah a diamond in the making.

Now they are back.

And perhaps the most dangerous part of encountering a band again is discovering that they took seriously what they had promised.

HJARTA does not arrive to repeat Heimaland. Nor does it seem interested in proving that Maunah has grown simply because there is now a full-length album. What we find here is more interesting: a band that seems to have understood its own language more deeply and decided to speak louder, deeper, and with far less fear of letting silence take part in the conversation.

Six tracks.

Just over forty-one minutes.

And there is an almost indecent amount of space within them.

Space for doom to expand without haste. For folk to slip through the cracks. For modern metal to introduce strength without crushing the atmosphere. For monumental guitars that know when to pull back. For drums that do not merely keep time, but guide the music through different states of consciousness.

And then there is Søren.

But not the Søren we encountered in LOS.

Or perhaps it is precisely him — simply seen through another landscape.

His voice still carries that ritualistic, ancestral quality, but here it encounters a different creature. In HJARTA, it does not necessarily need to tell us something. It seems intent on making us feel before we can understand.

Words cease to be boundaries.

Timbre becomes language.

Maunah’s vocal language works through sound, emotion, and cadence, allowing the voice to inhabit the composition almost as an entity of its own, without ever detaching itself from the instrumental organism.

Perhaps that is why HJARTA feels less like an album you listen to and more like a place you enter.

And places require time.

The band itself evokes images of despair and open skies, leaves crushed beneath one’s feet, cold passing through the forest floor, sunlight warming the skin, and air filling the lungs. I will not take these images as an explanation for the album.

I would rather discover whether the music can accomplish all of this on its own.

Because now there is a question hanging over these six tracks:

What happened to that diamond?

The answer begins with “Heimaland.”

The walk begins.

My listening journey through HJARTA begins.

And something needs to be remembered very clearly: there are albums… and there are albums.

Some will simply be part of the entertainment. Others will be the experience.

HJARTA comes to offer exactly that: experience, sensations, emotions.

So there is nothing more appropriate than giving this piece the time it demands.

Detach yourself from your busy world for a few moments and allow the guitars and harmonies, together with Søren’s voice, to gently carry you away.

From its very first movements, “Heimaland” establishes far more than weight: it builds a vast and deeply atmospheric sonic territory, in which every instrumental layer expands the dimension of the composition.

The guitars do not simply emerge to crush; they build. There is density, repetition, and a kind of deliberate hypnosis in their motifs, while bass and drums provide depth and movement. The composition shows no anxiety to reach its destination. It allows its ideas to remain long enough to transform into sensation.

And perhaps that is precisely where its strength lies.

The track grows progressively, accumulating intensity until it reaches moments of genuine grandeur. But when it could simply insist upon brute force, it retreats.

Approximately halfway through, the density gives way to a more sparse, contemplative passage, almost suspended in the air.

It is not a simple interlude.

It is absence.

And absence transforms everything that came before it.

The return of the instrumentation takes on another meaning. The music does not simply begin again; it returns carrying the memory of what has just happened.

We are no longer hearing the same “Heimaland” we left behind.

There is a sense of transformation, as though the very place had changed while we were away.

Its structure seems to follow an almost organic movement:

density, expansion, climax, rarefaction, reconstruction, new climax, and dissolution.

It is an architecture that privileges experience over haste.

And there is something particularly fascinating about this relationship between the music and its title.

Heimaland — homeland, home ground — might suggest shelter, belonging, return.

But the music offers a far more ambiguous interpretation.

Here, home does not necessarily mean comfort.

There is belonging, but there is also distance.

There is beauty, but something unsettling beneath its surface.

Like looking at a familiar landscape after many years and realizing that it is still yours, even though it is no longer quite the same.

It would therefore be far too easy to simply classify it as atmospheric, melancholic, or epic.

“Heimaland” is a landscape song, but not a postcard.

It evokes an ancient, cold, ancestral place where beauty and solitude coexist without needing to explain themselves.

And when it reaches its conclusion, it does not need a monumental explosion to prove what it has built.

It can simply dissolve.

Leaving behind the feeling that we have been somewhere — and that, for a few minutes, that place also existed within us.

Perhaps this is the greatest quality of “Heimaland”:

it does not seem interested in telling the listener a story.

It wants to make them remember one.

A considerable part of HJARTA’s power lies in the way its instruments do not compete for space. They build the same idea through different functions.

The guitars are the axis.

In “Solin Vaugna,” repetitive riffs and lines establish the track’s identity, alternating between density and openness. There is weight, but also an evident concern for texture. The guitars are not merely a wall of sound; they guide the music through different emotional states.

It is an important distinction.

Weight, here, is not synonymous with excess. It is dimension.

Jakob Kiilerich’s bass works close to the body of the composition. It fills the lower registers, anchors the guitars, and makes certain moments feel physically heavier. As the music becomes denser, its presence helps transform weight into something tangible, almost corporeal.

The drums are the pulse of the journey. They guide shifts in intensity without breaking the contemplative character of the compositions. When the track grows, they provide the strength necessary to transform atmosphere into grandeur; when they retreat, they preserve the tension the music needs to remain alive.

“Saivør” brings this collective grandeur to the surface.

The guitar provides the structure.

The bass gives it depth.

The drums set the steps in motion.

And between them there is enough room for each layer to remain audible and carry consequence.

In “Vætna,” this relationship finds another form of expression. Each instrument seems to understand its place without trying to occupy another’s territory. It is one of the album’s most mature qualities: Maunah understands that a heavy composition does not need to be filled at all times in order to feel immense.

Sometimes, all it takes is removing something.

Letting the composition reveal its own dimensions.

Allowing the echo to expose the size of the sonic environment.

This is where HJARTA distances itself from a purely generic reading of Nordic Doom Metal.

The roots of doom remain evident in the slowness, density, the gravity of the guitars, and the way the band understands the importance of time. But the album does not remain confined by them.

Nordic folk emerges as memory.

Modern metal appears as strength.

Atmosphere brings the two together.

And then there are the small details — those elements that may not immediately sit at the center of the composition, but transform the setting into something distinctly its own.

The overtone flute, played by Søren, is one of them. Its timbre seems to emerge from another time, introducing an almost primitive, ritualistic dimension among guitars, bass, drums, and voice.

It is not there to add exoticism.

It seems to belong to the music.

As though that sound had not been placed upon the composition, but discovered within it.

These small deviations expand HJARTA’s palette. Sounds that might disappear beneath the mass of the guitars are given enough room to exist, creating shifts in temperature throughout the compositions.

And this includes the very way Søren works with his voice.

There are moments when it sounds like singing, others when it approaches an ancestral vocalization, and still others when it deliberately merges with the instrumentation.

The voice is not simply above the music.

It inhabits the same organism.

This attention to texture helps explain why the Nordic folk element does not sound like a layer applied over the doom. It is woven into the album’s identity.

It is as if Maunah took the heavy structure of doom, opened its walls, and allowed other things to enter.

The wood.

The earth.

The wind.

Memory.

And perhaps it is precisely this delicacy in the details that makes the weight of HJARTA feel even greater.

Because a forest is not defined only by its trees.

It is defined by what exists between them.

And Maunah seems to understand this deeply.

When we reach the title track, “Hjarta,” the journey has already crossed much of this territory.

And then we realize that the album has been speaking about presence all along.

Not necessarily about a linear narrative, nor about events that need to be deciphered. But about what remains in the body after an experience has ended.

The six tracks function as parts of the same organism.

They are forty-one minutes built with a very particular understanding of space and movement.

That is why HJARTA does not feel like something meant to be played in the background while something else is happening.

It demands presence.

The production understands this. Tue Madsen, responsible for recording and mixing the bass and drums at Antfarm Studios, works alongside the overall mixing and mastering by Jens Moss Thorsen of Mossy Production, preserving weight and definition without turning atmosphere into a mere decorative effect.

The guitars breathe without losing density.

The bass remains present.

The drums have body.

And the voice moves through the layers without destroying the mystery surrounding it.

Even the silence seems to have been mixed.

There is a small distance between recognizing potential in a band and witnessing that potential begin to take shape.

In 2025, Heimaland left me standing before a door left ajar.

In 2026, HJARTA walks through that door.

The lineup of this new chapter brings together Søren Sol Koldsen-Zederkof on lead vocals, backing vocals, and overtone flute; Mads Medom Papsø Laursen on lead guitar; Janus Holst Aaen on guitar and backing vocals; Jakob Kiilerich on bass; and Tim Sejr Larsen on drums, following the departure of Danny Woe, Maunah’s co-founder and member of the previous lineup, who left the band due to creative differences.

It is a change that belongs to the band’s history and to this particular moment in its journey.

Because HJARTA does not sound like a band trying to discover who it wants to be.

It sounds like a band beginning to discover what it already was.

And perhaps that is the difference between a promise and an identity.

What I found in Heimaland was still taking shape.

Here, what was once possibility has gained substance.

Gained depth.

Gained silence.

Gained space.

And, above all, gained courage.

HJARTA does not try to drag us into darkness through force.

It builds an environment.

Lets the cold pass through the music.

Allows the light to appear for a few seconds before the shadows reclaim the path.

And when the final note disappears, there is that strange feeling that something has been left behind.

Or perhaps it has been left within us.

It is difficult to know.

Perhaps that is precisely the point.

Because some albums end when the music ends.

Others keep walking with us.

HJARTA belongs to the second category.

And now I can look once again at that diamond I mentioned in 2025.

It is no longer merely in the making.

It has begun to reflect the light.

RATE: 9,5/10

TRACK LISTING

1 – Heimaland

2 – Solin Vaugna

3 – Theinajau

4 – Saivør

5 – Vætna

6 – Hjarta

LINE-UP

Søren Sol Koldsen-Zederkof – lead & backing vocals, overtone flute

Mads Medom Papsø Laursen – lead guitars

Janus Holst Aaen – guitars, backing vocals

Jakob Kiilerich – bass

Tim Sejr Wettendorff Larsen – drums

Bass & drum recording & mix by Tue Madsen at Antfarm Studios, Aarhus (DK)

Guitars & vocals self-recorded by the artists at home studios (DK)

Mix & mastering by Jens Moss Thorsen at Mossy Production, Aarhus (DK)

Artwork by Søren Sol Koldsen-Zederkof

Layout by Łukasz Jaszak

Prophecy Productions — September 18, 2026
Nordic Doom Metal | 41:18

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Metalcore, Norwegian Band, World Music26.08.202626.08.2026

Musikkanmeldelse (Review): Kallevik – Blood Oath (2026)

There is something particularly unsettling about the idea of a blood oath. Not because blood is necessarily synonymous with violence, but because it transforms a promise into something almost irreversible. A word ceases to be merely a word when there is a price attached to it. It is precisely this image that seems to linger over Blood Oath, the new album from Norwegian metal project Kallevik, created by Sergey Kallevik in 2025.

Based in Haugesund, Sergey presents himself as the force behind Kallevik, a project that began to take shape when he brought in Thomas Torgersen and WC, a musician who chooses to remain anonymous and contributes synthesizer work. What began as an individual endeavor eventually developed into a three-piece project, with Thomas handling the main vocals while Sergey also contributes vocals on several tracks. Completing the album’s sonic architecture, Marcin Kotarabiński handles drums and mixing, while Maciej Dawidek is responsible for mastering. The record also features guest vocals from Fritz Emil Apeland and Dawid Zakrzewski, while the cover artwork itself was created by Sergey.

The album is set for release on Spotify on August 30, 2026, bringing together ten tracks that move through different atmospheres and territories within metal. But there is a much deeper story behind Blood Oath than its lineup and credits alone could reveal.

Much of the instrumental material was written between late 2025 and 2026, during a period deeply marked by grief, loss, survival, and the struggle to keep moving forward. Sergey himself explains that this experience inevitably left its mark on the album’s atmosphere and expression.

That does not turn Blood Oath into an album exclusively about death. And perhaps that distinction is important. What exists here is not necessarily a literal narrative about loss, but the imprint of an experience that became part of the creative process. There is a difference between writing about grief and creating while living through it.

And perhaps that is one of the reasons why the weight of Blood Oath seems to reach beyond distortion, speed, and sheer aggression.

Before we even reach the opening track, there is a journey that helps put Sergey into perspective as a musician. His experience stretches across different territories of the Haugesund scene, from heavy metal and solo work to death metal through Devour, the project he founded alongside Fritz Emil Apeland. Kallevik, however, does not simply emerge as an extension of those previous experiences. It becomes something else: a space where different parts of that journey can coexist beneath an entirely new identity.

And perhaps that freedom is precisely what makes Kallevik so compelling.

Rather than treating the past as a mandatory blueprint, Sergey appears to use it as raw material. Blood Oath does not need to erase what came before in order to establish its own territory; it simply chooses to move in another direction.

Interestingly, the only composition on the album that was not written during this more recent period is “Insens”. Sergey wrote the track when he was approximately fourteen to sixteen years old, decades before Kallevik even existed. The fact that a composition created during his adolescence survived the passing years and ultimately found its place on his first album with the project adds a particularly fascinating dimension to the record. It is almost as if a much older part of Sergey had traveled through time to find its place in an entirely different chapter of his life.

And so “Evocatio Mortuorum” opens the album.

The title immediately places us in ritualistic territory. The evocation of the dead carries with it the sensation of a summoning, as though the album begins not with an introduction, but with the opening of a threshold. The past is called back, and whatever had been buried is no longer willing to remain silent.

The introduction announces the album’s arrival like a genuine funeral procession, with powerful acoustic guitars intertwined with the pounding of the drums, carrying that summons forward. There is solemnity in these opening moments, but it never becomes contemplation. It feels more like the instant before a door is opened.

And when that door swings open, “Gorgon Sisters” leaves no room for hesitation.

The Gorgons carry one of the most recognizable images in Greek mythology, yet their presence here feels less like decorative mythology and more like part of an atmosphere where beauty, monstrosity, and power coexist. There is something fascinating about the way mythological figures continue to find a home within extreme music, precisely because their symbols remain recognizable even after so many centuries.

The guitars tear through the atmosphere, and then the drums and bass begin to trace every note with relentless consistency, driving through the track like an unstoppable steam engine. The vocals are as volatile as the moments of lead work, while the riffs pulverize whatever traces of initial calm may have remained.

There is no hesitation.

The track moves as though it has found only one possible direction and simply refuses to look back.

“The Eagle” shifts the perspective once again. The image of the eagle carries associations of strength, dominance, freedom, and a vision seen from above. After walking among the dead and the mythological creatures, the album seems to gain altitude, as though for a moment we are allowed to observe everything from a greater distance.

Yet it is precisely here that the boundaries between different branches of metal seem to become less rigid. Heavy genres collide and merge, setting the tone for which Norwegian blackened metal remains one of the most fertile territories for aggressive atmosphere.

Fast, fierce, and relentless, “The Eagle” turns speed into a narrative device. The unison vocals add grandeur, while the entire instrumental seems to spin furiously around them.

But the distance does not last long.

“World Contamination” brings our gaze back to the world we know. The title itself partially leaves the realm of mythology to touch upon something much closer and, perhaps for that reason, more unsettling. Contamination is no longer a threat belonging to some distant past or a legendary creature.

It belongs to our own time.

The imagery of Blood Oath begins to move beyond the purely fantastical and takes on an almost apocalyptic dimension. The density remains voracious, yet moments of atmosphere emerge as bridges within the composition, allowing the music to breathe before launching another assault.

Marcin sounds abyssal here, while the guitars and vocals catapult the sound to an even higher level. The drums sustain the weight without allowing it to become static, resulting in a composition that constantly feels as though it is about to exceed its own limits. Because monsters are easy to recognize when they have a face, a name, and an origin. Far more difficult is recognizing what contaminates us when the threat has already become part of the world we inhabit.

“Insens” shifts the perspective once again.

Knowing that this is the only composition on the album written decades before its existence inevitably changes the way it is heard. The song was born when Sergey was still a teenager and remained with him until finding its place on Blood Oath. There is no need to assign it a meaning the composer himself has not declared in order to recognize the uniqueness of that journey.

There is something almost ghostly about the idea of a composition crossing so many years only to finally find its moment.

Musically, the harsh vocals ignite the instrumental, which develops with remarkable precision. The aggression remains, but there is movement within it, and the track demonstrates that intensity does not have to mean repetition.

We then continue through the album with “Rat King”, whose very image provokes discomfort and evokes something seemingly caught between the natural and the aberrant. After the dead, mythological creatures, symbols of power, and a contaminated world, the choice of this title feels entirely consistent with the universe Blood Oath has been constructing.

But the feeling that the album intends to leave the listener little to no room to breathe becomes even more apparent from here onward.

“Arsonist” builds steadily, shifting between a magnetic opening and insane riffs that seem to set every passage ablaze. The gutturals gain power and magnetism, accompanied by acceleration and a singular fervor that makes the track one of the album’s most intense experiences so far.

Metalcore remains as present as blood coursing through the veins of these fervent musicians. There is something almost organic in the way the instruments move forward, and the track finds a compelling balance between weight, speed, and progressive development that makes it, so far, one of the album’s finest moments.

But Blood Oath seems determined to steal every last second of breathing room from the listener, and “False Son” will show no mercy.

The sense of urgency remains, but the composition demonstrates that aggression does not have to mean a lack of craftsmanship. There is a masterful interplay between guitars, bass, and drums, allowing the weight to be carried by a constant interaction between the instruments.

And it is precisely this interaction that becomes increasingly apparent as we move forward.

There is truly masterful work between guitars, bass, and drums throughout this album, and if there is still any doubt, simply fire up “The Dancing Plague”. The track understands perfectly the relationship between brutality and movement, opening itself up until even the vocals feel like an invitation to the mosh pit.

It is difficult to remain completely still in front of a song that seems built to turn heaviness into physical movement.

And then we arrive at “Shadows”.

The album finds a particularly interesting way to conclude its journey.

After moving through different levels of aggression, Blood Oath closes with subtlety — but do not mistake subtlety for fragility. Brutal heavy metal confronts death metal in a destructive final passage, creating an ending that seems to bring together the different faces of the identity Kallevik has built throughout the record.

There is something circular about this conclusion.

The album began by summoning what had been buried, and ends by leaving shadows behind.

And perhaps that is where Blood Oath finds one of its greatest strengths.

The album does not seem to need a literal narrative in order to create a sense of unity. Its imagery functions as fragments of the same universe, connected by an atmosphere that remains even as the themes shift. There is an evident concern with what symbols can evoke, but also with what they can represent when removed from their original contexts.

Throughout this journey, the vocals naturally assume particular importance. Thomas Torgersen provides the main vocals, while Sergey also contributes vocals on several tracks. The album further features contributions from Fritz Emil Apeland and Dawid Zakrzewski, expanding its vocal dimension without taking away from Kallevik‘s fundamentally personal character.

WC, while maintaining anonymity, adds synthesizers to the album’s sonic architecture, while Marcin Kotarabiński not only handles drums but also mixing. Maciej Dawidek completes the process with mastering.

And there is something particularly interesting about this configuration.

Kallevik began as Sergey’s idea, but it did not remain an entirely solitary work. By bringing Thomas and WC into the project, he allowed it to naturally evolve into a three-piece without relinquishing its central identity.

That combination seems to reflect the very essence of Blood Oath: a deeply personal work that nevertheless found strength through collaboration.

Perhaps that is precisely why the name Kallevik works so well.

Not as a simple continuation of any of Sergey’s previous experiences, but as a point where different paths can finally coexist without one needing to dominate the other.

Even the cover follows this same logic. Created by Sergey himself, it adds a visual extension to the album that is inseparable from its musical creation. The same artist responsible for much of the music also created the image through which it is introduced to the world.

Blood Oath seems to look backward, but it does not live in the past. It draws upon ancient symbols, mythological imagery, and concepts associated with death and ritual, yet places them against questions that remain deeply present. The contamination of the world, violence, decay, fear, and our relationship with what we cannot control remain thoroughly modern concerns, even when dressed in images that could have emerged from some forgotten legend.

There are experiences that permanently change the way we see the world. In Blood Oath, Sergey transforms part of a period of grief, survival, and rebuilding into artistic expression, without allowing pain to become the only lens through which his music can be understood.

The music remains at the center.

And perhaps that is precisely what matters most.

Because some works are born from the need to say what words cannot reach. Others are born from the need to simply keep creating when continuing feels difficult.

Blood Oath seems to carry a little of both.

Sergey Kallevik has found here a way to bring together experiences, influences, and different paths traveled throughout his musical journey under an identity that, despite being young, already demonstrates a character of its own.

Here, then, is a project that strikes with force, ready to come alive.

Blood Oath is not merely the introduction of a new formation. It is the materialization of a creative process that has passed through different moments, different experiences, and different versions of its own creator.

In that sense, it is less a conclusion than a statement.

A signature.

A step forward.

And when the final notes of “Shadows” disappear, perhaps what remains is precisely the feeling a good oath should leave behind: that some things, once spoken, cannot simply be undone.

The blood dries.

The wound heals.

But some promises remain.

And there is something else that remains with me after this listening experience. I rarely keep albums in my personal listening rotation for very long after completing a review; usually, once the work is done, I move on to the next one. Blood Oath, however, is one of those exceptions that seems to ask for more than a single listen. This is undoubtedly an album I will keep returning to, not only because of the strength it demonstrates across all ten tracks, but because of the identity Kallevik has already managed to establish with its first release.

Now all that remains is to hope that this oath will soon take physical form as well. Because Blood Oath deserves to leave the screens, digital files, and headphones behind and occupy a real place among those albums we choose to keep.

I sincerely hope to see it receive a physical release very soon.

RATE: 10/10

TRACK LISTING
1 – Evocatio Mortuorum
2 – Gorgon Sisters
3 – The Eagle
4 – World Contamination
5 – Insens
6 – Rat King
7 – Arsonist
8 – False Son

9 – The Dancing Plague

10 – Shadows

LINE- UP

Music by Sergey Kallevik

Vocals – Thomas Torgersen/Fritz Emil Apeland/Sergey Kallevik and David Zakrzewski

Drums – Marcin Kotarabinski

Mixed by Marcin Kotarabinski

Mastered by Maciej Dawidek

Graphics by Sergey Kallevik

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Australian Metal, World Music25.08.2026

Musikkanmeldelse (Review): Apophis – Wingless Dominion (2026)

There is something particularly fascinating about following a project for years: eventually, you stop merely listening to a new release and begin to recognize the movements, the restlessness, and even the ruptures taking place behind it. In the case of APOPHIS, the project led by Australian musician Aidan Cibich, Wingless Dominion, released on April 2, 2026, represents precisely that kind of moment.

After following the project’s journey and writing about its previous works, it is impossible to approach this new album expecting nothing more than a linear continuation of everything that came before. Aidan has decided to open a new door — and this time, it leads directly into territory more experimental than ever.

Oversikt over salgene: De beste kuppene nå

With 14 tracks spanning just over an hour, Wingless Dominion does not seem interested in offering the listener a comfortable or predictable experience. There is a constant sense of transformation here, as though Apophis itself were testing the limits of everything it has built so far. And perhaps it is precisely this willingness to experiment that makes this work so relevant within its discography.

A few days ago, a metal enthusiast asked me whether bands can change so dramatically within a single album that they completely break free from the boundaries of their genre. They can. There are artists who, in one way or another, keep returning, bringing new forms, new ideas, and that almost curious feeling of encountering someone you have known for years who can still manage to surprise you.

That is exactly how I feel about Wingless Dominion, the new album from APOPHIS.

And perhaps it is impossible to talk about this album without looking a little into the past.

After all, Aidan is not a name that appeared here yesterday.

Back in 2017, when Apophis presented Under A Godless Moon, there was already something particularly intriguing about this Adelaide-based musician. The instrumental approach managed to transcend the limitations we normally associate with a vocal-free work, using guitars, drums, and atmosphere to construct a narrative of its own. A year later, Virulent Host arrived, demonstrating that this was far from a passing creative spark. On the contrary: there was growth, there was restlessness, and there was a musician willing to push his own compositions into increasingly darker places.

At the time, I wrote about how profoundly Aidan had evolved.

Today, so many years later, perhaps that statement needs to be reconsidered.

Because Wingless Dominion is not interested merely in showing how much Aidan has evolved.

It wants to show how much he can still change.

These 14 tracks span approximately one hour and six minutes, and from the very beginning there is a clear sense that we are witnessing a new stage in the project’s journey. This is not simply a matter of repeating a formula that worked before, adding a few layers, and delivering another instrumental album. Aidan has chosen to experiment to the fullest extent of his growth as a producer.

And that completely changes the way we should listen to this work.

“Cathedral of Burning Stars” opens the album like a kind of portal. The title itself carries a grand, almost cosmic image, but it is the sonic construction that establishes the scale of this new phase. There is something more open, more exploratory, and less concerned with remaining within the boundaries one might expect from a project so deeply rooted in instrumental Death Metal.

It is like watching a structure we know begin to unravel before our eyes, revealing something else within.

And for someone who has followed Apophis for years, that is fascinating.

Because Aidan has not abandoned what made him recognizable.

He has simply stopped treating it as a prison.

On Virulent Host, there was a sense of desperation running beneath every composition. The guitar assumed the role of a blade, the instruments seemed to plunge into a spiral of chaos, and the atmosphere led the listener through landscapes of melancholy, instability, and darkness. There was brutality, but there was also an enormous concern with atmosphere and dynamics.

Apophis now surrenders itself to a more electronic realm, filled with minute details and shimmering flashes that open up entirely new sonic landscapes.

Wingless Dominion builds upon that experience, but it does not seem satisfied with remaining there.

The second track, “Crimson Wings Without Mercy”, reinforces this perception. There is weight, there is aggression, there is an ability to create imagery through the guitars, but there is also a greater freedom in the way these ideas are carried forward. Aidan seems less interested in proving that he can play something brutal and far more interested in discovering what he can do with everything he already knows.

And this difference is fundamental.

When I have followed a musician for so many years, one of the things that interests me most is not simply discovering whether a new album is “heavier” or “more technical”. Technique, by itself, has never been enough to make a work memorable.

What truly matters to me is whether there is evolution.

And there is.

Very much so.

Apophis has always possessed an instrumental nature, but Wingless Dominion transforms that characteristic into an even greater possibility. Without relying on a voice to lead the narrative, Aidan allows the textures themselves to assume different roles. A guitar can become melody, atmosphere, tension, or simply a presence moving through the composition like a shadow.

This is where the experimental side of the album truly begins to make sense.

We are not looking at a musician trying to abandon his identity in order to appear different.

We are looking at a musician who knows his own identity well enough to finally play with it.

And perhaps that is the difference between experimenting out of necessity and experimenting out of freedom.

“Crimson Wings Without Mercy” feels like the soundtrack to one of those hyper-modern, Cyberpunk-style games, completely free and detached from any label.

“The Knight Who Chose Ruin” matches this new guise with unexpected, pulsating bass lines, almost as though they were clandestinely rising into the air. And just when you think you have finally understood the album, “Duel Beneath a Burning Heaven” rises from the depths, calling forth a response to the agitated, modernist rhythms of the dance floors of the 1980s. There is a delicate fusion here, almost like the song of whales intertwined with insane keyboards and weighty bass lines, creating an unusual contrast for anyone who has only ever viewed Apophis through the lens of darkness.

There is subtlety as well in “Orbit of the Forsaken” and its sumptuous acoustic guitar, which emerges as a gentle introduction to different rhythms that blend together without ever clashing. It is neither metal nor electronic; there is breath, there are minute details, and there are shimmering plains that warm the hearts of those who love music, without necessarily needing a label.

From the ethereal agitation of “Apparition”, to the indulgence of “Crown of Ash”, or even the stellar fusion of “Ghosts of Zero”, APOPHIS travels through sound like a comet ready to strike its final target.

I always like to think about how much a musician or band is capable of growing and evolving, not merely to make money — well, money is part of it — but for the sake of art, musicianship, and the free spirit through which every artist weaves their ideas at the beginning, a spirit that many lose throughout their careers. APOPHIS has surrendered itself to a passion for music, evolution, and brilliance. Whether through “Wingless Dominion”, with its cinematic touch accompanied by blazing drums, or the calm sands of “A Kingdom Built on Falling Stars”, Aidan presents us with the originality and virtuosity of a musician maturing and leaving behind a solid legacy, as dynamic as his own soul seems to be.

Whether through the mystical atmosphere and soundscape of “In the Shadow of Perfect Foresight”, intertwined with MPB and moments that remind me of Bossa Nova lines and Latin rhythms, or through its closing track, “Hymn of the Unforgiven Sky”, with its Oriental flourishes, this is a fabulous album for those who live for music and breathe art.

Across its 66 minutes, Wingless Dominion presents a constant sense of movement. The album does not seem eager to reveal everything at once. It allows certain atmospheres to breathe, certain ideas to develop, and the listener to remain within that universe long enough to perceive its subtle transformations.

It is an experience that demands more attention than simply pressing play while doing something else.

And, honestly, thank goodness for that.

Because Apophis has never been a project that deserved to be heard halfway.

Aidan Cibich has built his journey precisely upon this ability to transform instruments into narrative. From the earliest works, the absence of vocals never meant an absence of discourse. Quite the opposite: at times, it feels as though the guitars are saying what a voice simply could not translate.

Today, after all these years, that characteristic remains, but it appears from a different perspective.

If Under A Godless Moon presented an identity in formation, and Virulent Host demonstrated an aggressive and deeply atmospheric evolution, Wingless Dominion seems to represent the moment when the musician looks back at the entire path he has travelled and asks:

“And now, how far can I take this?”

That is the question that remains after listening.

And perhaps it is also the album’s greatest strength.

There is nothing more dangerous for an artist than discovering a formula that works and deciding never to abandon it.

Aidan did the opposite.

He could have simply continued exploring what he had already established for Apophis. He could have delivered another instrumental work filled with extreme riffs, dark atmospheres, and that signature longtime listeners already recognize.

But he chose to open a new door.

And Wingless Dominion walks straight through it.

There is something almost symbolic about the title itself.

Wingless Dominion.

A dominion without wings.

But perhaps wings were never necessary.

Perhaps Apophis spent years building its strength only to discover that it did not need to keep flying in the same way.

After following Aidan since the project’s earliest days, returning to Apophis in 2026 evokes a feeling quite different from the one I had when I listened to Virulent Host in 2018. Back then, I saw a musician in full ascent, someone whose creativity seemed to grow with every release.

Today, I find something different.

I find a musician who already knows his territory — and who has finally decided to set it ablaze to discover what lies beyond the ashes.

Wingless Dominion is not merely another album in Apophis‘ journey.

It is a change in perspective.

It is experimental without completely abandoning its roots, atmospheric without relinquishing its weight, and bold precisely because it does not seem concerned with asking permission to be different.

And perhaps that is what I enjoy most about this reunion.

Aidan is still Aidan.

Apophis is still Apophis.

But neither of them is exactly where we left them.

And after following this journey for so many years, I can say that this is precisely what I hoped to find.

Not a repetition.

Not an attempt to reproduce the past.

But a new territory to explore.

Wingless Dominion is available on major streaming platforms and digital stores, including Spotify, Deezer, Amazon Music, and Qobuz, with the album also available to experience in Hi-Res quality.

For those who have followed Apophis since its earliest days, this album may come as a surprise.

For those discovering the project now, perhaps this is the perfect time to go back to the beginning and understand the journey that led here.

Because some stories become better when we know their previous chapters.

And the story of Apophis is, without a doubt, far from over.

RATE: 9/10

Highlights: “Cathedral of Burning Stars” and “Crimson Wings Without Mercy”.

TRACK LISTING

1 – Cathedral of Burning Stars

2 Crimson Wings Without Mercy

3 – The Knight Who Chose Ruin

4 – Duel Beneath a Burning Heaven

5 – Orbit of the Forsaken

6 – Apparition

7 – Crown of Ash

8 – Ghosts of Zero

9 – The Nothingness

10 – Waltz of Endless Vengeance

11 – Wingless Dominion

12 – A Kingdom Built on Falling Stars

13 – In The Shadow of Perfect Foresight

14 – Hymn of the Unforgiven Sky

LINE-UP

Release date: April 2, 2026
14 tracks | 1h06min
Aidan Cibich — composition and instrumentation

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Doom Metal, Norwegian Band, Progressive, Progressive Metal13.08.202613.08.2026

Musikkanmeldelse (Review): HEX A.D. — SURGICAL CUTS IN THE COSMOS (2026)

A deep cut into infinity, and we keep delving deeper into the bowels of the Norwegian music scene.
There are albums that come to us as music.

Good, average, simply music.

Others arrive as places.
SURGICAL CUTS IN THE COSMOS, the seventh album by Hex A.D., is one of those places — dark, heavy, strange and, at certain moments, surprisingly beautiful.

Released on May 22, 2026, through Apollon Records, the album brings together seven tracks spanning just over 45 minutes. And perhaps it could not have been any other way.
From the title itself, there is a feeling that we are facing some kind of intervention. Not a distant observation of the universe, but an attempt to open it up and discover what lies beneath the surface.
Hex A.D. does not seem interested in simply looking at the cosmos.
They seem to want to open it, with a scalpel and without anesthesia. And that is exactly how this album begins to make sense.
Before the cut, meet the surgeon.
For those who still do not know Hex A.D., perhaps we need to go back a few years.
The story begins in 2011, in Larvik, Vestfold, Norway, when drummer and vocalist Rick Hagan and legendary British producer Chris Tsangarides began the project that would initially be known as Hex, later becoming Hex A.D.

Metal Archives records the project’s activity as beginning in 2011 under the name Hex and describes the band as a project conceived by Hagan and Tsangarides.
Hagan did not arrive at the project as an unknown musician. His journey had already taken him through bands such as Absolute Steel and 21st Century Rox, as well as work as a drummer for international names who passed through Norway, including Blaze Bayley, Tim “Ripper” Owens and Paul Di’Anno.
This experience also helps us understand the confidence with which Hex A.D. moves between different territories of heavy rock.
But perhaps the best way to understand the band is to forget, for a few minutes, about labels.
Doom?
Yes.
Progressive metal?
Also.
Classic hard rock, stoner, psychedelia?
Absolutely!

Hex A.D. has always seemed to exist precisely in that territory where these things stop being separate boxes and begin to speak to one another.
It is heavy music, but it is not only about heaviness.
It is progressive music, but it does not need to turn every composition into a demonstration of virtuosity.
It is deeply influenced by the 1970s, but it never seems to be trying to pretend that we are in 1974.
And this identity has been built over more than a decade.
Now, in 2026, the band arrives at a new moment.
A lineup carrying history — and what a history!
The lineup we find on SURGICAL CUTS IN THE COSMOS brings together Rick Hagan on vocals, guitars, drums and bass pedals; Are With Gogstad on bass; Mags Johansen on Hammond, Mellotron, piano and keyboards; Matt Hagan on drums; and Rowan Robertson on guitars. Robertson became an official member in 2025, after previous contributions to the band.
And there is something particularly interesting about this lineup.
Each musician adds a different layer to the sound.
Rick Hagan remains the gravitational center of the band: voice, guitar, songwriting and also drums, establishing many of the foundations upon which the album is built. The album credits him with drums, lead and rhythm guitars, bass pedals and all vocals.
Are Gogstad is responsible for part of that weight that we do not necessarily notice immediately, but that we feel. The bass does not simply follow the guitars; it helps build the ground upon which the entire album moves. And there is a delicious little curiosity here: to deal with the gravity of these songs, Gogstad reconfigured his bass using the four lower strings from a five-string set. The result is precisely that depth that seems to come from somewhere beneath the floor.
Mags Johansen brings another dimension and opens up new layers. Hammond, Mellotron, piano and keyboards do not appear merely to color the songs. There are moments when his instruments seem to come from somewhere much darker than the guitar itself. The influence of horror soundtracks and dissonant textures becomes particularly interesting on this album.
Matt Hagan and Rick, meanwhile, discovered during the previous era of live shows a rather specific passion: playing with two drum kits. And they decided to take that experience into the studio.
The result is exactly the kind of decision that suits Hex A.D.
Why have one drum kit when we can have two?
Because the universe is already too big. We need more noise to fill it.
I confess that this review should have been available long before the album was released, but new nuances also require new habits, and I couldn’t resist letting this gem roll around a few dozen times during my travels before I could definitively speak about it.
This album needed the road, time, the refreshing summer breeze to unleash sensations.
And then the cut begins.
“Reintroducing a Bit of Heat” opens the album with a guitar that seems to know exactly where it wants to go.
There is no long ceremony.
There is no need to build suspense for minutes. The riff comes in and takes up space.
The song has that characteristic doom weight, but it does not remain trapped inside it. There is movement, there is groove, and there is an energy that makes the track move forward instead of simply sinking.
It is an extremely effective opening because it immediately establishes the album’s new posture.
Simpler.
Heavier.
Dirtier.
More physical.

The band itself summarized this change with three particularly appropriate words: “Simpler, harder, dirtier, heavier!”
The release material also emphasizes that the album moves away from grand concepts in favor of sonic impact and a production deliberately less tied to the retro aesthetic. And perhaps it is precisely this freedom that allows the album to breathe.
We arrive at “A Bloody Mess” and, if the first track opens the door, “A Bloody Mess” comes in through the window.
There is something almost punk about the way the song moves.
It is more compact, more nervous and more insolent.
And that is great!
Because there is one quality we sometimes forget when talking about heavy music: fun.
Everything does not need to be monumental.
Not every riff needs to carry a philosophy.
Sometimes a riff simply needs to be good enough to make you want to turn up the volume. “A Bloody Mess” understands that.
The guitars have dirt, the vocals gain an appropriate roughness, and the rhythm section keeps the track in constant motion.
It is Hex A.D. saying:
“Yes, we know how to make progressive music. But today we simply want to destroy something.”
The cuts deepen, and “Black Rope Candy” is where the body of this album begins to change its skin, plunging deeper into the band’s psychedelic and progressive side.
It is a track that does not need to hurry.
It prefers to create an atmosphere.
And here Mags Johansen’s keyboards begin to take on a special importance.
There is something almost cinematic in certain moments, but not in the grand, conventional sense.
It is closer to an old horror film.
A dark room.
A half-open door.
Something you know should not be there.
Hex A.D. has always had this ability to transform classic influences into something of its own, but on this album that characteristic seems particularly evident.
It is not nostalgia.
It is musical memory transformed.
“Perfectly Fatal” is perhaps one of the tracks where the band’s past speaks most clearly with its present.
There is that inevitable shadow of Black Sabbath — especially in the bass and riffs — but Hex A.D. does not remain trapped within Sabbath.
The composition moves.
The guitars breathe.
The melodic elements come and go.
And there is a very important quality here: control.
A band can be heavy simply because it plays everything loud.
Knowing how to build heaviness is something else.
Hex A.D. belongs to the second category, definitely.
Heaviness, in this case, is not just distortion.
It is expectation.
It is space.
It is a note that remains for just long enough for the brain to begin imagining the next one.
And when it arrives, we are already waiting for it.
Then comes “P.I.G.” – here I need to turn up the volume and take a deep breath before diving in.
Almost ten minutes.
And suddenly, the scalpel finds a deeper layer.
This is one of the tracks where Hex A.D. most clearly allows its progressive side to manifest without apologizing for taking up space. The song alternates atmospheres, textures and moments of greater heaviness, functioning almost like a small journey within the album itself.
And it is difficult not to pay attention.
“P.I.G.” does not seem to be trying simply to reach the next chorus.
It wants to build something.
At certain moments, the guitar seems to float.
Then the atmosphere begins to grow more unsettling.
The keyboards enter like shadows.
The weight gradually appears.
And when we finally realize where we are, we have already traveled a considerable distance.
It is probably the moment when the album most clearly demonstrates that reducing its conceptual character does not mean reducing its ambition.
Quite the opposite.
Hex A.D. has simply traded the need to tell one single grand story for the freedom to allow each song to have a life of its own.
But, dear readers, do not get used to the silky layers. “The Devil Makes Work for Idle Hands” arrives like morphine being injected: painful and deliciously delirious.
The title already carries a provocation.
The song delivers another.
“The Devil Makes Work for Idle Hands” may be the moment when the album comes closest to stoner doom in its heaviest form.
The riff seems to have a weight of its own.
The bass deepens everything.
The drums push from behind.
And Rick Hagan’s voice finds that point between melody and roughness that works so well within the band’s sound.
But there is something more interesting happening.
Hex A.D. does not treat melody as the opposite of heaviness.
Here, melody increases the weight.
It is like a faint light inside a dark room.
It does not diminish the darkness.
It makes us realize its size.
“Death of a Thousand Cuts,” and we reach the end.
Or the final cut.
“Death of a Thousand Cuts” closes the album at more than nine minutes and returns to that broader construction we also found in “P.I.G.”
There is space.
There is melody.
There is a kind of contemplation.
But there is not exactly peace.
Because after everything we have heard, it would be strange if the album simply ended smiling.
There are consequences!
The guitars seem to carry some of the marks left by the previous tracks.
The keyboards once again expand the space.
And the song grows without needing to turn its ending into a gratuitous explosion.
It simply comes to an end.
And then comes the silence.
That is when we realize whether an album truly left something behind.
And this one did.
A different Hex A.D.?
Yes.
But not unrecognizable.
That may be the greatest victory of SURGICAL CUTS IN THE COSMOS.
The band has not abandoned what it built over fifteen years.
It has simply removed a few layers.
After more conceptual and experimental works, Hex A.D. seems to have felt the need to return to the most basic pleasure of a heavy rock band:
Riff, volume, groove, melody and attitude.
The result is not a step backward.
It is a kind of purification.
And perhaps that is why the album feels so alive.
The label itself describes SURGICAL CUTS IN THE COSMOS as rawer, dirtier and heavier, with a production less committed to the retro aesthetic and a combination of low-tuned guitars, deep bass, dark atmospheric keyboards and two drum kits.
But there is a difference between reading this and listening to it.
Because on paper they are merely characteristics.
In music, they become sensation.
Rowan Robertson and the guitar that arrived from another universe.
It is impossible to talk about this album without talking about Rowan Robertson.
The British guitarist brings with him a history that could easily make his presence seem like some kind of special attraction: he was Dio’s guitarist and had already collaborated with Hex A.D. before becoming an official member in 2025.
But the most important thing is not the résumé.
It is what his fingers do within these songs.
Robertson adds a guitar language deeply connected to classic rock, with melodies and solos that find their place within the heavy riffs without seeming out of place.
He does not arrive to turn Hex A.D. into another band.
He arrives to expand what the band already was.
And that difference is enormous.
Because a guest can attract attention.
A member can change an architecture.
Here, the architecture seems to have found new windows.
The weight of five musicians who know exactly where they are
Perhaps this is the point at which SURGICAL CUTS IN THE COSMOS truly sets itself apart.
The band does not seem to be searching for a new identity.
It has already found one.
Now it is experimenting with just how far it can expand it.
The result is an album that can be heard as doom, progressive metal, stoner, classic heavy rock or simply as Hex A.D.
And that last definition may be the most important.
Because influences exist in all music.
What matters is what an artist does after absorbing them.
Black Sabbath is here.
Rainbow is here.
Uriah Heep is here.
Pink Floyd appears in the atmospheres.
Prog is hidden within the structures.
Stoner appears in the grooves.
But the final result does not belong to any of these bands.
It belongs to Hex A.D.
The final cut.
Perhaps that is why I keep coming back to the title.
SURGICAL CUTS IN THE COSMOS.
There is something almost cruel about that image.
Because surgery implies precision, but the album is not delicate.
It is precise, not delicate.
Hex A.D. knows where to place the riff.
It knows when to let the Hammond enter.
It knows when the drums need to push.
It knows when a guitar simply needs to disappear for a few seconds so that something else can breathe.
And, above all, it knows when to stop trying to impress.
That is maturity.
Not the silent maturity of someone who has lost the desire to make noise.
The maturity of someone who has already made enough noise to know which noise truly matters.
SURGICAL CUTS IN THE COSMOS is not the album of a band trying to prove that it still has something to say.
It is the album of a band that seems to have discovered that it still has a lot to say — and that it no longer needs to explain so much.
Just play.
Just let the riff come in.
Just open the first incision.
And then let the blood run.

Verdict?
9.8/10

SURGICAL CUTS IN THE COSMOS is one of Hex A.D.‘s most convincing works precisely because it does not try to be the biggest, the most complex or the most conceptual.
It wants to be heavy.
It wants to be strange.
It wants to be melodic.
It wants to be dirty.
It wants to be progressive when it feels like it.
And, above all, it wants to sound alive.
It succeeds.
It is an album that respects its roots without becoming a museum piece; that knows doom without becoming trapped in slowness; that knows progressive rock without turning virtuosity into an end in itself; that knows classic rock without wearing nostalgia as a costume.
And perhaps that is the true surgery.
Not opening the cosmos to discover some answer.
But opening music itself to remember why it still pulses.
Hex A.D. began its journey in Larvik in 2011.
Fifteen years later, it continues doing exactly what a great heavy rock band should do:
look into the abyss, turn up the volume and ask what happens if we cut a little deeper.
This time, they brought no anesthesia.
And, honestly?
Thank goodness!

7 tracks – 45:38 of pure essence.

Lineup
Rick Hagan — drums, lead and rhythm guitars, bass pedals and vocals
Are With Gogstad — bass
Mags Johansen — Hammond, Mellotron, piano and keyboards
Matt Hagan — drums
Rowan Robertson — lead, rhythm and acoustic guitars

Tracklist

1 – Reintroducing a Bit of Heat
2 – A Bloody Mess
3 – Black Rope Candy
4 – Perfectly Fatal
5 – P.I.G.
6 – The Devil Makes Work for Idle Hands
7 – Death of a Thousand Cuts

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Blogg, Metal, Modern Metal10.04.2026

Musikkanmeldelse (Review): Cope – The Mirror (2026)

We’re back, folks, and for this week’s discussion, my radar turns to THE MIRROR, the name of the robust new album arriving in the metal trenches on May 8, 2026, courtesy of the ingenious musician Drew Cope, an American musician, composer, and vocalist known for his artistic versatility and for moving between sounds ranging from dark alternative to emotional ambient rock. Cope remains based in the United States, where he developed his musical identity from influences of alternative rock, atmospheric music, electronic textures, and introspective lyrics marked by vulnerability and self-reflection.

Among the countless voices trying to rise within modern metal, few truly reach the weight, conviction, and authenticity required to carve out their own territory. Drew Cope — or simply Cope, in his solo journey — is one of those rare exceptions. An extreme vocalist, multi-instrumentalist, and producer, he doesn’t merely take part in heavy music: he breathes it, commanding every cog in the machinery of chaos.
Cope’s trajectory isn’t made of small steps, but of big stages. Playing for more than a thousand people alongside iconic names such as Winger, Warrant, HammerFall, and Delain is not just a résumé — it’s a trial by fire. Cope placed himself where few dare to stand — among giants — and came out of it greater, sharper, and increasingly aware of his own artistic power.
His ability to move between bands, projects, and musical personalities reveals an artist who understands the language of metal with rare depth. Vecta, THOUGHTCRIME, Draghoria, Darkest Void, Ab-$track, Immortal Sÿnn, Greater Flood — Cope navigates between styles and concepts without ever losing his signature: solid technique, a strong identity, and a vocal aggression that isn’t just displayed, but controlled with surgical precision.
His academic background reinforces what his career already made clear. With a Master’s degree in Music Production from CU Denver, contributions to music engineering and performance programs at the Colorado School of Mines, and direct mentorship under renowned names like Rich Veltrop and Glenn Sawyer at The Spot Studios, Cope merges the theoretical world with the instinctive one. And that balance is precisely what elevates his work as a producer and mentor. He teaches like someone who has lived — and survived — the road.

Speaking of the road, he spent six months touring with Immortal Sÿnn, where he not only performed but also managed, built connections, and forged pathways that many managers would take years to establish. Cope is a musician, yes — but also a strategic mind, and that always shapes the final outcome.
Coming soon, with 11 tracks ready for release under the name Cope, he prepares for the debut of his album “The Mirror“. Inspired by the struggle between who we are and who we aim to become, the record is already drawing attention before even being released. This isn’t speculation — it’s fact.
For anyone who doubts, the proof is visual: his one-take performance of “Atlantic” (Sleep Token) showcases not only technique but emotional delivery. No tricks, no hidden layers — just an artist with complete command of his craft.
Drew Cope is, above all, intensity.

The kind of artist who doesn’t just create music — he creates identity. And if “The Mirror” fulfills everything it promises, modern metal may be on the verge of gaining one of the most important names of its new generation.
I finally begin my listening experience with “Beckoning Tide,” an almost solemn soundscape of piano and soft vocals that evoke the nostalgia of the golden age of more touching melodic metal, but which here evolves into a more vibrant and determined sonic confrontation where each instrument takes center stage before a fusion that brings sense to the chaos, bordering on the most extreme rhythms without losing the beauty of technique and subtlety.
Cope is a true sonic architect, unafraid of the most daring challenges, let alone blending heavy guitars with guttural growls hovering over his challenging clean vocals. We go from industrial to death metal lines at the same speed as we return to traditional heavy metal structures and impactful riffs, with breathtaking solos. “Daylight” represents the pinnacle of musical creativity.
We move through more shimmering and synthesized plains until the harsh bass lines of “Decadence,” where the space becomes infinite for creation, from delightful melodies to the firmness of extreme metal and accelerated drums—the kind of beautiful thing that modern metal offers us. Complete and dancing on the dance floor with genres as varied as Cope’s diverse facets. Magnificent.
As creative as it gets, Cope takes us to the title track “The Mirror,” where the sound design comes alive with Gregorian chants that accompany guitars as visceral as the bold vocal lines he effortlessly crushes. In the composer’s own words, “Reflecting on one’s choices and knowing they must find their better self to triumph.”
The most brilliant aspect of this album lies in its versatility; no single genre takes center stage, a delight for so many different types of metal fans, and “The Weight” brilliantly proves this. There’s room for everyone, and together they make this a detailed, step-by-step work that even touches on the edge of progressive rock. So clearly defined, we move on to “Ritual of Me,” already breathless. The backing vocals are stunning in this semi-ballad that blends progressive melodic metal with so many nuances and grandiose melodies, while “Empathy” plays with guitars and Latin rhythms fused into extreme and visceral metal with a showcase of contrasting vocal styles.
We will still go through “My Devotion” in the return of the most pulsating and classic metal with clean and confrontational vocals; Cope shows the dexterity of someone who has nothing to fear and much to show.
There’s also room for the grandeur of “Desire” with its screaming guitars and playful bass lines in a stunning track. And of course, there’s also the melodious and dark “Darker Side,” bringing the album’s ballad to life in its majesty. The plains are phenomenal as the entire instrumental structure plays around Cope’s voice. The solidity of this one-man work is the formidable result of someone who relentlessly seeks his own best version. Firm, solid, polished, clean, and ingeniously crafted.
We conclude with the strange and chaotic delicacy of “Eternity“, the final act of an album made to impact you, envelop you, energize you, and blow you away. Forget the limits that metal imposed in the past; artists like Cope show that the horizon only expands and that the possibilities are endless. Without a doubt, one of the best albums I’ve heard so far this year.

Rate: 10/10

Tracklist
1 – Beckoning Tide
2 – Daylight
3 – Decadence
4 – The Mirror
5 – The Weight
6 – Ritual of Me
7 – Empathy
8 – My Devotion
9 – Desire
10 – Darker Side
11 – Eternity

Line-up
Drew Cope – All instruments and vocals

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