Style: Drone, ambient, post-rock (Mixed vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Sumac, Sunn O))), Swans
Country: Connecticut, United States
Release date: 1 August 2025

A ghost yearns for escape from the house in which they died, contemplating the weeds that grow over their grave; a man sees the reflection of a familiar yet contorted face in place of his own in a bathroom mirror, slowly eroding his sanity; at the end of a hopelessly long corridor, blasphemous rituals force prophecy out of the mouth of a severed head. Stories of haunting tie a past that cannot be ignored to the present, occupying spaces both physical and mental. Kayo Dot‘s latest record, Every Rock, Every Half-Truth Under Reason, lives wholly in this haunted world, casting incorporeal shadows on doorways through amorphous, experimental post-rock and shrill, brittle drone. Can Kayo Dot exorcise the ghosts of their past, or will the specter of half-truths loom forever?

Reuniting the lineup from Kayo Dot‘s 2003 debut Choirs of the Eye, flashes of the group’s past manifest in elements of Every Rock. The spoken word passages that adorn “Oracle by Severed Head” and lengthy ambient piece “Automatic Writing” recall the poetry present in many of Choirs‘ pieces. The freeform post-rock from the debut is let even further off the reins as “Oracle by Severed Head” and “Blind Creature of Slime” contort notions of song structure and rhythm into something even more obscure and unrecognizable. What is noticeably new, though, is the presence of sonoristic drone pieces, sitting in high-pitched and microtonal chords for lengthy periods accompanied by hoarse harsh vocals. Lyrically, Every Rock is teeming with the paranormal, crafting imagery around desecrated bodies (“Oracle by Severed Head”), a paranoid decay of wellbeing (“Closet Door in the Room Where She Died”), and entities bubbling with indiscriminate hatred (“Blind Creature of Slime”).

The signature compositional style of Every Rock is one of sheer intractability: well-defined beginnings and endings seldom appear across its extended pieces, and tracks are labyrinthine in structure. Opener “Mental Shed” immediately introduces harsh vocals and gleaming organs with no fanfare, suddenly transporting the listener into a painfully bright liminal space that stretches endlessly in all directions. The only musical footholds are clambering percussion and faint, ephemeral woodwinds. “Closet Door in the Room Where She Died” embodies a similar form, being led along by shrill keyboards, menacing strings and woodwinds, and wailing shrieks from Jason Byron; occasionally, a ghastly choir vocalizes in response to the maniacal ramblings of the narrator. From this Lynchian compositional approach arises an ineffable discomfort and occasional terror as the scant elements that engender a sense of familiarity either quickly fade away in wisps of smoke or melt into something unrecognizable.

Every Rock‘s post-rock tracks are similarly esoteric, albeit with an execution based on heavy use of free-time rhythms and asynchronous accents. “Oracle By Severed Head” gently introduces jangly guitars, splashing drums, and placid woodwinds which ebb and flow around Toby Driver’s diaphanous vocals. Everything plays in the same oscillating rubato but on wildly different accents, as if the constituent parts are a stewing suspension where each component is magnetically repelled from the other. Near its end, strings congeal each element into a towering behemoth as the track builds into a massive climax. “Blind Creature of Slime”, on the other hand, is compositionally stubborn, sporadically iterating on a single guitar phrase underneath a forceful and powerful vocal performance. The track begins on its highest note, wrapping its tendrils around the listener’s consciousness and forcing them to face the narrator’s blinding hatred, but spins its wheels for a touch too long. There is an intentionality in its repetitious unease, but by the end, I’m broken out of the suspension of disbelief needed to buy in to “Blind Creature” fully.

Working in tandem with the subtle evolution in Every Rock‘s tracks is the overall album pacing. Many of the record’s most stunning moments are born from the contrast and transition between drone and post-rock. The transition from “Mental Shed” to “Oracle by Severed Head” feels all the more cathartic and dreamy due to the intense release from the former’s shrill synthesizers into the latter’s hazy and relaxed instrumentation. The petering out of “Automatic Writing” makes the explosive introduction of “Blind Creature of Slime” even more intense. Additionally, the break in the piercing organs in the final third of “Closet Door in the Room Where She Died” creates a stark and powerful silence after they etch into the listener’s consciousness for ten-plus minutes. The longest track, “Automatic Writing”, is comparatively weaker when looking at the other drone tracks. In concept, the piece is compositionally brilliant, slowly coalescing its constituent parts from a blurry fuzz into wistful ambient passages with longing poetry, delicate soundscaping, and ascendant group vocals; I just wish it reached homeostasis more quickly. Its mammoth introductory segment evolves at a glacial pace—even Driver’s vocals are rendered textural as notes are held out for remarkably long intervals. Were “Automatic Writing” edited down, it would likely have the same emotional impact as the aforementioned tracks, but stands as a bit too meandering to fully earn its runtime as-is.

Every Rock, Every Half-Truth Under Reason is a brilliant, though occasionally flawed, marriage of the relatable and the surreal. Ultimately, the record chooses not to exorcise its ghosts, but instead invokes them, asking the listener to share the space and embrace the discomfort of that which is unknowable and irresolute. By cleverly subverting ideals of song structure, rhythm, and tonality, Every Rock fully embodies the liminal spaces inhabited by that which haunts us.

Recommended tracks: Oracle by Severed Head, Closet Door in the Room Where She Died
You may also like: Khanate, Alora Crucible, The Overmold, Natural Snow Buildings
Final verdict: 7.5/10

Related links: Bandcamp | Official Website | Facebook | Instagram | Metal-Archives

Label: Prophecy Productions – Bandcamp | Facebook | Official Website

Kayo Dot is:
– Toby Driver (vocals, guitar, bass, keyboards, organs, clarinet, flute, drums)
– Greg Massi (guitars)
– Matthew Serra (guitars)
– Sam Gutterman (drums, vibraphone, percussion)
– Terran Olson (clarinet, saxophone, flute)
– David Bodie (percussion)
With guests:
– Jason Byron (vocals, track 3)

The post Review: Kayo Dot – Every Rock, Every Half-Truth Under Reason appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Album art by Matt Harvey

Style: Post-rock, post-metal (instrumental)
Recommended for fans of: Godspeed You! Black Emperor, This Will Destroy You, Explosions in the Sky
Country: Australia
Release date: 4 July 2025

Post-rock is a genre whose appeal has always seemed to me to be obvious on paper, but elusive in practice. In theory, a genre built upon methodical, building soundscapes that layer textures upon textures until they crest in a wave of emotional catharsis would be an easy sell for someone with my generally high tolerance for long-form musical endeavors and weakness for big, climactic crescendos. Yet in practice, so many bands in the genre end up feeling like they’re lost in an aimless, hookless limbo, slowly and dutifully turning the volume knob up and down enough to serve as decent-enough background music but never managing to feel like their glacial compositions are truly saying anything. The instrumental nature of much of the genre also can prove challenging – without the facile aid of lyrics to tell audiences what a song is getting at, artists are left to paint a far more abstract picture, a hazy melange of soundscapes that needs a great deal of compositional finesse and intentionality to truly convey anything meaningful. 

Of course, there are other ways to shortcut this issue – a band could, say, utilize spoken word audio samples as a means of grounding their compositions as the soundtrack to true stories of harrowing loss and sacrifice. And indeed, after the tragic passing of frontman Chris Torpy, Sydney post-rock ensemble We Lost the Sea took this very approach for their pivot into instrumental music on 2015’s Departure Songs, a bleak yet fiercely hopeful record that would be swiftly enshrined as one of the most essential albums in the genre. Yet such a potent hook only works once, and after follow-up concept album Triumph & Disaster was met with rather less rapturous reception, it became clear that returning to that level of gut-punching catharsis would be easier said than done. And now, after nearly six years, We Lost the Sea have finally returned with A Single Flower, another massive opus that largely sheds its predecessors’ explicit narratives in favor of a more abstract theme of beauty amidst tragedy. Has this lengthy development period produced another classic of the genre, or is this flower destined to wilt away like so many others?

To be honest, it took a few spins of this album for me to be sure of the answer. Don’t get me wrong, the level of sheer skill and craftsmanship on display here is obvious from the very first listen. From the way opener “If They Had Hearts” gradually develops its simple motif from a sparse, floaty guitar into a roaring post-metal tempest to the insistent, heartbeat-to-cacophony build of “Everything Here Is Black and Blinding”, it’s clear that We Lost the Sea know their way around the sacred art of the post-rock crescendo. The soundscapes here have also been crafted with incredible care and precision – every dynamic peak is led by a titanic trio of guitars (plus keyboard) loaded to high heaven with an arsenal of effects pedals, every valley built from minimalistic, echoey clean picking and layers of soft, sun-dappled synths. New drummer Alasdair Belling is particularly integral in driving the music forward, his precise, heart-thumping rhythmic pulse evolving expertly into intricate, kit-smashing beatdowns that spice up every climax without losing their impeccable pocket. But plenty of albums can be skillfully constructed, can pull off big dynamics and intricate arrangements with competence and professionalism, and still fail to fully land. What is that extra factor, that ineffable je ne sais quoi, that made my reaction to A Single Flower evolve from “Huh, this is some pretty well executed post-rock” to “Holy shit, why is this music making my hands quiver and my breath catch in my chest?”

Well, if I could easily put it in words, that je wouldn’t be very ne sais quoi, now would it? The old saying about music criticism being like “dancing about architecture” holds particularly true with music this abstract. But if I were to put a finger on it, I would have to say that it’s the expertly considered pacing and composition that put it over the edge. These pieces develop and evolve their central motifs with a sense of intentionality and motion that few other post-rock acts can match. Sometimes it’s just one big crescendo (“If They Had Hearts”), but more often these tracks, particularly epics like “Bloom (Murmurations at First Light)” and “Blood Will Have Blood”, justify their sprawling lengths via expert dynamic push and pull, recontextualizing soft, vulnerable melodies into cinematic, overwhelmingly emotional counterpoint. Every new musical layer and bit of tension stacks onto the track like a stone until what was once soft and feather-light becomes a nigh-unbearable pressure upon the listener’s spirit, yet like a modern-day Giles Corey, I simply keep asking for more weight. Then, when the pressure abruptly releases, there’s a sense of deep relief, of finally being able to breathe again, that invites the listener to look at the moments of simplicity and calm between life’s many moments of tension in a new light. 

This is ordinarily where I’d list my gripes with the album, but honestly there aren’t enough to fill a full paragraph. I suppose the production could be polarizing to some; while its fuzzy, bass-forward sound is excellent at conveying the compositions’ darker and more oppressive moments, fans of the twinklier side of things will find themselves wishing for a less muddy mix with more clarity in its highs. And I’ve seen some mixed opinions on the brief “jig” section on “Blood Will Have Blood”, but I honestly think it’s great – its major key and shuffle rhythm radiate a sense of defiant positivity, of looking one’s demons in the eye and dancing them away. 

My biggest issue with A Single Flower, then, has nothing to do with its quality, but how long it took me to appreciate it. Simply put, this is not the most immediately accessible album in the world. It’s an album that requires a certain headspace and level of immersion to truly get lost in as opposed to simply floating by in the background, and with its hefty 70-minute runtime, recommending that you not only listen through something this sizable but give it multiple spins if it doesn’t land is one hell of an order. Is “The Gloaming” a heartwrenchingly gorgeous, cinematic interlude whose string arrangements call forth grief and determination in equal measure, or is it a mere throwaway, a decent-but-cliched soft passage taken straight from the “Make People Sad” course in Film Score 101? Is “Blood Will Have Blood” a fantastic, sweeping epic whose sense of dynamic push and pull makes its 28 minutes fly by, or is it simply too damn long and in need of a major trim? Obviously I agree with the former proposition in both these hypothetical questions now, but the more lukewarm side was in charge during my first listen, and it might be for anyone I point towards this album as well.

Don’t get me wrong, I consider A Single Flower to be an excellent work, a harrowing yet resolutely optimistic album laden with melodies that feel as though they’re blooming and decaying all at once. Yet, if just one flower blooms in a sea of desolation, its stark beauty will go unnoticed by anyone simply scanning the horizon. But if one focuses in on the barren wastelands, if one looks closely enough at the banal darkness surrounding our existences, there’s often quietly resolute spots of beauty, solitary flowers of light pushing through the darkness. All you need to do is keep searching for it.

Recommended tracks: A Dance With Death, Bloom (Murmurations at First Light), Blood Will Have Blood
You may also like: Bruit ≤, Deriva, Fall of Leviathan
Final verdict: 8.5/10

Related links: Bandcamp | Spotify | Official Website | Facebook | Instagram

Label: Bird’s Robe Records – Bandcamp | Facebook | Official Website

We Lost the Sea is:
– Mark Owen (guitars, piano)
– Matt Harvey (guitars, noise)
– Carl Whitbread (guitars)
– Matthew Kelly (piano, synth, rhodes)
– Kieran Elliott (bass)
– Alasdair Belling (drums)
With guests:
– Sophie Trudeau (strings on “The Gloaming”)

The post Review: We Lost the Sea – A Single Flower appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: Progressive rock, post-rock, folk (clean vocals, Ukrainian lyrics)
Recommended for fans of: Riverside, Porcupine Tree, The Pineapple Thief
Country: Ukraine
Release date: 30 May 2025

Let’s address the elephant in the room right away: How do you offer fair, critical insight into an album by a band from a war-torn nation—especially when the conflict is ongoing and the album is, by all appearances, rife with both overt and metaphorical references to that very struggle? Though I admire a bevy of Russian art and music, and I studied the language for three years in college, I’d like to make one thing crystal clear: Слава Україні. Now that my biases are laid bare, please know that my intention here is not to flatten Obiymy Doschu’s (Обійми Дощу) Vidrada into a one-dimensional token of trauma or resistance. Political reality matters, but so does the music.

And man, the music really tickles my prog fancy. My review history makes no secret that I lean towards the metal side of the spectrum. However, I make it a point to step outside my wheelhouse about once per month, just to avoid missing the forest for the trees. Vidrada fits that bill. It’s built mostly on soft acoustic plucking, dolce string melodies, and mellow, even-keeled vocal lines—practically the polar opposite of my usual fare. I tend to prefer such elements as textures to break up my metal, while Vidrada instead uses metal to break up these textures, and only sparingly at that. For all the ways it might not cater to my kvlt mentality, the LP more than makes up for it by appealing to my prog senses: non-standard time signatures, unconventional voicings, and multi-layered compositions abound.

Take “На відстані” (“At a Distance”) for example. A lurching 7/8 synthesizer melody and haunting vocal line—accompanied by a yearning string section and various distant, arpeggiated guitar touches—make up the bulk of this track. Right before this would all start to feel repetitive, the song deftly transitions—and this is going to sound weird, though I swear it works—into a soft, barely distorted, not downtuned djent outro. When individualized, these descriptors might not sound like the most unorthodox things in the progressive rock space, yet the overall vibe of the song is a tad ominous and delightfully eccentric.

“At a Distance” isn’t the only track that takes things in a heavy direction at the end. “Істини” (“Truths”) has an immensely off-beat melody (played over a steady 6/8 time) driven by a piano in its opening moments, and opting  for a mournful tone instead of an ominous one. The choruses bring in a distorted guitar with palm-muted chugs alternating to an anthemic melody, and emphatic strings to give the track a different weight than any other song on Vidrada. What makes the track truly stand out, though, is the death metal growl that comes completely out of left field towards the end. Being the penultimate track, the changeup feels like a world where Opeth had only ever written Damnation-style albums and then threw in a “Ghost of Perdition” intro in the back half of a random song. The switch is so jarring that I don’t think it entirely works, but it certainly gets points for shaking things up.

“Truths” and “At a Distance” stand apart on Vidrada, diverging from the album’s prevailing blend of sweetness, tenderness, and hope. That amalgam is present not just in the gentle melodies and soft instrumentation, but also in the lyrics. While some of the text makes direct reference to the tragic and unjust conflict in Ukraine, the message doesn’t ask for your pity, instead it yearns for the light of a better day. “Після війни” (“After the War”) prays: “After the war we will return to our cities to live as we should; playing with children under clear skies. Breathing in the world with full, open hearts.” These aren’t tunes and words for war drums, they’re lullabies for survival, and I am touched on some level by almost all of them.

Many individual moments on the album really tug at my heartstrings, and most of said moments seem to include a beautiful, driving, staccato string accompaniment. Vidrada’s closer “Не опускати руки” (“Don’t Give Up”) is probably the standout in this regard. The song builds up to its wonderful outro, and releases with emotive strings that add to an anthemic vocal chant and rallying cry. The title track “Відрада” (”Refuge”) has a chorus with strings that punctuate the melody and punch-uate you right in the feels, and it’s yet another track with a bright outro. Other moments, however, lean a bit dull and overstay their welcome. The opening minutes of this album, for example, had me afraid I was going to have to trudge through it. “Діти” (“Children”) starts with a guitar motif that, in contrast to the majority of the album, makes me feel nothing. Thankfully, these moments were rare.

Taken as a whole, Vidrada is a remarkably cohesive and emotionally articulate record. While not devoid of virtuoso pyrotechnics or overt heaviness in the music and lyrics, those aren’t its driving forces. Rather, empathy and optimism carry the melodies and message of this release. It’s not flawless nor pioneering, and some stretches drift a little too far into saccharinity, but even the lulls feel like part of the album’s greater patience and poise.

Слава Україні

Recommended tracks: Refuge, Don’t Give Up, At a Distance, Truths
You may also like: Iamthemorning, Haven of Echoes, Esthesis, Fjieri
Final verdict: 7.5/10

Related Links: Bandcamp | Instagram | Facebook | Spotify

Label: Independent

Obiymy Doschu is:
Volodymyr Agafonkin — vocals, acoustic guitar, music (1, 3–8), lyrics
Mykola Kryvonos — bass guitar, producing
Yaroslav Gladilin — drums
Olena Nesterovska — viola, music (2)
Yevhenii Dubovyk — piano, keyboards
Oleksii Perevodchyk — electric guitars

With guests:
Kateryna Nesterovska — violin I
Anastasiia Shypak — violin II
Artem Zamkov — cello
Karina Sokolovska — back vocals
Mariia Zhytnikova — back vocals (1, 4)
Andriy Tkachenko — extreme vocals (7)
Oleksiy Katruk — contributions to guitar parts

1. Volodymyr Agafonkin — idea, photo
   Viktoria Groholska — watercolor painting
   Kateryna Yefymenko — retouch & editing
   Mariia Agafonkina, Daryna Agafonkina — models ︎

The post Review: Obiymy Doschu – Відрада (Vidrada) appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: post-rock, dream pop, MPB, shoegaze, psychedelia (mixed vocals, mostly clean)
Recommended for fans of: Parannoul, Turqoisedeath, Os Mutantes, Mestre Ambrósio, Celeste OST
Country: Brazil
Release date: 5 May 2025

Isaac Newton predicted that the Rapture would happen around 2060. That the end is nearing seems like a given with the state of the world these days, so Newton’s timeline comes across as delayed if anything. Some virulent super-bacteria or virus could take us out (probably something bioengineered); we’ve got a demented, wholeheartedly evil person in possession of the nuclear football (and multiple major-scale global conflicts going on, as well); but perhaps most likely is the imminent climate catastrophe. I won’t beat a dead horse too much—we’re all intimately aware of the dire situation in 2025—but corporate greed and ever-increasing industrialization are unceasing, and we’re about to pass the event horizon of its damage. This crisis is displacing millions of global citizens every year, myself included as of earlier this year, and its impact will only worsen. I think going out by an asteroid dino-style would be easier, or maybe with false vacuum decay, but we as a species have got to make the best of the situation at hand.

Lua, the woman behind Brazilian shoegaze act Sonhos Tomam Conta, has started a new project Antropoceno, and Natureza Morta is driven by a pseudo-manifesto of hers, a tirade against the evils of climate change inspired by indigenous authors such as Davi Kopenawa Yanomami and Ailton Krenak. Lua’s thesis, as given on Bandcamp, is that “Postponing this apocalypse necessarily involves rejecting the exceptionalism that seeks to conceive humanity as an organism separate from the body of the Earth.” She asserts that we ought not to forget our pre-industrial origins and look toward tools and methods of the past to slow the disaster; Natureza Morta is a loud call to action.

Antropoceno matches the concept to the music, with Natureza Morta incorporating pre-industrial folk music styles (samba, choro) into psychedelia and shoegaze, representative of the distorted corruption of modernity. The result? An impeccable vibe. The record blossoms out of bird chirping and strummed acoustic guitars, while the remainder of Antropoceno’s sound is formed by layering Brazilian percussion, psychedelic trem-picking of a non-distorted electric guitar, and bubbling, sugary synths. All together, Natureza Morta is like floating on a cloud in a dream, utterly serene, and the record flows freely, too, drifting from idea to idea—song to song—effortlessly. On “35ºC de Bulbo Úmido,” Antropoceno dives deep into psychedelia with exquisite choro mixed in for a sweltering effect, as if you’re melting while listening to the short piece while the crisis (and album) march on unrepentantly. Other tracks, like “222 Dias de Calor Extremo,” use longer, post-rock songwriting, letting Lua’s masterful synths guide the listener through tropical soundscapes.

The ethereality of Antropoceno’s base sound often veers into a more violent approach; as the natural world is destroyed by the increasingly hot temperature, hails of blast beats, distorted guitars, and harsh vocals colonize the alluring folky psychedelia. Inspired by fellow Brazilian legend Caio Lemos (Kaatayra, Bríi, Vauruvã), Antropoceno mixes Brazilian rhythms and acoustic guitars atop the blast beats to stunning effect, such as on the tracks “Queda do Céu” and “Natureza Morta.” Moreover, Caio Lemos is a guest feature on the track “Debaixo da Terra,” his vocals adding a tasteful, folk edge to the track. In addition to Kaatayra, Antropoceno manages to get a Parannoul feature on “The Waves,” with the South Korean shoegaze legend also providing his distinct vocals to the track.

As the tracks bleed into each other, they slowly lose their identities, all succumbing to the vibe that Antropoceno curates. I could listen to the dreamy Brazilian psychedelia all day, but Natureza Morta slowly drifts its way into pleasant background music over its runtime. The record’s bigger problem is Lua’s vocals, which are more on the shoegaze side of things—that is to say, unrefined. The clean lulls are distractingly amateur compared to the gorgeous instrumentation; thankfully, much of the album plays around with extended instrumental sections. These issues should be easy to iron out on subsequent releases and are hardly a damning problem on a project debut. 

Antropoceno presents Natureza Morta to combat an issue she sees as crucial. With a blend of Kataayra-inspired folk and Parannoul-esque shoegaze, the music matches the message; more importantly, Antropoceno’s music is extremely high quality. I’ll still be silently cheering for the easy out of false vacuum decay, but Antropoceno’s calling for us to consider a return to animist principles in the modern world hits home. Come listen to Natureza Morta for the awesome psychedelia, and leave with a renewed sense of urgency.

Recommended tracks: 35ºC de Bulbo Úmido, The Waves, Debaixo da Terra
You may also like: Kaatayra, Rasha, Sonhos Tomam Conta, Samlrc
Final verdict: 7.5/10

Related links: Bandcamp | Spotify | Instagram

Label: independent

Antropoceno is:
– Lua (everything)
With guests:
– Kaatayra (vocals)
– Parannoul (vocals)

The post Review: Antropoceno – Natureza Morta appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: experimental rock, noise rock, post-rock, post-punk, avant-folk (mixed vocals, spoken word)
Recommended for fans of: Sprain, Swans, A Silver Mount Zion, Slint, Maruja, Talk Talk
Country: California, United States
Release date: 1 May 2025

Stitched together out of thousands of hours of studio recordings, Talk Talk’s 1988 painstakingly crafted masterpiece, Spirit of Eden, was a landmark album for post-rock. The band sat in a blacked out room equipped with an oil projector and strobe light twelve hours a day for several months, listening to the same six tracks on repeat; session musicians would jam for hours on end only for Talk Talk to use mere seconds of the result; and the group recorded with a twenty-five person choir only to decide “nah, this ain’t it.” Spirit of Eden is a mosaic, and the tiles are treasures plundered from endless hours of tapes. That the project came together as seamlessly as it did is remarkable—one could not listen to Spirit of Eden for the first time and discern that it was sutured together note by note.

To create their debut record Motherfucker, I Am Both: “Amen” and “Hallelujah”…, Shearling—born out of the recently defunct noisy post-rock band Sprain—have similarly sewn together segments from hundreds of hours of largely improvisational recordings. The result is a single, monolithic (Motherfucker is a single sixty-two minute track) slab of noisy post-rock, avant-folk, and obnoxious British post-punk.

Motherfucker is cinematic in scope, driven by the lyrics which cover a bifurcated narrative—one side about Idaho; the other, Eden. Prosaic yet poetry, the wordsmithing is intriguing with the two stories weaving in and out of each other in a stream-of-consciousness rambling. Occasionally, the poetry touches on brilliant. Highlights include: “And the spots on our Appaloosa¹ hide / Might be mistaken for constellations at night / By obligated stars and half-imagined lines / Splattered intentionally there against the night sky” and the vulgar honesty of “I know I’m naked / Eve’s cunt obscured now / By the branch of a huckleberry bush / Adam’s cock now / So tightly sheathed by a palm frond / Before the mirror I too place a hand over / My little Appaloosa / Tucked silently away in his little stable.” The storyline reads as an allegory for queer shame from growing up in Idaho—the Appaloosa taking on an apotheosized and subverted role². The intricate symbolism is maddeningly dense, however, and some of the literary devices are implemented on the amateurish side, albeit fitting the crazed descent into madness of the storytelling.

The bard of this chaotic story, Alexander Kent, provides an impassioned vocal performance that will make or break the album for many. His first vocal entry after the first 4:00 of instrumental noodling, dissonance, and feedback is an incredibly unpleasant moan. From there, he ranges from dramatic spoken word to the rambled shouting of a madman, from operatic croons to gruff, almost-growled barks and wailing moans. His voice drips with pain—maybe some malice—from years of shame and stigma, and the screams can be cathartic (the intermittent large climaxes are the prime examples), but for an unfortunate portion of the time, Kent’s atonal shouts and vocal deliveries are grating, horrific for listening; he needs to save the aggressive shouts for the crescendos lest they ruin their gravitas… which they certainly do. The godawful singing fits the vulgarity and verisimilitude of the lyrics, but Kent should focus on a more subtle delivery when the music calls for it. 

The music on Motherfucker traverses a diverse range of influences. The record is spliced together from a mix of phone-recorded demos, jams, live recordings, and traditional studio sessions, Shearling carefully attempted to put together the recordings into a cohesive sonic epic à la Talk Talk… emphasis on attempted, though. The songwriting of Motherfucker transcends stream-of-consciousness into the nonsensical. Climaxes materialize out of nowhere; Pharoah Sanders-esque saxophone parts or home-made Gamelan bells are equally as likely to be played by Shearling; ethereal industrial styles reminiscent of Lingua Ignota make their appearances in between the abrasive noise rock; and non-Western drumming styles may transition into glitchy electronic beats. Nary a consideration is made for transitions, either. Even the final five minutes after the final epic climax—the clear high point of the album is from 38-46 minutes as the bass pulsations lead into increasingly potent doses of screaming and crushing instrumentals—feel like they have little thought put into how they fit into the flow, with flatulent, deflated horns and some final random screams closing out the track. Shearling ensure the listener never knows what’s coming next.

Producing an album sewn from several different recording methods proves difficult for Shearling, too. Unlike Spirit of Eden which feels impossible to know was blended together as it was, Motherfucker’s collage never coalesces completely. Whatever instrumental section currently backs the vocals is unduly emphasized in the mix, and the clash of dynamics and styles renders Motherfucker a disappointingly and disjointedly assembled album. Shearling achieved an opus as haywired as it is intense, yet they get lost in the sauce doing so, the songwriting too scatterbrained for its own good. 

Many post-rock albums have suffered from over-ambition in the past forty years, and Motherfucker suffers for it, too; yet, Shearling have certainly achieved something admirable here—granted, over-long, insane, and extremely challenging (and frankly painful). To improve on the deep compositional flaws, Shearling ought to look back to Spirit of Eden. Finally, that Motherfucker is part one of a massive two-part epic must be mentioned. Clearly, Shearling are overflowing with ideas—hundreds of hours of them—so I hope they manage to restrain themselves without losing the ambitious charm so central to their identity.

Recommended tracks: it’s a one track album…
You may also like: Cime, Natural Snow Buildings, Ken Mode, Sumac & Moor Mother
Final verdict: 4/10

Related links: Bandcamp | Spotify | Facebook | Instagram

Label: independent

Shearling is:
Alexander Kent: Vocals, Engineering, Production, Cover Art Design, Guitar, Synthesizer, Trombone, Samples, Hammered Dulcimer, Banjo, Harmonium, Accordion, Singing Saw, Percussion, Taishogoto, Organ, Glockenspiel, Mellotron, Mandolin, Autoharp, Piano, Bells
Sylvie Simmons: Guitar, Synthesizer, Organ, Hi-C Programming, Samples
With guests:
Wes Nelson: Bass, Upright Bass
Andrew “Hayes” Chanover: Drums
Rachel Kennedy: Vocals
Mate Tulipan: Tenor Saxophone, Trombone
Ian Thompson: Alto Saxophone

1. The state horse of Idaho with a splotchy hindquarters resembling a Dalmatian. ︎
2. I mean, check out that album cover. In the context of this being a queer narrative, it is certainly striking. ︎

The post Review: Shearling – Motherfucker, I Am Both: “Amen” and “Hallelujah”… appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: heavy progressive rock, post-rock (clean vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Riverside, Lunatic Soul, Porcupine Tree, Airbag
Country: Poland
Release date: 13 April 2025

Sensory experiences hold tremendous power to recall memories from our past. Every spring, the first time I catch the scent of early blooming flowers in the warming air through an open window, I’m transported back to middle school and all the time I spent playing Final Fantasy X on a tiny CRT TV in the basement with the door left open for fresh air. Similarly, certain albums—and even whole styles of music—remain permanently associated with the state my life was in when I first heard them. Riverside’s music continually calls me back to my time in late high school, discovering as much Dream Theater-adjacent music as I could through free streaming on Pandora; so strong is the connection that any similarly melancholy heavy progressive rock puts me in much the same mood. Enter SubLunar, another Polish band with an equivalent penchant for sadness, putting forth their sophomore album, A Random Moment of Stillness, for our consideration.

It feels reductive to focus too closely on comparisons between distinct artists, but it’s actively difficult to discuss SubLunar without mentioning Riverside as well. At times, singer Łukasz Dumara sounds so similar to Mariusz Duda (Riverside, Lunatic Soul) that, on my first listen, I had to double-check SubLunar’s lineup to make sure Duda hadn’t secretly started up another side project. Beyond the vocal tone and delivery, the overall style and instrumentation throughout A Random Moment of Stillness is incredibly reminiscent of Riverside’s Memories in My Head era in particular.

Featuring strong bass and soft guitars, but with a lighter presence of keyboards, SubLunar have taken the dark, moody syrup that flavored Riverside albums of old (yes, I know, Memories was “only” released fourteen-ish years ago) and freshly mixed it for an updated interpretation. Although some barbed, distorted edges remain, A Random Moment shies away from neighboring prog metal influences while at the same time developing a cozy infusion of post-rock to further mellow out the atmosphere. SubLunar’s soft ensemble settles the listener into a gentle melancholy mood, perhaps depressed at the cruel emptiness of the world around them, but at least comforted and feeling just a little less alone since they have this beautiful music to appreciate in their solitude.

Supporting the musical mood, A Random Moment of Stillness presents a textual theme centering around contrast and self-contradiction as well as an existential sense of impermanence. Paradoxical phrases pepper the lyrics, expressing a fundamental impossibility in reconciling life’s pains and pleasures. Other sections create a split perspective, describing two slightly different points of view with successive lines that build tension in their opposition. “Falling Upwards” lays the groundwork with its oxymoronic title while clashing lyrical phrases like “We are the ones to stay / We are the ones to go” and “Apart / As a whole” build a sense of unstable reality where no single truth can be established. More than mere contradiction, though, A Random Moment of Stillness establishes a feeling of ephemerality, that our lifetimes and daily lives flash by with little lasting impact. The cleverly-anagrammed closing track “A Sun Blur” laments “Yesterday’s just a flame / A waterdrop in the morning rain” and later “Another day, another scratch / On the surface of the earth.” Whatever self-importance we may assign ourselves, the scope of time we occupy remains tiny and brief compared to the vast planet that surrounds and sustains us. And yet, this needn’t be a message of despair, as the closing stanza offers some small comfort: “All the moments, all the whiles / All the fingerprints of mine / It just couldn’t be / It couldn’t be / More alive.” As limited as our human experience may be, all the worth and beauty we need can be found within it.

If I have one complaint about A Random Moment of Stillness, it’s the lack of stylistic variety. Although every track is equally stirring and mysterious, they also all feel cut from the exact same cloth, like someone listened to Riverside’s “Living in the Past” and decided there should be a whole album of just that. While I understand the temptation, the uniformity is a key limitation of this otherwise strong album. Similar rhythms, tempos, and moods carry throughout the album, preserving the stillness for perhaps too long a moment. SubLunar’s performance flies by in a well-paced and enjoyable forty-three minutes thanks to the legitimately great talent behind it, but after hearing such mastery of one particular style, the listener is left wishing for a broader range.

Of course, it would be unfair not to mention the personal flair that SubLunar display, cutting through the repetition with marbled streaks of individuality. For example, the strong instrumental post-rock influence that takes over at the halfway mark of “Unmanned” sounds totally unlike the rest, setting the focus on a frantic, lonely drum part with gently rising and falling waves of pitch distortion, joined briefly by soft piano notes before finishing on a bright, piercing guitar solo. Łukasz Dumara sets a somber tone with his expression of the carefully crafted lyrics, but SubLunar’s unique character shows best during the lengthy instrumental bridge featured in almost every track. For example, “Attract / Deter” just before the three-minute mark—as Dumara’s heartfelt vocals fade into the backdrop, reverberating guitars echo his closing words “We aren’t made of stone,” reinforcing the message as the abandoned space fills with deepening ambient sounds and increasing rhythmic complexity.

The adjectives “calming” and “depressing” might not be common partners, but A Random Moment of Stillness proves to be a rare exception as it finds affinity in opposing concepts. Prog rock and post-rock vibes combine with thoughtful, poetic lyrics to produce a soothing yet emotional experience. Although comparisons to Riverside are inevitable, SubLunar retain a character of their own, enhancing the atmosphere with ambient and post-rock elements. The result, although backed by clear talent  in the performances, features noticeable uniformity in the rhythm and tone of each track and could be improved by greater variation across the album. Even so, SubLunar’s consistency provides a rare comfort, with gentle vocals pouring out deeply existential lyrics as accompanying guitars complete the dark yet soothing listening experience. What better way to contemplate life’s inherently contradictory and fleeting nature?

Recommended tracks: Unmanned, Falling Upwards, Attract / Deter, A Sun Blur
You may also like: Derev, Sisare, Inhalo, Hillward
Final verdict: 8/10

Related links: Bandcamp | Spotify | Official Website | YouTube | Facebook | Instagram

Label: Independent

SubLunar is:
– Łukasz Dumara (vocals)
– Michał Jabłoński (guitars)
– Marcin Pęczkowski (guitars)
– Jacek Książek (bass)
– Łukasz Wszołek (drums)

The post Review: SubLunar – A Random Moment of Stillness appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: Post-rock, post-metal (clean vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Pelican, Tool, Vulkan, Oceansize
Country: Belgium
Release date: 23 April 2025

Growing up with autism, my relationship with the concepts of solitude and authenticity was perhaps unusual. Over the years, many people have commented positively on my authenticity in spite of the social pressure for conformity. Little did they know, however, that a large amount of that perceived authenticity stemmed from sheer social ineptitude—after all, one can’t conform to rules they are unaware of or neurologically incapable of adhering to in the first place. Similarly, the frequent periods of prolonged social isolation I have gone through have seldom been voluntary. Belgian post-metal band Capitan’s second album, Facing Currents, explores the emotional struggle of discovering one’s true identity through prolonged solitude and trying not to lose that identity when reconnecting with others. My autism has forced me to undergo this process many times, maybe even to the point of trauma¹, so while I do not relate to the voluntary aspect, I did find myself moved by the concept. 

Post-metal can be a fairly homogenous genre with many bands playing some shade of Neurosis and/or Cult of Luna worship: long build ups with increasingly sludgy riffs building in complexity with tribal drumming building to an eventual cacophonous crescendo—that’s the name of the game. Capitan are primarily rooted in melodic post-rock, but regularly get heavy and incorporate tribal percussion in line with the post-metal tradition. They also integrate psychedelic elements and some proggy transitions redolent of Tool. This leads to a familiar, yet fresh overall sound in a similar ballpark to the seldom-replicated Oceansize². Further brought to life by a vivid, crystal-clear production, Facing Currents is a very immediate album. Björn Nauwelaerts has an uncharacteristically powerful voice for post-rock, and his bright tone and melancholic melodies give the songs on Facing Currents a lot of memorable moments en route to the big finish. He can also belt with the best of the best of them, giving a lot of meat to the heavier moments; most post-metal bands would place harsh vocals there but with Nauwelaerts’ performance I didn’t even miss them!

Capitan’s lyrics are poetic not in structure but certainly in how they evoke mood and emotion, immersing you in the emotional state of the protagonist as they go through the process of self-rediscovery. Water, breath, and light are used as recurring symbols to express emotional overwhelm, suffocation, loss of identity, and healing. The story of Facing Currents is not so much about the events as they are about the emotions corresponding to them: from drowning in the feelings of isolation (“Immerse”), to feeling suffocated by daily life (“Choke”) and unfulfilling relationships (“Apnea”), to the confusion and fear of an identity crisis (“Facing Currents”), to eventual healing (“A Pale Blue Light”) and refinding one’s footing in the world (“The Ascent”). The lyrics are raw and expressive, capturing the protagonist’s emotional journey with striking vulnerability. Facing Currents doesn’t even necessarily read like finding new facets of your personality; its real beauty lies in accepting and finding solace in what is already there.

Clocking in at thirty-eight minutes spread across six tracks (plus the intro), Facing Currents is refreshingly concise for a sprawling genre like post-metal. The first half is paced effectively, with each track having its own unique identity and momentum: “Immerse, Pt. I & II” are built on hypnotic tribal grooves and psychedelia-tinged guitarwork, leaning heavily on the Neurosis and Tool influences, whereas “Apnea” is a more conventional post-rock/metal hybrid track, starting with a spoken word piece and somber vocals before gradually lifting up our emotions with ethereal strumming to prepare you for the thundering, heavy grooves of the song’s second half. “Choke” keeps up the momentum as the most immediately aggressive track on the album, recalling Cult of Luna in its double crescendo structure. The second half of Facing Currents, however, starts to show Capitan’s limitations. Every remaining song starts with a long, ethereal post-rock section that becomes increasingly indistinct as the album goes on. “Facing Currents” and “A Pale Blue Light” erupt into distortion at nearly identical points in the song, and “The Ascent” only differentiates itself by keeping the floatiness for a guitar solo crescendo instead of yet another heavy climax.

This strict adherence to traditional post- song structures ends up making Capitan sound surprisingly conventional despite their distinctive palette, causing the songs to become increasingly predictable as the album goes on—a slow, clean buildup into a heavier, emotionally charged climax works only so many times before it gets stale. That is not to say the second half of Facing Currents is without stand-out moments, though. The repeating vocal motif in the title track is deeply moving, and the crushing doom riffs of “A Pale Blue Light” are a welcome change in intensity. Björn Nauwelaerts also consistently stands out for his expressive delivery, even if his melodies become a bit predictable near the end. Another point of critique is that the crescendos on Facing Currents often end up being underwhelming. Take “Apnea”, for instance, whose guitar solo and eventual doomy outro do the minimum of what is required to make them work but nothing more; or “Choke”, whose second crescendo merely repeats the pounding rhythm of the first one with no variation or development. Similarly, the guitar solo in “The Ascent” has a beautiful narrative structure but is barebones in execution and finishes the album with a disappointing fadeout. I usually found myself more compelled by the journey along the way, thanks to Capitan’s unique mix of styles, rather than the big finish.

On Facing Currents, Capitan have made a refreshing niche for themselves. They blend genres in a natural way with sophistication to evoke an ethereal yet earthy sound with powerful, melancholic melodies and rich atmospheres. But for all its sonic variety, the album often plays things structurally safe, leaning too heavily on predictable builds and familiar post-metal formulas. Still, the foundation is strong—Capitan are never anything less than competent, and they deliver some magic on a few occasions. If they can find a way to support their unique voice with more daring songwriting, they might well become one of the most exciting groups in the genre. But such is the road to self-actualization: there is always room to grow.

Recommended tracks: Immerse Pt. II, A Pale Blue Light
You may also like: Riviẽre, Múr, Mother of Millions, Sgàile
Final verdict: 6.5/10

Related links: Bandcamp | Spotify | Facebook | Instagram

Label: Independent

Capitan is:
– Björn Nauwelaerts (vocals, keyboards)
– Kevin Brondel (lead guitar)
– Rafaël Clavie (rhythm guitar)
– Jonathan Lievrouw (bass)
– Nick Boonen (drums)

1.  The Thought Spot made a great video linking autism to repeated ego death. ︎
2.  Seriously, where are the Oceansize imitators at? I need mooooooore. ︎

The post Review: Capitan – Facing Currents appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: post-rock, modern classical, electronica (instrumental)
Recommended for fans of: Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Explosions in the Sky, Caspian, We Lost the Sea
Review by: Andy
Country: France
Release date: 25 April 2025

Before the end of my first listen of Bruit ≤’s debut album The Machine Is Burning and Now Everyone Knows It Could Happen Again, I knew it was to be my favorite post-rock album of all time. With remarkable orchestration helping to build rollicking, earth-shattering crescendos in each of its four tracks, The Machine Is Burning essentially solved post-rock’s “boring until the peak of the crescendo” problem. Bruit ≤ perfected the art of the crescendo as their greatest forebears had—Explosions in the Sky and Godspeed You! Black Emperor the obvious influences—but the plaintive moments before and after the buildups had the delicate strings, breakbeat influences, and even tasteful spoken word. The Machine Is Burning isn’t a flawless record, and neither is the followup The Age of Ephemerality—I dislike the spoken word snippets in “Data” and find the Orwell quote closing out the album to be a bit cliche… but that’s it. The Age of Ephemerality is two tiny spoken blemishes from being a perfect record.

For Bruit ≤, everything revolves around the crescendo. Tracks start slow—the string quartet of “Technoslavery / Vandalism,” the tape noises and strings of “Ephemeral,” the resplendent horns of “The Intoxication of Power”—and over the course of each track’s runtime, the songs build and build ever upwards like the Babylonians. Unlike the Tower of Babel, Bruit ≤ have succeeded at reaching God. Often the buildups start slow with the band adding layers to a motif they’ve begun. “Data” glides forward underneath Julien Aoufi’s breakbeat drumming performance—soon bubbling synths and strings become the focal point. Then spoken word and rolling guitars join the fray. Soon the simple breakbeat motif is an unstoppable sonic tidal wave.

In any Bruit ≤ track, the quartet reaches the climax with about three to five minutes left, a cathartic explosion of sound: pounding drumming, post-metal-y guitar riffs, wailing trem-picked lead guitar, strings and synths, and, new for The Age of Ephemerality, a full electric guitar ensemble that was recorded in the resonant space of Gesu’s Church. The peak is overwhelming, causing my chest to feel like it’s going to explode out of my body—I often forget to breathe during a Bruit ≤ track. Achieving a more extreme release is surely impossible, I think to myself each time Bruit ≤ reaches the apex of a crescendo, but while the wall of sound can hardly grow, they somehow maintain the roaring intensity for minutes at a time, an impossible display of sonic power and songwriting prowess. The Age of Ephemerality is rapturous, orgasmic, euphoric, and sublime.

The throughline of The Age of Ephemerality is an underlying tension between electronic and acoustic. Theophile Antolinos begins the album with his “tape soundscapes” which quickly give way to lush cello, viola, and violin. The soundscape the quartet creates is often abrasive and industrial, pummeling walls of sound accomplished through digital and electric means. Yet The Age of Ephemerality is an incredibly human record, the heavy parts marred by stellar orchestration and the softer parts heart-wrenching and honeyed (see the intro of “Technoslavery / Vandalism”). Bruit ≤ write music that captures intrinsically sublime human experiences: looking at a great work of art, experiencing isolation in grand natural vistas, the frisson of first listening to a Mahler symphony. My heart, body, soul, and mind are all nourished by The Age of Ephemerality as its unrestrained climaxes strike right between my ribs. 

Bookending the moments of extreme maximalism on The Age of Ephemerality, the moments of simple placidity could be easily overlooked, but that would be a grave error as they hold gravitas that even the Godly climaxes miss: they act as a reminder there is beauty in everyday simplicity, not just the sublime experiences that Bruit ≤ peddle. These moments are a spiritual understanding unveiled throughout the course of the album. At the end of “Technoslavery / Vandalism,” a men’s choir hums a pulchritudinous Gregorian melody; the horns which triumphantly open “The Intoxication of Power” are bold, yes, but the role they play is simple and elegant, a stately start to the album’s emotional and literal finale. Don’t forget the smooth melody that begins the track in favor of the reprised version underneath the pummeling drums and ensemble of guitars—they are equally valuable for Bruit ≤’s songwriting and message. 

The Age of Ephemerality is crystal clear, produced and performed beautifully, yet its an extremely raw album at its heart, an outpouring of emotion and rage. Every note is filled with intentionality, and the work’s unimaginably dramatic peaks and valleys not only match (or supplant) the best of post-rock but of music in general.

Recommended tracks: Progress / Regress, Technoslavery / Vandalism, The Intoxication of Power
You may also like: Galya Bisengalieva, Sunyata, Osvaldo Golijov
Final verdict: 9.5/10

Related links: Bandcamp | Spotify | Facebook | Instagram

Label: Pelagic Records – Bandcamp | Facebook | Official Website

Theophile Antolinos: Guitars, banjo, tape soundscape.
Julien Aoufi: Drums.
Luc Blanchot: Cello, programming, synth
Clément Libes: Bass, Baritone guitars, Bass VI, violin, viola, organ, piano, modular synth, programming
With:
Trumpet by Guillaume Horgue
French Horn by Benoît Hui
Trombonne by Igor Ławrynowicz
Bass trombone by Erwan Maureau

The post Review: Bruit ≤ – The Age of Ephemerality appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: Post-metal, post-rock, post-black metal (harsh vocals, German lyrics)
Recommended for fans of: Harakiri for the Sky, Ellende, Svalbard, Alcest
Country: Austria
Release date: 18 April 2025

I’m a big Harakiri for the Sky fan, but even as an apologist I’ll admit their last four albums have been virtually the same. Without a drastic change in sound, it’s hard to imagine how they’ll grow their current audience—and honestly, that’s fine. The formula works for me, and if that’s all they continue to do, I’ll keep showing up. After releasing Scorched Earth earlier this year and touring North America to support it (I’m currently wearing the shirt I got at their stop in Salt Lake City), I didn’t expect a new album from Karg—another post act fronted by Harakiri’s Michael Kogler (aka J.J.). The two bands are currently touring together in Europe, so Kogler is pulling double duty at each stop. The man is a machine.

Though Karg became a fully staffed band in 2014, it began as Kogler’s one-man melodic black metal project in 2006, releasing debut Von den Winden der Sehnsucht in 2008. With each release, the grip on a core black metal sound loosened, as Karg began monkey-branching toward post-metal—and on Marodeur, their tenth full-length, they might just be reaching for a post-rock branch. That’s not to say the black metal roots are gone; Marodeur still offers plenty of double-kick intensity and fiery tremolo-picked passages. The monkey’s tail, so to speak, is still gripping that particular vine for balance. But post-rock has taken firm hold—clean intros frequently give way to distorted walls of sound, vibes and feels from violins and pianos texture the soundscape with a heavy sorrow, and when repetitions occur, they are done with some variation.

My favorite track on Marodeur is undoubtedly the opener, “Schnee ist das Blut der Geister,” beginning with a spacious ambient gaze, soon joined by a delicate guitar motif that floats just above the mix. As low, distorted power chords and bass-heavy drums crash in, the soft lead line continues threading through the noise, underscored by Kogler’s raw, anguished shouts. A bridge follows, almost nu-metal in its stripped-down power chord structure, and it’s punctuated by flashes of natural harmonics. From there, the song returns to the main motif—now reimagined in a higher octave, inverted, and layered with distortion—before it folds into a lower register and variation while the clean lead line rejoins. The track closes with a gentle dolce piano outro, softly setting down the weight of all the emotion that came befo–… Wait a minute. Doesn’t that description sound vaguely familiar?

For all the introspection and atmosphere Marodeur conjures, I kept circling back to one distracting and unavoidable thought: this sounds so much like Harakiri for the Sky. Kogler’s signature, angst-drenched caterwaul, emotional melodies charged by arpeggiated guitar passages, all pushed along by an intense rhythm section—it’s all here. Which raises the question: Why does this album exist separately at all? If the soundscape, voice, and even the emotional register are nearly identical, what is Marodeur really trying to say that hasn’t already been screamed into the void?

After several playthroughs of Marodeur, I’ve started to think the question isn’t what this album is trying to say, but why it needs to say it. Maybe it’s not about novelty, but necessity. Kogler is still processing the same emotional terrain, but with a different cast of collaborators. Beyond the full Karg lineup, the album features guests like Firtan’s Klara Bachmair, whose mournful violin appears on half the tracks. Svntarer’s Marko Kolac and Perchta’s Julia-Christin Casdorf also lend subtle vocal contributions to “Kimm” and “Schnee ist das Blut der Geister,” respectively. These voices and textures don’t rewrite the book, but they do help shape its sonic prose a bit differently.

With each listen, the Harakiri déjà vu still lingers—but so do new details that draw me in. The post-rock and alternative elements become more pronounced on repeat spins. “Anemoia” opens with a drum-and-bass groove and high, strummed guitar chords that wouldn’t sound out of place on an early ‘00s alt-rock tune. “Reminiszenzen einer Jugend” is similar to the opener’s dynamic arc, slipping from a quiet bridge into chunky, drop-tuned riffs that pass through nu-metal territory. And “Kimm” features a screechy lead guitar in the opening verse that feels almost like a heavy, mournful echo of Catherine Wheel or Failure. Marodeur rewards revisiting—not because it transforms, but because its layers slowly reveal themselves.

In yet another way that mirrors Harakiri for the Sky (I promise I will commit harakiri for myself if I make this comparison again), Marodeur occasionally stretches its songs beyond what their ideas, hooks, and variety (or lack thereof) can sustain. Even though I enjoy each track, I can’t escape the feeling that the longer ones could say the same things in less time. “Annapurna” delivers all its emotional weight in five minutes, so eight and a half feels bloated. The same goes for “Yūgen,” and even the opener “Schnee ist das Blut der Geister”—my favorite track. The emotional core here is powerful, but sometimes the songs linger long after they’ve made their point.

Marodeur redefines Karg in some minor ways compared to their recent releases, but it doesn’t carve out a wholly distinct identity from Harakiri for the Sky. Yet it doesn’t feel redundant either. The album aches with sincerity, draws from a wider musical palette than it first appears, and—despite its length and familiar voice—keeps pulling me back in. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Marodeur isn’t about saying something new, but about the need to keep saying it.

Recommended tracks: ”Schnee ist das Blut der Geister,” “Reminiszenzen einer Jugend,” “Anemoia,” “Verbrannte Brücken”
You may also like: Zéro Absolu, Avast, Artificial Solitude
Final verdict: 6.5/10

Related links: Bandcamp | Spotify | Facebook | Instagram | Metal-Archives

Label: AOP Records – Bandcamp | Facebook | Official Website

Karg is:
Michael J.J. Kogler – Vocals
Paul Färber – Drums
Daniel Lang – Guitars
Georg Traschwandtner – Guitars
Christopher Pucher – Guitars

With guests:
Klara Bachmair  – Violin
Julia-Christin Casdorf (Perchta) – Guest Vocals on “Schnee ist das Blut der Geister”
Marko Kolac – Guest Vocals on “Kimm”
Michael Eder – Piano on “Schnee ist das Blut der Geister”

The post Review: Karg – Marodeur appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: Progressive rock, progressive pop, art rock, electronica, post-rock (clean vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Katatonia, Steven Wilson (all), The Pineapple Thief, Gazpacho
Country: Norway
Release date: 25 April 2025

Dust off that box of corpse paint you haven’t touched since Halloween 2022, because woodland-monikered Oak are taking us to the grim forests of Norway. Delivering a blasphemous brand of black metal, the band… no, wait, this doesn’t sound like black metal at all. This is actually a clean, artsy take on progressive rock. And was that an electronica section? This Oak clearly isn’t the typical tree of the frozen north’s dark timberlands. Ah, that’s right, we’ve even covered these guys before. My bad. Put away that corpse paint because there’s no black metal to be found here. Or is there?

The Third Sleep picks up right where Oak’s previous album left off, providing another highly listenable and densely melodic slab of progressive rock. The band’s work rings familiar: melancholic passages drawing clear inspiration from Katatonia and Steven Wilson are scattered throughout, and tinges of the softer sides of Opeth and Ulver can also be heard. But Oak spin their influences into a style unmistakably their own, due in part to how well they weave electronica into a more common, moody prog-rock sound. Vocalist Simen Valldal Johannessen also has a distinct, emotive baritone that colors the music a darker shade. Johannessen takes on piano duties as well, and the instrument plays a significant role as the album’s main melodic driver.

Pensive yet poppy, Oak craft nuanced prog that stays remarkably accessible. Right from the opener, “No Such Place,” Johannessen effortlessly carries a tuneful vocal melody over a 5/4 verse while accenting acoustic strumming with his piano. The song also features a soulful saxophone solo—one of several on the album. A couple of tracks later, “Run Into the Sun” delivers a real earworm: the chorus is infectious, something fit for the radio on its surface. However, a deeper listen reveals an impressive interplay between a guitar lead and piano melody underneath. “London” has a similarly singable chorus, but incorporates some slick rhythmic guitar punches and drumming far more dynamic and complex than a typical pop chorus. The song’s verse is another instance where intricate playing meets listenability, with a wandering fuzzy bassline and synth textures driving behind Johannesen’s crooning. 

Although The Third Sleep leans on conventional song structures, each track has at least one extended instrumental detour, often post-rock in feel. The lead single “Shimmer” is a shining example: after primarily following a verse-chorus pattern for its first half (with some really great percussion, I might add), the track is stripped down to simple bass, drums, and piano. Additional instruments and textures are then layered in patiently before it all swells gently and resolves. It’s a lovely listen, the song’s back half providing over three minutes of mellow instrumental bliss. “Borders” pulls a similar trick in its second half but centers around programmed drums and a somber, lingering synth. “Sensory Overload,” meanwhile, has a noisier and heavier bridge at its midpoint, at times including dissonant distorted keys and cacophonous saxophone. Oak’s ability to combine conventional song structures with these detailed and varied instrumental explorations makes The Third Sleep incredibly listenable and fulfilling enough to revisit. The album’s warm, clear mix helps bring it all together, allowing plenty of space for each instrument—real or programmed—to breathe without the whole package sounding sterile. 

Despite the album’s various textures and clear craftsmanship, though, it lacks exceptionally memorable or compelling passages—no true peaks. The Third Sleep isn’t middling prog, but it’s quite safe for the most part: it’s the kind of release you bring home to meet Mom and Dad; you then settle down, get that spacious two-story house with the yard and white picket fence, grow old, and retire comfortably. It’s a good life, not necessarily boring, but without major excitement. That’s The Third Sleep. An exception to this suburban dream (or nightmare) of a metaphor does come with “Sensory Overload,” ending the album—much to my surprise—with a minute or so of something bordering on straight-up black metal (better bring that corpse paint back out!). The section is complete with double bass drumming, a riff not far from a blackened tremolo, and demonic growls. And although I appreciate the section’s unexpectedness, it’s more memorable for its surprising nature than execution—it’s a fun touch, but not much more.

Even if The Third Sleep doesn’t have any moments as astounding as I’d expect from a band so capable, I can repeat exactly what we said about Oak’s last album: “There’s still a hell of a lot here to enjoy.” The Third Sleep is engaging in its variety and detail, gorgeously produced, well-performed, and accessible enough to bring home to your parents—just don’t let them catch you donning your corpse paint for that final passage.

Recommended tracks: London, Run Into the Sun, Shimmer
You may also like: Jonathan Hulten, Bruce Soord and Jonas Renkse’s Wisdom of Crowds, Playgrounded, Haven of Echoes
Final verdict: 7/10

Related links: Bandcamp | Spotify | Facebook | Instagram

Karisma Records: Bandcamp | Facebook | Official Website

Oak is:
– Simen Valldal Johannessen (vocals, piano, keyboard)
– Sigbjørn Reiakvam (drums, percussion, programming, keys, guitars)
– Øystein Sootholtet (guitars and bass)

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