Style: Atmospheric black metal, dark folk (Mixed vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Agalloch, Pantopticon, Ulver
Country: Italy
Release date: 9 May 2025

While admittedly I am a sucker for head-spinning technicality played with surgical precision, there is a nagging sense of exclusivity to the elite performances of tech death and progressive metal. To play pieces by artists like Archspire or Animals as Leaders requires a level of dedication to solely performance, meaning that expression of ideas in this space is relegated to those with perfect timing or those who obsess over recording details. Many folk-adjacent genres, on the other hand, often revel in a lack of technicality or absolute precision in favor of a more ‘organic’ sound, choosing to instead focus on the intent of the music and let the rhythms breathe more naturally. Heavily inspired by Agalloch, a landmark band in this more folky style of metal, Italian artist Esox aims to tap into this sensibility through the murky and predatory depths of lakes and wetlands. Does the one-man project’s debut release, Watery Grave, engender these primal sentiments, or does it go off the deep end in the name of a chthonic atmosphere?

At the heart of Esox’s sound is the namesake pike, a menacing freshwater predator with ultra-sensitive attunement to the movements of water and a penchant for lying in wait for its next victim among aquatic plants. Melancholia seeps into every moment of Watery Grave, depicting the final thoughts of a man who attempts to end his life by drowning. Tracks are often introduced with plaintive acoustic guitars and soundscaping, whether it be rain beating on a lake or the sound of creaking wood. From its waterlogged base emerges black metal intensity, replete with atmospheric tremolos and blast beats in free-flowing compositions that often culminate in a melodic solo. Pensive folk instrumentation sweeps in to gently carry tracks downstream after an intense prey chase; truthfully, Watery Grave is as much dark folk as it is black metal.

Watery Grave’s most ascendant moments happen when the folk instrumentation is given space to shine. The blast beats in opener “As I Descend Above the Water” are cleverly springboarded into by acoustic guitars and the sounds of rain, and the extended ambient section afterwards is euphorically woeful. Esox effectively captures an aquatic sensibility in the instrumental effects, as if the chords being played are a rippling disturbance on a placid lake. My favorite moment of Watery Grave is the intro to “Livyatan melvillei”¹, which sits in suspicious stillness as an ominous whale call is juxtaposed against the sound of creaking; one can’t shake the thought that something massive is waiting underneath the surface for a moment of inattention or vulnerability to strike. The metal sections, in comparison, range from enjoyable to frustrating. The opener’s black metal aggression works great as a piece of the greater whole, adding a sense of aggression to the placid seascapes and building to a melodic solo in its climax. However, the climactic solos across the black metal sections run into an unignorable problem: they’re just not played in time. The arpeggios on “Esox Lucius” and “As I Descend Below the Water” are in a fearsome rhythmic altercation with the drums as the guitars can simply never agree to the established beat, as if they were recorded completely separately with no checking to see if they work together.

Don’t get me wrong—I absolutely adore Esox’s aqueous sensibilities, and I think that in many instances Watery Grave does a great job of encompassing the listener in murky aquatic atmospheres through ineffably organic performances and unsettling soundscaping. But despite all the record has going for it, the prevalent off-time playing is just too much, almost to the point of being able to predict when it will happen next. My attention during Watery Grave should be directed to the lurking menace camouflaged by underwater flora. Instead, I end up focusing on whether an upcoming guitar arpeggio is going to line up with the drums, trying to make sense of the arrhythmic harsh vocal cadence, or guessing how long it will take the left and right acoustic guitars to sync again. No matter how powerful your atmosphere is, too much rawness and imperfection in the performance is going to create an unintended dissonance that actively fights against the underlying aesthetics. Of course, I don’t want Watery Grave to be an ultra-polished product with metronomic precision, but I at least want to feel some level of rhythmic cohesion in the instrumentation, and these slip-ups happen just often enough that it seriously detracts from my enjoyment.

Attention to detail is brought to many facets of Watery Grave, from compositional prudence to striking underwater ambience, and I wish that same level of attention was given to the performance itself. Esox has the makings for something evocative and brilliant; at this point, it’s just a matter of matching the sky-high ambition with a bit more experience. I’ll be more than happy to dive back into the pike-laden waters for future releases, but Watery Grave is a lake I’ve had my fill of.

Recommended tracks: As I Descend Above the Water, The Unbearable Cry of the Sea, Walden
You may also like: Gallowbraid, Nechochwen, October Falls, Botanist
Final verdict: 5/10

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

Label: Independent

Esox is:
– Esox (everything)

1. Livyatan melvillei is a particularly massive extinct species of sperm whale. The inclusion of saltwater sea life here does throw me for a loop a bit as everything up to this point seems to be focused on freshwater, but it should be pointed out that this is a redux of a previous Esox track, so its aquatic idiosyncrasy is not entirely surprising. ︎

The post Review: Esox – Watery Grave appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: progressive metal, doom metal, dark ambient (mixed vocals, mostly clean)
Recommended for fans of: Windhand, Chelsea Wolfe, Pijn, Latitudes
Country: Italy
Release date: 11 April 2025

Artistic development always comes at a cost. Individuality and consistency produce inherent tension, demanding that artists find compromise between their unique form of expression and the ability to communicate ideas in a resonant way. The Spin strikes a poised balance between forward progress and steady improvement, not so much an evolution reaching into new territory nor a recapitulation of tired, overly familiar themes as it is a recombination of existing traits developed throughout their prior discography. Underappreciated for far too long, the inventive Italian prog-doom metal outfit Messa have trod the boundary between underground and mainstream, jumping in popularity each time they released a new album or were featured in a roundup article somewhere, but never quite able to maintain that critical mass of fandom long-term. Perhaps they can finally spin ‘round their fortunes and build the audience they deserve.

Messa use their cauldron of influences to brew an otherworldly stew from ingredients including jazz, bluesy hard rock, dark ambient, and bleak doom metal. Longtime prog metal fans have probably already started imagining what this unholy concoction might sound like as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, but I encourage you to take a moment to consider the care required to create it. That they can throw together these alchemical components while maintaining such a high degree of cohesion is absolutely a testament to the musicians’ talents. The Spin pays off almost a decade of refining Messa’s signature blend, now distilled down to a potent spirit of sorrowful ambiance. Messa’s performance isn’t flashy with pretension or extravagance, instead opting for sharp, clean music saturated with emotional sediment drawn from doom metal’s benthic depths. The runtime also supports these shifting priorities—a shorter outing at a mere forty-ish minutes allows for a tighter focus on expressing the central driving anguish at the heart of the album.

Messa have undergone an interesting progression throughout their last few albums as they dial in on which facets of their music to showcase most. Where Feast for Water chose emotional expression as its first priority, Close settled into a more subdued but precise delivery. The Spin combines a bit of both approaches, presenting an immaculate, ethereal atmosphere that inherits the uncertain quietude of Feast while retaining some of Close’s assertive intensity. With all their varied influences, it’s a hefty task to balance the sparser sounds drawn from the ambient space with the thicker sections of blues/doom heartache, but Messa are equal to it. Despite the contrasts, both aspects contribute towards a common core of undefinable passion.

It’s hard to find an adjective more suited to Messa’s music than “haunting.” Every element, from Sara Bianchin’s voice lurking in the dark corners to the reverberating cymbal crashes, conspires to lure unsuspecting listeners close with soft sweetness before leaping into belted sections laden with devastating emotion. Beyond raw vocal power, though, The Spin develops its most compelling textures through the collaboration between Bianchin and the rest of the band. Moments like the choruses in “The Dress” perfectly marry the unique emotionality of the human voice with the inhuman intensity that amplified instruments provide. After an extended instrumental section featuring dueling solos from guitar and muted trumpet, the closing chorus reprise tears open the heavens with its towering display of emotion from both Bianchin and the accompanying guitars.

In contrast, The Spin’s verse sections prove to be its weakest point, often feeling like a means of getting from one point to another. Almost every track shares the same loose structure, usually with a pair of verse-chorus repetitions, an instrumental bridge, and one final chorus to close things out. The noteworthy moments arrive most consistently during those instrumental sections, as well as in individual flourishes and features—and let’s be clear, these are some stellar flourishes. That said, the verses in between feel like a return to the atmospheric but disappointing filler from Feast for Water (like “She Knows”). The Spin adds several layers of polish in both production and composition which help smooth over the listening experience compared to Messa’s earlier days, but it’s not enough to completely eliminate the underlying imperfections that still undercut their songwriting at times. Even with all of the band’s artistic progress uplifting The Spin, the empty verses of “At Races,” “Fire on the Roof,” and “Reveal” remain unfortunate detractors from an otherwise divine experience.

Sometimes, the price of consistency is character; other times, the price of progress is consistency. With their last two albums, Messa have now paid the price in both directions, first ramping up their consistency for a steadier and gentler outing in Close, then trading some of that consistency to hone their distinctive sound to its finest edge yet. While not every track on The Spin displays Messa’s full emotional range, the precision and quality of their musicianship are unquestionable, a testament to their effort and growth as artists. Furthermore, the highlights are truly stunning, enhancing vibrant performances with keen, experienced presentation. While the resulting album has its low points as well, Messa’s overall refinement of their sound and their display of stunning songwriting marks a turning point in their careers.

Recommended tracks: Void Meridian, Immolation, The Dress, Thicker Blood
You may also like: Dreadnought, Maud the Moth, healthyliving, SubRosa (the doom metal one from Utah)
Final verdict: 8/10

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

Label: Metal Blade Records – Bandcamp | Facebook | Official Website

Messa is:
– Sara Bianchin (vocals)
– Marco Zanin (bass, synthesizers)
– Alberto Piccolo (guitars, synthesizers, piano)
– Rocco Toaldo (drums, vocals)

The post Review: Messa – The Spin appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: Progressive metal, mathcore, djent (mixed vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Tesseract, The Dillinger Escape Plan, The Contortionist, Rolo Tomassi, Protest the Hero, The Mars Volta, Ions
Country: Italy
Release date: 11 March, 2025

Contrary to the wisdom of everyone’s favourite mad shredder, Yngwie Malmsteen, more isn’t more; less is more. Take the 1993 classic film, Jurassic Park, a landmark in special effects and everyone’s favourite dinosaur-laden romp. You’re probably picturing the T-Rex breaking out of the paddock, the majestic reveal of the brachiosaurus, or any number of iconic raptor scenes. You might be surprised, then, to hear that over the course of the film’s 127-minute runtime¹, dinosaurs grace the screen for a mere 15 minutes—or roughly 12% of the film. Everything you remember about that iconic piece of cinema you remember for its brevity, and the same is true of music; sometimes your sound can be defined by the thing you do sparingly.

Such an approach was certainly the aim on the debut of Italian prog metallers Benthos, but the confusingly-titled II struggled to break free of the shadow of their main influence, The Contortionist. Reinvigorated some four years on, their sophomore emphasises the nascent elements in their debut and brings them to the fore: mathy moments redolent of The Dillinger Escape Plan or Rolo Tomassi vie with djenting grooves and softer atmospheres, occasionally even segueing into The Mars Volta-esque trippy interludes. Some tracks flow rather gracefully (“From Nothing”), others are stitched together monstrosities (“Perpetual Drone Monkeys”), abrasive metal rubbing up against strange ambiences, alternately exploding and collapsing. 

Fittingly, “Fossil” may best demonstrate that Jurassic Park style less-is-more approach: abrasive, discordant math metal passages perforate the song’s facade at many junctures, but, despite being the defining feature of the music, they’re not the most common element. Across From Nothing, Gabriele Landillo’s soft, Dan Tompkins-esque cleans are utilised far more often than his harshes, and the composition remains legibly melodic for the most part, veering into total pandemonium for emphasis, rather than as a crutch. Comparisons to the likes of The Dillinger Escape Plan, then, should be taken with a pinch of salt. There are moments that sing from the hymn sheet of mathcore’s greatest group, but for the most part, Benthos stick to a more mellow register, recalling groups like Ions and The Safety Fire. 

Take “Let Me Plunge”, for example. At around the two minute mark, a heretofore measured riff suddenly mutates into discordant chaos. It takes all of about six seconds, but that sudden abrasiveness keeps the listener on their toes. Like getting a glimpse of a raptor’s claw in the opening of Spielberg’s iconic blockbuster², Benthos’ interjections of cacophony may not last long, but they’re a warning to the listener. And the listener is rewarded with their 12%: “As a Cordyceps” erupts repeatedly into hardcore-inspired vocals and blunt dissonant chords, “Fossil” opens in truly madcap Dillinger fashion and explodes into a chaotic crescendo before some much-needed respite, and “Perpetual Drone Monkeys” might be the most relentless track on the album; energetic and jarring as it whiplashes from djent to hardcore to math and back again with abandon. Nevertheless, this trio of tracks contains the vast bulk of the heavier and chaotic work on From Nothing.

Much of the rest of the time, From Nothing is defined by a jangling chorus effect on the chords and slightly off-kilter vocal harmonies, sitting somewhere between The Contortionist and Ions. “The Giant Child” is straightforward structurally and is arguably the record’s softest track, the band almost relaxed, Alessandro Tagliani’s intricate percussion notwithstanding. “Pure” follows with a mathier Tesseract vibe, but nevertheless eschewing heaviness until an explosive finale. The only exception to the light/heavy contrast running through the album is “Athletic Worms” which is simply insane. Robotic vocals play over zany instrumentation that sounds more like Igorrr. It’s an oddity on an otherwise more serious record, and likely to be the one that polarises listeners, but it nevertheless showcases the band’s creativity. And if that ain’t chaos theory then what is?

The most unexpected influence on Benthos is The Mars Volta. There’s a chaotic jazzy psychedelia undergirding many of From Nothing’s sonic decisions. When “Fossil” isn’t doing Dillinger-style mathcore, it’s exploring rapid jazz chord play and watery chorus effects. There’s also frenetic jazzy riffing juxtaposed with psychedelic, almost shoegaze moments in “To Everything”. Meanwhile, Landillo’s highest notes even have a touch of Bixler-Zavala to them, most notably in the opening to “Perpetual Drone Monkeys” which sounds like it just escaped from the comatorium. This facet of Benthos’ sound is what truly sets them apart from their contemporaries, injecting something slightly deranged into a more familiar facade. 

Less is more, Jurassic Park is a masterpiece, and From Nothing is a consistently intense, tightly composed paragon of modern progressive metal. With the agility of a pack of raptors, Benthos have cemented their own style and then some on a distinguished sophomore guaranteed to pull them into the scene’s limelight. They might not render their peers and predecessors extinct, but they’re certainly clever boys.

Recommended tracks: Let Me Plunge, As A Cordyceps, Perpetual Drone Monkeys, To Everything
You may also like: Without Waves, Exotic Animal Petting Zoo, The Hirsch Effekt
Final verdict: 8/10

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

Label: InsideOut Music – Bandcamp | Facebook | Official Website

Benthos is:
– Gabriele Landillo (vocals)
– Gabriele Papagni (guitars)
– Enrico Tripodi (guitars)
– Alberto Fiorani (bass)
– Alessandro Tagliani (drums)

1.  This includes credits. Assuming that without credits the runtime is closer to 120 minutes, the percentage creeps up to 12.5%. ︎
2.  “Shoooot heeeeerrrr!” ︎

The post Review: Benthos – From Nothing appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: Progressive rock (clean vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Pink Floyd, Yes, Franco Battiato, Premiata Forneria Marconi
Country: Italy
Release date: 23 January 2025

“To have seen Italy without having seen Sicily is not to have seen Italy at all, for Sicily is the clue to everything.” Thus spake Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe of his Italian journey in 1787. Coming from Palermo myself, of Sicilian metal and rock acts I know too few—death metallers Dark Secret from Caltanissetta, symphonic black metal band Inchiuvatu from Sciacca, and doomers Haunted from Catania—but for prog, specifically? Much as Goethe remarks, it felt a little like I was missing a piece of the puzzle until today, when I found myself writing about just such a group: Ologram from Syracuse. Ologram just put out their sophomore album La Mia Scia (“My Trail”) in January—a melancholic, contemplative and nostalgic progressive rock release, in the vein of 1970s pensive prog acts like Pink Floyd, but lacking some of the blues or psychedelic influence. Unfolding at a slow and deliberate pace, steeped in somber introspection, its track listing flows by, carried on wistful melodies and poetic lyricism—yet, for all its atmosphere, La Mia Scia never really takes shape. The music drifts, traveling endlessly on the autostrada without ever reaching a destination.

The compositions on La Mia Scia struggle to move along with any real purpose, with Ologram often reusing tired, terraced dynamics over the course of the album: loud, quiet, loud again, with practically every song playing into some variation of this structure. Tending towards energetic choruses leading back into soft, reverberant arpeggiated guitar in the verses, by the fourth track “Non Sarai”, it all starts to feel a little repetitious. There’s hardly a memorable riff here aside from the intro to “Kasbah”, which distinctly recalls “Kashmir” by Led Zeppelin; and the intro to “1997,” where an electronic drum and background melody leads into a syncopated rhythm over a reverberant, emotional short lead guitar solo. 

There is a bit of experimentation on La Mia Scia, however, where beyond traditional rock elements and the aforementioned electronic drum samples in the intros to “1997” and “Non Sarai”, Ologram dabble in some symphonic or acoustic elements that present themselves midway through the album, on tracks like “Jacaranda” and “Descent”. On “Jacaranda”, the focus is on a crescendo acoustic-guitar-and-string-backed vocal performance that adds some variety, and lends a 70s progressive folk quality to La Mia Scia in the vein of fellow countrymen Premiata Forneria Marconi, or even something approaching Jethro Tull. And on the instrumental piece “Descent”, Ologram has their stand-out moment as they very nearly take on a symphonic prog metal sensibility with heavy palm-muting and synthesizer leads with violin backing—but these are some of the few times something, anything, interesting happens on La Mia Scia. 

Vocally, there’s an undeniable emotional weight—vocalist Fabio Speranza delivers every line with the weary sigh of someone lost in memory, lamenting the past. However, this mournful approach rarely varies, making the album feel even more one-note. Lyrically, La Mia Scia leans heavily on abstract metaphors and sentimental imagery. While it’s very flowery and contemplative, much like the music, it rarely leads anywhere concrete. The words sound profound but their meaning remains just out of reach; atoms entwine, trees embrace the sea, time stands still—all very poetic, sure, yet often leaving more of an impression than an impact. 

None of this makes La Mia Scia a bad record. It’s atmospheric, enveloping the listener in its brooding haze; the production is polished and spacious, with each instrument given room to breathe while the arrangements emphasize texture over momentum; and it’s sincere in its melancholy. But the tempos don’t change much beyond a midpace, the band never breaks a sweat, and variations in the soundscape are few and far between save for the aforementioned folky or fleeting heavy metal moments. La Mia Scia is frustratingly static, offering little to grasp onto beyond its mood. For those seeking an album to sink into, letting its sadness wash over them, there’s something here. For anyone looking for more—movement, excitement, or even just a hook that lingers—this may feel like a beautiful, but empty, experience.

Recommended tracks: “1997”, “Descent”, “Kasbah”
You may also like: Wounded Knee, Phantom Spell, Silver Nightmares, Alex Carpani
Final verdict: 6/10

Related links: Bandcamp | Spotify | Facebook | Instagram

Label: Independent

Ologram is:
– Fabio Speranza (vocals)
– Lorenzo Giannì (guitars, backing vocals on “Jacaranda”)
– Dario Giannì (electric bass, fretless bass, keyboards, mellotron)
– Roberto Giannì (keyboards, piano)
– Giovanni Spadaro (drums, percussion, electronic drums)

The post Review: Ologram – La Mia Scia appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: progressive black metal, heavy metal (mixed vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Haggard, King Diamond, Fleshgod Apocalypse
Country: Italy
Release date: 31 January 2025

If I won the lottery, I’d pay for Wilderun and Ne Obliviscaris to record and perform with whatever orchestra and choir they’d like. In my humble opinion, (competent) orchestration and metal pair like peanut butter and jelly, elevating both to hitherto unknown heights. Truly, few things in life compare to the wedding of these disparate styles. On one man band Selvans’ third album, the Italian horrorist enlists the help of a sixty-member orchestra and choir. That’s damn ambitious and I respect it; do his compositions justify the cost?

Saturnalia exudes campy fun, living up to the Roman festival it’s named after. With a baseline of King Diamond-y heavy metal, Selvans amplifies the sound with eclectic black metal riffing and an aura of Fleshgod Apocalypse’s grandeur. Selvan’s vocal attack is similarly varied: he shouts at you in Italian, performs freakily accurate King Diamond highs, attempts silly little whispers and more goblin-y harshes (“Fonte del Diavoli”), and showcases operatic talent (“Madre Dei Tormenti”). For every vocal success, however, he has several which work less well: like the obnoxious burp which heralds the start of “Madre Dei Tormenti” and the out-of-place spaghetti-Western styled whistle in “Il Mio Maleficio V’incalzerà!,” but Selvans is clearly an entertainer to his core, his performances full of drama and refreshingly passionate—over-the-top but deservingly so. The all-Italian lyrics are also quite the riot (according to my Italian peer Francesco), chronicling loony tales of cultist orgies (“Il Mio Maleficio V’incalzerà!”) and… um a man who escapes an asylum, is flayed and burned alive, only to have the devil come and make him into a figure of terror who goes and curses people with a band of outcasts (“Il Mio Maleficio”) (thanks for the translation help, Francesco!).

Instrumentally, Selvans achieves similar bombast, even disregarding the orchestration. Chock-full of heavy metal swagger, guitarists Chris D’Onofrio and Antonio Scelzi rip solos whenever they get the chance—highlights including the ends of “Il Mio Maleficio V’incalzerà!” and “Il Capro Infuocato.” When not soloing, the trem-picked riffs provide the ghastly horror vibe Selvans aims to achieve, creating a sense of maniacal unhingedness like Le Grand Guignol did almost twenty years ago. A bevy of retro prog rock organs and synths create a spooky atmosphere during the more metal-y tracks (so all but “Necromilieu” and “Madre Dei Tormenti”); both keyboard styles are fun, but with all the sounds at once in the heavier parts, everything can be a bit overwhelming.

And alas, the metal bits completely lose the orchestra. Just like Fleshgod Apocalypse, muddy production kills the full experience. The lead guitar and vocals are crisp above the menagerie of other textures, but those all blend together into a noisy, cluttered mess. In an ideal world, all of Selvans’ orchestrations and compositions would be a bit more deft—not to the level of Aquilus but perhaps handled like Lamentari. And this is where Selvans loses me despite their vibrant enthusiasm and jubilant, creepy songwriting: the group just get lost in the sauce. The ebbs and flows are thrilling, but by the end it doesn’t do much with symphonic grandeur, the songwriting never crescendoing to a satisfying enough climax (although the solos are undoubtedly great—I wish Selvans used them more). Along the same lines, the album closer “Fonte Dei Diavoli” is a little underwhelming: why does Saturnalia end on a fadeout???

I always respect ambition; it’s the driving force of prog, after all. But sometimes an artist has to rein it in, and that’s the case for Selvans. Fantastic musician, solid composer, fun ideator for concepts and stories, but the whole project just doesn’t coalesce in a satisfying way. That is not to say Saturnalia isn’t worthwhile, but I am sad that this is supposedly the final project under the Selvans name.

Recommended tracks: Il Mio Maleficio V’incalzerà!, Madre Dei Tormenti, Pantàfica
You may also like: Malokarpatan, Le Grand Guignol, Antipope, Pensées Nocturnes, Dissona, The Circle, Aenaon
Final verdict: 7/10

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

Label: Avantgarde Music – Bandcamp | Facebook | Official Website

Selvans is:

Selvans: vocals and keyboards
Chris D’Onofrio: guitars
Agares: bass
Marco Berrettoni: drums
Antonio Scelzi: additional lead guitars
Triumphator: solo track 4

The post Review: Selvans – Saturnalia appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: Heavy metal, prog rock, theatre soundtrack (clean vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Saimaa, Area, Mike Oldfield, Premiata Forneria Marconi, Unitopia
Country: Italy
Review by: Christopher
Release date: 10 January 2025

A hundred restless figures in a cramped auditorium, a gentle hum of conversation and the occasional cough; nervously excited parents rifling through the program. This year, the ambitious new drama teacher has gone all out, and the kids are performing a musical version of William Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Bake sales have funded the production design: some parents have been working on papier-mâché stalagmites and stalactites for Caliban’s cave, and buckets of brown paint have been slapped onto the ship backdrop for the opening scene. The crowd hushes as the drama teacher steps onstage to give an introductory speech, and the Shakespeare fans in the audience itch for their first sight of the Boatswain and the Shipmaster. The two characters do indeed step out at the play’s opening, but what isn’t expected is the four grown men in a makeshift orchestra pit hammering out an Iron Maiden-esque overture that wobbles the set enough that it really does seem like the ship’s in a storm. As The Bard himself would say: if music be the food of love, then open up this fucking pit. 

Yes, here to steal the thunder from the it girl playing Miranda, and your own kid who got lumped with the curtain puller job is Italian prog metal outfit Opera Nera. Shakespeare’s original play contained songs for the players to perform, and the band lift their lyrics from these to reimagine them as if The Bard had been into rock operas, which he obviously would’ve been. Some tracks take their lyrics from other parts of the text (“This Island is Mine”, for example, borrows from a Caliban soliloquy), and others act as instrumental soundtrack or incidental music. In essence, Opera Nera’sThe Tempest is conceptualised not as a complete piece in and of itself, but as an accompaniment to a stage performance, an extra dimension of the play, to expand Prospero’s island.

“Hell is Empty” opens with lines from Caliban, the enslaved savage—‘Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not’—before the band bring out their twangling instruments and deliver a heavy metal aria. Power chords and duelling leads with a somewhat warbling quality, plus a solo section which, at one juncture, appears to homage Avenged Sevenfold’s “Afterlife” make for a rather generic start, and the production is instantly apparent as a weak point. Around half the tracks are rooted in a simple eighties style of heavy metal, shades of Iron Maiden, Dio, that sort of thing, but lacking somewhat in execution. “This Island is Mine” employs Dino Jelusick-esque gravelly belting while “Beseech, you sir, be merry” consists of little more than some chugs and a solo; there’s ultimately not much to say about these tracks because they don’t develop any ideas. Most are five lines of Shakespeare and a riff with an average song length of just over two minutes—such is the lot of music made for a play that isn’t actually a musical. However, there’s another side to Opera Nera, some unexpected flourishes which actually elevate their sound. 

If half of The Tempest is metal, the other half is some rather bold genre experimentation. “Flaut‘em and Scout‘em” [sic] goes for a clean guitar funk groove and wild sax solo, “You are Three Men of Sins” evolves from psychedelic chilled-out electronica in the vein of Air into a sort of Primus-esque chaos—given the lyrics are drawn from a pretty tense and climactic scene, this level of whimsy seems somewhat at odds with the play’s content but I’m no theatre critic. Meanwhile, “Lu capitano in testa” is an impromptu sojourn into full-blown Neapolitan folk (to reflect the character of Stefano who is described as a Neapolitan in the play and drawing upon a Neapolitan translation of the text for the lyrics), and “Come Unto These Yellow Sands” boldly attempts vocal harmonisation and clean guitar in the vein of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (ending with comical abruptness; the noise gates Opera Nera use are undeniably a problem). The jewel of the genre-hopping, however, is “Reaper’s Dance”, seven minutes of out-and-out trance that reprise the addictive ‘Ban, ‘Ban, Ca-Caliban’ chant from the track of that name of which it’s essentially a remix handled by guest musician, Pier Paolo Polcari. I don’t know about you, but I think all Shakespeare adaptations should have at least seven uninterrupted minutes of rave music. 

Herein lies the most bizarre problem afflicting Opera Nera: their stopovers in other genres are far more successful than their progressive metal which is, at best, bland, poorly produced rock opera clichés. On the other hand, “Reaper’s Dance” is unironically sick but it’s broadly the work of composer Pier Paolo Polcari (who’s worked with Massive Attack, which really explains the insane quality jump), just as “Lu capitano in testa” is mostly the work of guest musician Lino Vairetti. While the attempt at folk on “Come Unto These Yellow Sands” is admirable, with no expert to guide them, Opera Nera falter. The band’s strongest ideas are either carried by skilled guest musicians or fall prey to the band’s triumvirate of problems: poor production, undercooked compositions, and an unfortunate lack of skill. As a work that could theoretically accompany a production of The Tempest, this is an intriguing, ambitious and serviceable project as well as a unique undertaking for the progressive scene, but on most other metrics Opera Nera fall well short of muster.

Prospero intones his final lines, and the curtain falls as an ominous string quartet plays (“All the Devils Are Here”). The parents give a standing ovation, and the little actors take a bow. The families file out, their little Thespians in tow and head out towards the car park. Loading their instruments into a van are Opera Nera who were never invited up onstage and so, unlike Prospero, never received the audience’s applause to set them free. “You were great tonight, sweetie,” beams a proud mother walking past with her son, and a little sense of yearning jolts through the watching musicians. Behind his wife and daughter comes the proud father, singing a little ditty to himself: “Flout ‘em and scout ‘em, and scout ‘em and flout ‘em”, he croons tunelessly. And perhaps that’s enough for these sirs to be cheerful, even though our revels now are ended.

Final verdict: 5/10

Review by: Francesco

Since practically the dawn of civilization, grandiose epic concepts have been a staple of storytelling. And with the advent of the written word, the most popular form has been the literary form—between technological innovations and the evolution of the pop culture sphere, these epic tales and poems have been passed on in various media, very recently growing to include progressive rock and heavy metal. In 1977, Rush wrote “Xanadu”, a direct adaptation of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan”—likely the earliest song explicitly based on an epic poem—setting it to grand, atmospheric prog music. Certainly a huge influence on epic metal storytelling, it was later followed by arguably the most popular and definitive metal music piece based on an epic literary work; another work of Coleridge’s, in fact – “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”, by Iron Maiden off their 1984 album Powerslave. Later oeuvres would include Blind Guardian’s interpretation of The Iliad and The Aeneid with “And Then There Was Silence”, and its counterpart “The Odyssey” by Symphony X. And if you fancy a bit of Shakespeare, perhaps? Well, to my knowledge, there are only a few: Rebellion’s Shakespeare’s Macbeth: A Tragedy in Steel (2002) and King Lear (2018), Anarchÿ’s The Spectrum of Human Emotion (2022) which was based on Hamlet, and the focus of this review: Italians Opera Nera and The Tempest—based off the play of the same name. To make an analogy; if Rebellion’s works were expressionist paintings, and Anarchÿ’s Spectrum was baroque, then Opera Nera’s The Tempest would be a child splattering the wall with finger paints. 

Ostensibly The Tempest was written as musical accompaniment to the play, and many of the tracks contain lyrics that are directly pulled from Shakespeare’s work. Introducing The Tempest with a line from Act III, Scene II, ‘Be not afeard…’ and transitioning into an ‘80s metal harmonized guitar track, Opera Nera immediately invites comparisons to Iron Maiden—and while there are certainly elements of heavy metal on this album, to suggest that the entire album is like this would not only be untrue, it would also be setting you up, dear reader, for disappointment. From the ‘60s psychedelic ballad in “Come unto these yellow sands”, to soft piano with vocal accompaniment in “My Master through his art”, and back to a heavy metal sound with “This island is mine”, Opera Nera often ventures off into genre territories so vastly different from one another you’ll need a map and compass to find your place. And that’s barely the half of it. It’s certainly very artsy, and yes, progressive music can be about pushing boundaries—but I think it’s wise to have direction, and that’s something I felt The Tempest was sorely lacking. 

The way The Tempest (the album, not the play) bounces around different ideas is jarring and gives the impression of an incomplete, or rather, unfinished work. The idea to make this a heavy metal album would have been one of the better creative decisions on this release, if it had not been left unexplored fully; instead, we get seven minutes of abysmal vocal trance music (“Reaper’s Dance”), a minute-and-a-half of funk-soul-jazz (“Flout ‘em and scout ‘em”), and whatever the fuck you call the two-and-a-half minutes of “Ban Ban Ca Caliban”. The best part of this album was the Neapolitan-language folk music of “Lu Capitanu in testa”. Why couldn’t they make a Neapolitan folk metal album instead? There’s just as much a lack of those as there are conceptual Neapolitan Shakespearean prog albums, and evidently they have more a knack for it than much of whatever else is on this album. 

Opera Nera’s Spotify biography reads “trying to experiment with formats in a metal key” and of the fourteen tracks on The Tempest, beside “Hell is empty”, “Beseech you, sir, be merry”, “This island is mine”, and “Yo, elves of hills” (which was intended to be “you elves”, making it accidentally the funniest title on the album), there was no other metal or metal-adjacent sonority to be found. Frankly, I would struggle to consider this a prog metal or prog rock album. It’s some type of abstract expressionist avant-garde musical concept album with everything from jazz to psychedelia to trance thrown at the wall just to see what sticks. It was probably one of the most absurd things I’ve heard in a while. Ragazzi, ma per cortesia. You are four men of sins.

Recommended tracks: Reaper’s Dance, Lu capitano in testa, Hell is Empty
You may also like: Osanna, Whom Gods Destroy
Final verdict: 3/10

Related links: Bandcamp | Spotify | Official Website | Instagram

Label: Independent

Opera Nera is:
– Marco Napolitano (guitars)
– Alessandro Pacella (bass)
– Eduardo Spada (drums)
– Tiziano Spigno (vocals)

The post Double Review: Opera Nera – The Tempest appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Album art by Devilnax

Style: Progressive metal, progressive rock (clean vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Leprous, Porcupine Tree, Fates Warning, Pain of Salvation, Riverside, Agent Fresco
Country: Italy
Release date: 23 August 2024

If you’ve spent any time on the internet, you will have seen the phrases “copium” and “hopium” in all sorts of memes—from denial about their favorite manga character being dead¹ to wish-thinking Time II into existence (thanks Jari, you finally did it) to a hypothetical third party winning the US elections—their usage is rarely anything more than half-serious. When one of my main underground² darlings Kingcrow announced that their new album was titled Hopium—most likely blissfully unaware of internet meme culture—I had to do a double-take to rewire my brain because I knew for certain that these guys were serious about it.

Hopium continues in the rhythmical, electronic direction of The Persistence but is far less bleak in tone and brings back some of the band’s eclecticism of old in the form of zany electronic synths and latin guitar playing. In essence, Hopium is less mood piece and more prog, its experimentation not necessarily for any deep emotional effect as much as Kingcrow were just messing around for the thrill of it. Not that Kingcrow will ever completely ditch their dramatism or heartfelt sadness, but songs like “Parallel Lines” with its zany trance synths and sexy guitar solo or “Night Drive” with its mechanical synths and grinding riff in its final minutes are less moody and are mostly just really damn cool. Above all else, Hopium is a fun, dynamic prog metal album with high technicality, strong vocal melodies, nifty experimentation, interesting twists and turns, and a dark undercurrent of tasteful melodrama tying it all together.

Honestly, there is so much to discuss that I don’t even know where to begin praising the record. Should I talk about “Glitch” and its sing-along chorus that might be chorus of the year for how incredibly hype it is? Or perhaps you want to know about the stunning climaxes of “Parallel Lines” and its cacophony of polyrhythmic mastery and brooding synths, or “Losing Game” that erupts after repeatedly chanting “Now the curtain has fallen” over an increasingly anxious rhythm? Maybe it’s better to first talk about how the band still writes incredible mood pieces when they so desire like “New Moon Harvest”, “Night Drive”, and the title track? And what about the superb individual performances? 

That last part is probably worth expanding upon: Kingcrow is exceedingly rhythmical on Hopium, having drums, bass, guitars, synths, and sometimes even vocals work in tandem to create a tapestry of rhythmic elements that come together in a way that is as groovy as it is melodic and textured. Though I lack the vocabulary to do it justice, Thundra Cafolla lays down a monumental performance on drums. On previous albums he tended to play in a more understated way, often hiding polyrhythms in parts that seemed straightforward, but on tracks like “Parallel Lines” or “Vicious Circle” he really lets loose and the result is phenomenal. On guitars, Diego Cafolla and Ivan Nastisic provide a colorful twin attack, their styles ranging from sexy latin acoustic, to urgent Fear of a Blank Planet-era Porcupine Tree hard rock, to textural fingerpicking, to Leprous-esque staccato riffs, and more. I do still miss the guitar solos that The Persistence largely did away with as those were some of my favorites in the entire genre, but the two that we do get in “Parallel Lines” and in “New Moon Harvest” are incredible. Finally, Diego Marchesi sings his heart out, showing a newfound level of vulnerability in his voice on the softer parts—“New Moon Harvest” and “Come Through” being especially touching—and just being all around excellent otherwise.³

However, I do have some minor criticisms about Hopium. Primarily, the latter half of the album misses some of the urgency and faster pacing of the first half. Four out of five tracks are either slow burners or mood pieces, and though “Vicious Circle” is tighter and more upbeat, its pacing doesn’t come close to the final chorus of “Glitch” or the adrenaline-fueled latin fingerpicking of “Losing Game”. Furthermore, its chorus is the weakest one on the album. These issues compound and make the second half feel a bit slow and bloated even if everything besides the aforementioned chorus is great individually. Otherwise, the opener “Kintsugi” has an incredibly infectious main groove and chorus, but its ABAB structure doesn’t progress much at all and could have benefitted from either an interesting twist or two, or some flashy showmanship. None of these issues break the album or anything, but they do hamper its sky-high potential a bit.

Hopium provides an interesting development of Kingcrow’s sound, taking the electronic approach of The Persistence and marrying it to the eclecticism and extroversion of their earlier work, yielding an experience that is both deeply emotional and intellectually challenging. Though its second half can be a bit slow, the depth and sheer cool-factor of their writing more than makes up for it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to whiff some Hopium that their next album won’t take another six years to release.⁴

Recommended tracks: Glitch, Parallel Lines, Losing Game
You may also like: Ions, Temic, Rendezvous Point
Final verdict: 8/10

1. LOOKING AT YOU, GOJO FANS ︎
2. Well, not anymore. They were well over our monthly listener cap for the majority of the year so we’re only getting to it now. ︎
3.  Sorry Riccardo Nifosi: I have a terrible ear for bass, but I’m sure you did just as well! ︎
4.  Waiter, waiter! Could I order some more guitar solos as well? ︎

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

Label: Season of Mist – Bandcamp | Facebook

Kingcrow is:
– Diego Marchesi (vocals)
– Diego Cafolla (guitars, keyboards, backing vocals)
– Ivan Nastasic (guitars, backing vocals)
– Riccardo Nifosi (bass, backing vocals)
– Thundra Cafolla (drums, percussion)

The post Missed Album Review: Kingcrow – Hopium appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Style: Progressive Metal, Power Metal (Mixed vocals, mostly clean)
Recommended for fans of: To/Die/For, Evergrey, Unto Others, Katatonia, Voyager
Country: Italy
Release date: 10 January 2025

With the resurgence of surrealist humor in the late 2010s came a fascination with the surreal outside of a humorous context: vaporwave artist Macintosh Plus and the ‘creepypasta’ horror subgenre became common subjects among chronically online millennials and gen Z thanks to their otherworldly sensibilities. However, no modern surreal work continues to have as much cultural staying power as The Backrooms, a creepypasta borne from a relatively innocuous picture of a then-unidentified activities center in Wisconsin. Its musty aura and uncanny emptiness struck a chord with many, inspiring a new genre of horror revolving around ‘liminal spaces’: barren and featureless areas that imbue existential dread by delicately toeing the line between reality and unreality. However, on latest opus Liminal Spaces, Italian prog metallers Beriedir see these landscapes as an opportunity for expression and a metaphor for processing trauma. Will Beriedir help us safely escape the Liminal Space, or are we doomed to navigate these empty hallways on our own?

Born from keyboard-heavy power metal, Beriedir have gradually introduced more progressive elements into their sound on each new release, and Liminal Spaces sees these sensibilities explored in full: whereas tracks from previous releases AQVA and The Path Beyond the Moon limit their exploration mostly to tempo changes, the pieces on Liminal Space are self-contained balls of chaos, introducing tracks with Fleshgod Apocalypse-style theatrics (“In the Corner of My Eyes”), mercilessly cranking the tempo up and down (“Neon”), and pummeling the listener to oblivion with heavy breakdowns (“As Tight As Phantoms Hold”). Some things never change, however: the keyboard is as prominent as ever, giving the music a bit of edge (“Anemoia,” “Massive”) and approaching an EDM tone at times (“F.I.V.E.”). Keeping the chaotic instrumentation in check is vocalist Stefano Nüsperli, whose mournful and melodramatic delivery adds a gothic feel to Liminal Spaces.

It would be easy for Beriedir’s compositional style to render songs into a formless mess, but Liminal Spaces threads the needle between chaos and cohesion with little problem. Opener “Halo,” for example, establishes a simple guitar riff and chorus to act as home base while the verses twitch back and forth between seductive hushedness and harsh outbursts; “Neon” enacts a clever bait-and-switch by recontextualizing its quiet and minimal introductory moments with a considerable tempo and energy increase; and “As Tight As Phantoms Hold” suppresses chaos for most of its runtime, holding off until the bridge to let it all out with staccato outbursts and a dramatic multi-part breakdown. Usually, this style of progressive metal rolls off me completely, but Liminal Spaces proves to be an exception by restraining its tracks through shorter song lengths and clever integration of established ideas.

Just as integral to the songwriting is the moody and passionate vocal performance: Stefano Nüsperli adorns tracks with earworm vocal melodies, helping to further ground Liminal Spaces’ tumult. “Halo” makes itself instantly memorable through Nüsperli’s brooding and subdued approach in the verses juxtaposed with a simple yet explosive chorus; “In the Corner of My Eyes” is introduced with a throat-tearing screech before switching to cleans full of power and melodrama; and “As Tight as Phantoms Hold” conjures heartbreak in its melancholy delivery. “F.I.V.E.” contains many of my favorite vocal moments, whether it be Nüsperli’s vocals gliding effortlessly over a thunderous bass or the absolutely killer layering of clean and harsh vocals used later in the track. Though a note or two may come off a bit nasally or grating, particularly on “Halo” and “In the Corner of My Eyes,” Liminal Spaces’ vocals radiate personality and give a lot of life to the album.

However, Liminal Spaces doesn’t make it out of The Backrooms unscathed. “More than Starlight” is one of the more chaotic tracks and ends up feeling the most disjointed, featuring a few moments of interest but failing to weave its ideas together cohesively. Additionally, its introductory verse features a bright and almost sing-songy melody that sticks out like a sore thumb compared to the rest of Liminal Spaces’ gothic melancholy. While not entirely out of place as it faithfully adheres to Beriedir’s kitchen-sink songwriting approach, it would have worked much better as a closing track given its comparative leap in mood. On the flip side, when Beriedir don’t deliver tornadic composition or compelling vocal hooks, the music falls into anonymity: “Massive” and “Anemoia” are decent tracks, but due to their simpler structures, they lack in standout moments and roll off the mind almost entirely. Ultimately, these tracks feel like afterthoughts, leaving me wanting more bombast and entropy. “Burnout” is similarly straightforward, but maintains interest in its singular mood by introducing a fast-paced harsh vocal delivery and a small symphonic aside in each verse.

Liminal Spaces utilizes a chaotic and explosive songwriting approach that, most of the time, works magnificently in Beriedir’s favor: when it’s done in moderation, the end result is lightning in a bottle, coercing musical interest through expressive passages with unbridled intensity and deliciously melodramatic vocals. Occasionally, though, Liminal Spaces fails to reach an ideal balance and demonstrates the need for growth to master this style, whether it be more chaotic tracks that need to be reeled in for their own good or juicing up the relatively anonymous pieces with more frenzied moments. Overall, though, I’m quite sold on Liminal Spaces, leaving me eager for a follow-up, or at least an evening of barren exploration.

Recommended tracks: Neon, F.I.V.E., In the Corner of My Eyes, In the Liminal Space
You may also like: Darkwater, Ions, Turbulence, Alkera
Final verdict: 7/10

Related links: Spotify | Official Website | Facebook | Instagram | Metal-Archives page

Label: Rockshots Records – Facebook | Official Website

Beriedir is:
– Stefano Nüsperli (vocals, keyboards)
– Simone Bacchi Mottin (guitars)
– Francesco Ideo (guitars)
– Ciro Salvi (drums)
– Daniele Cantaboni (bass)

The post Review: Beriedir – Liminal Spaces appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

No artist credited (let us know!)

Style: Power metal, progressive metal (clean vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Angra, Symphony X, (Luca Turilli/Lione’s) Rhapsody (Of Fire)
Country: Italy
Release date: 24 January 2025

If you happen to be in Tuscany, for all its cultural delights, between the yearly Battle of the Bridge event in Pisa, lampredotto panini by the duomo in Florence, and the bottomless glasses of Brunello and Montepulciano in its many hillside vineyards, I urge you to take a moment and revel in your surroundings. If you listen carefully, there, echoing from the rolling marble hills of the Apuan Alps, you can hear the faint sounds of power metal as Massa’s Labÿrinth gears up to release their 10th album In The Vanishing Echoes of Goodbye. A high-octane output of progressive, melodic power metal, this no-holds-barred release contains all of the hallmarks of what made this band a staple of the Italian metal scene: virtuosic riffing, high-altitude soaring vocal acrobatics, and machine-gun drumming packaged in creative arrangements and intelligent songwriting. 

The album opens on “Welcome Twilight”, which comes to life with a doomy, heavy riff and floor tom groove, modulating into a gallop where a labyrinthine keyboard/guitar arpeggio twists and turns above. Settling into a double-time feel, guitar maestro Olaf Thörsen’s high-speed precision picking then sets the backdrop for Roberto Tiranti’s expressive vocals. The epic chorus kicks in with dramatic Latin chanting and a memorable hook while the rhythm section keeps a breakneck pace. I have to imagine that seeing these guys live with the strobe lights going while drummer Matt Peruzzi employs his rapid-fire kick bursts would send anyone into an epileptic fit. The guy keeps a pace that would make Aquiles Priester (Edu Falaschi) sweat. 

There’s a technicality here typical of the genre, but In the Vanishing Echoes of Goodbye also showcases more of a heavier side of Labÿrinth with “Heading To Nowhere”, a track that features some clear thrash influence and a riff that wouldn’t feel amiss on an Annihilator disc, and “Accept The Changes” which begins with a minor-key lick and a dark, broody symphonic metal element – but also some decidedly 80s AOR sensibilities with “Out Of Place” and “The Right Side Of This World”: anthemic sing-along choruses and Bon Jovi-esque synth stabs aplenty. “The Healing” presents one of the album’s two power ballads, and it’s brilliantly produced, exhibiting emotional acoustic guitar with excellent cymbal work atop, a hard-hitting sorrowful chorus and tasteful fadeout. The second one, “To The Son I Never Had” is an evocative narrative piece of life advice from a man to his ostensibly hypothetical son; it’s well executed and a more mellow, sentimental, zippo-lighters-swaying-in-the-air type of ballad with only a slight deviation into a hard rocking interlude about 2/3rds of the way through for an inspirational guitar solo. 

The production on this album is massive. Each snare hit resonates through your cranial cavity as the kick drums send mighty pressure waves through your chest. The track listing is purposeful and most songs stand out with increasingly catchy refrains and the oft-featured instantly appealing twin-guitar melodies in true Iron Maiden fashion. The lyrical work is often introspective but sometimes turns outwards to society at large; however, the band struggles to find a way to address it in a manner that avoids coming off as trite. Labÿrinth stated that the record was inspired by the worldwide political turmoil brought about in the wake of the recent pandemic. This latter element is addressed haphazardly in the track “Mass Distraction” where a verse about misinformation includes the line “I recognize bullshit from a thousand miles away” – and “Inhuman Race”, where a clumsily-added, newsroom voiceover about an American “specialized combat vehicle” supplied to Ukraine and captured by Russia during the ongoing war, remarks on its potential consequences over tinkly piano and saccharine falsetto vocalization. It was such a jarring inclusion that I couldn’t help but burst into laughter. It doesn’t match the tone of the track, let alone the album. And it’s such a hamfisted way of bringing up geopolitics on an album that has mostly been about individual passion and personal life experience. But I digress.

Labÿrinth are masters of their art, no doubt about that, and the consummate musicianship of every member is on full display. The compositions are fun and varied, and feature lots of different influences from RATT to Queensrÿche and in between. The self-styled pioneers of Italian prog-power have little and less to apologize for on this release. Far be it from me to tell an artist to keep their noses out of geopolitics or epistemology, but I think there are ways to approach these subjects without falling into the classic pitfalls of banal metaphors or smacking the audience on the head with the point you’re trying to make. Then again, media literacy is becoming scarcer by the day. In The Vanishing Echoes Of Goodbye is an unrelenting and uncompromising release jam-packed with anthemic choruses and hair-raising guitar leads, proving once again why Labÿrinth are principal players in Tuscany, and in the Italian metal scene at large.

Recommended tracks: Welcome Twilight, Heading for Nowhere, The Right Side of This World
You may also like: Vision Divine, DGM, Michele Luppi’s Los Angeles
Final verdict: 8.5/10

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

Label: Frontiers Records – | Facebook | Official Website

Labÿrinth is:
– Roberto Tiranti (vocals)
– Olaf Thörsen (guitars)
– Andrea Cantarelli (guitars)
– Nick Mazzucconi (bass)
– Matt Peruzzi (drums)
– Oleg Smirnoff (keyboards)

The post Review: Labÿrinth – In the Vanishing Echoes of Goodbye appeared first on The Progressive Subway.

Album artwork by Gigi Cavalli Cocchi.

Style: Progressive rock, symphonic rock (clean vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Porcupine Tree, new Opeth, Pink Floyd, Yes
Country: Italy
Release date: 06 December 2024

There are some albums that loudly demand your attention, and others that quietly, politely ask for it. This one does both, but not always in equal measure. What I’ve got here is an Italian prog rock release of epic proportions: The Good Man by Alex Carpani is just two nearly-thirty-minute tracks (also conveniently split by the artist into nine parts each) that span multiple styles and moods from ambient synth and fusion to the more conventional (is that the right word for it?) riffing found across the prog spectrum. Carpani’s influences reverberate throughout this record with enough clarity to evoke certain familiarity and he manages to keep the sound fresh without ever sounding derivative to the point of unoriginality but sometimes can stumble with keeping the listener engaged with its frequently shifting tone and pace. 

There’s a lot to take in on this release. The shifting moods interplay with the changing soundscapes, from heavy to soft, slow to fast, to create a dynamic that gives the album some movement. The Good Man is an album that doesn’t hide behind flashy technical wizardry, but competent musicianship doesn’t necessitate boastful showmanship, as Alex skilfully balances interesting and intricate riffing with emotional weight in the songwriting. Although the album is two singular tracks, there’s a lot of variation within the individual pieces—the two pieces ebb and flow with grace, like the scenes of a movie, often recalling elements that came before and reworking them into something that fits the later narrative. 

On “Amnesiac”, psychedelic Pink Floyd-esque moments of quiet introspection and experimentation are introduced, where background elements take precedence, and atmospheric keyboard work is complemented with a soprano operatic background vocal while the guitar takes a backseat to sentimental string pads. This is contrasted with loud, exuberant heavy guitar sections à la Haken, verses which come in later on “Heart Calling” (“part 7”). Trading emphasis between steady, double-kick triplets, and off-beat, syncopated staccato riffing over soaring keyboard leads, these kinds of feel changes add a sense of dynamism and help give a long track a feeling of momentum. 

On “Good and Evil”, the pace slows down a bit. It’s a little more reserved, with fleeting moments of effervescence – the occasional energetic Steven Wilson-ey, new-Opeth-ish heavy part coming in after long periods of contemplative mulling about. I liked this contrast on “Amnesiac”; I was less fond of it a second time around. It felt more like a continuation of the first track that did little to move the album along than a wholly separate one. The various movements for the most part all kind of lull you into a trance; first slow, then upbeat, then slow again. Although it makes for a very cohesive, very consistent listen, there just wasn’t enough to differentiate from the first 28 minutes to really grab a hold of me. However, there were some interesting moments like “Flirting With Darkness”: an enthusiastic rock break that provides a bit of renewed energy after the aptly named “Stillness and Ecstasy” (emphasis mine) – and “Mystical”, where after a string-backed word from the late Pope John Paul II, we spontaneously break into fugue. As a pipe organ toccata channels Bach, the percussion section thunders in with bass accompaniment, breaking into what could almost be considered neoclassical prog, and delineating this as what I felt was the highlight of the album. The song has several more transitions between slow and fast, deciding on a more upbeat rock sound on the final track “Everything Falls Into Place” with heavily effected reverberant guitar melodies and saxophone, before sliding into more abstract ambient territory for the album finale.

Alex Carpani has been around the block some, he certainly doesn’t need my validation here; I have the utmost respect for what he tried to do with this project and to say I didn’t enjoy it would be unfair as there are certainly moments I keep going back to, and parts of these two tracks that have made my regular rotation. Ultimately, though, The Good Man as a whole failed to resonate with me in a manner that I felt significant. I commend the work of his band and in particular, mezzo-soprano Valentina Vanini, whose contributions to this album cannot be overstated. A rather pensive release, with moments of bombast peppered throughout, Alex Carpani has crafted the thinking man’s prog rock album, but its unhurried nature might test the patience of those looking for more urgency and a swifter pace.

Recommended tracks: “Amnesiac Part 2 Perfect Chaos”, “Amnesiac Part 9 End Of The Day”, “Good and Evil Part 5 Flirting With Darkness”, “Good and Evil Part 9 Everything Falls Apart”
You may also like: Wounded Knee, Osanna, Karmamoi
Final verdict: 7/10

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

Label: Independent Artist Records

Alex Carpani is:
– Alex Carpani (vocals, keyboards, production)

The post Review: Alex Carpani – The Good Man appeared first on The Progressive Subway.