You don’t usually look to Houston for your dose of apocalyptic chill, but Necrofier have spent the last few years proving that the Texas heat can be just as corrosive as a Norwegian winter. With Transcend Into Oblivion, they’ve finally stopped paying lip service to the old black metal guard and started carving out a space that is entirely their own. It’s a record that understands a fundamental truth: if you’re going to stare into the abyss, you might as well do it with a bit of thrash-fuelled swagger and a rhythm section that actually knows how to gallop.
The album is built around these clever, apocalyptic triads, and the opening movement, Fires Of The Apocalypse, Light My Path I hits like a bucket of hot lead. What’s immediately striking is how much "thrash" is actually in the plumbing here. There’s a muscular, rhythmic drive that provides a solid foundation for the tempestuous squalls of black metal extremity. It feels properly powerful, benefiting from a production that allows the "gristle" of the low-end to remain audible even when the tremolo-picking is at its most frantic.
Where they really win me over, though, is in the melodic layers. They describe their sound as having melodies that "twinkle in the gloom like will-o'-the-wisps," and for once, the PR blurb isn't lying. Tracks like Behold, The Birth Of Ascension and the Servants Of Darkness trilogy possess a sinister, otherworldly beauty that’s buried deep within the noise. Now this is something I love in music, it’s just catching that detail hidden deep in the “noise”. It gives the record an emotional depth that most "grim" projects simply lack.
By the time you hit the Horns Of Destruction movements, the momentum is absolute. Horns Of Destruction, Lift My Blade II is a masterclass in tension, moving from a gloomy, atmospheric drift into a high-velocity assault that feels genuinely dangerous. The guitars don't just play riffs; they create sonic waves, moving with a level of ingenuity that makes most bedroom black metal look like it's being played with blunt tools.
The whole thing eventually collapses into the finality of Toward The Necrofier, and by then, the urge to actually own this thing on wax is pretty much undeniable. Necrofier haven't just filed another report from the dark; they’ve built a cinematic, dark-edged journey that deserves a physical spot on the shelf next to the classics. It’s an honest, unvarnished look at the end of all things, a heavy, shimmering reminder that even in the absolute dark, there’s a hell of a lot of beauty to be found in the wreckage. I’m already reaching for the "repeat" button before the smoke has even cleared the room. 9/10
As Everything Unfolds - Did You Ask To Be Set Free (Century Media)
After spending the last few weeks digging through the dirt of the Swedish forests and the Texas heat in terms of what I’ve been reviewing, stumbling onto the high-gloss world of As Everything Unfolds feels a bit like walking out of a basement gig into a brightly lit shopping centre. Their latest, Did You Ask To Be Set Free, is a record that arrives with a lot of heavy lifting in its PR, promising a "bold fusion" of post-hardcore, melodic metalcore, and emotional resilience. It’s an ambitious goal, but for someone who prefers their noise with a bit of an unpolished edge, the result feels more like a calculation than a confrontation.
The album opens with Denial and Gasoline, and the first thing that hits you is the sheer scale of the production. It’s massive, certainly, but it’s a "produced" kind of heavy that occasionally robs the riffs of their teeth. Charlie Rolfe’s vocals are undeniably impressive, she has the range and the power to anchor these arena-sized choruses but there’s a level of polish here that feels at odds with the "authentic honesty" the band's manifesto claims. It’s a sound that seems to be constantly looking for the largest possible audience, which isn't a crime, but it often leaves the more aggressive moments feeling like they've been sanitized for safety.
The middle stretch, featuring tracks like Cut The Lies and Set In Flow, is where the "metalcore-by-numbers" feel starts to set in. The "perfect balance" between heaviness and emotion they’re chasing often ends up neutralizing both. When the breakdown hits on What You Wanted (featuring Dani Winter-Bates), it’s heavy, but it’s a predictable kind of heavy, the sort of rhythmic jolt you’ve heard a hundred times on the main stage of a mid-afternoon festival set. It lacks that jagged, unpredictable friction I look for in post-hardcore; that sense that the whole thing might actually fall apart if someone strikes a wrong chord.
There are moments of genuine resilience here, particularly on Edge Of Forever, where the band lets a bit more atmosphere leak into the mix. But by the time we reach the finale, Setting Sun, everything feels a bit too tidy. It’s a professional bit of work, utterly competent and brilliantly executed but it leaves me cold. It’s the difference between a documented riot and a choreographed performance.
As Everything Unfolds have clearly put an immense amount of work into this recording process, and for fans of the high-fidelity, melodic metalcore circuit, this will likely be a highlight of the year. But personally? I miss the cracks in the wall. Did You Ask To Be Set Free is a record that knows exactly where every note should go, but it forgets that in this genre, the most interesting things usually happen when you lose control. It’s an honest account of a band reaching for the top, but it leaves me reaching for something a lot less comfortable. 6/10
Sermon To The Lambs – Sermon To The Lambs (Independent)
If you read the press release for the Chilean debut of Sermon To The Lambs, you’d expect the sky to split open and the four horsemen to start doing laps of the car park. They promise "absolute annihilation," "judgement without mercy," and a "direct, focused, full force, blasphemous assault." It’s a lot of talk for a band that has only just stepped out of the shadows, and while there is undeniably a "baleful presence" here, the record ultimately falls into that classic debut trap: trying way too hard to be the heaviest thing in the room.
The problem with having everything turned up to 11 is that when everything is a peak, nothing is. Motörhead spent decades building a legacy that allowed them to operate at that volume, they earned the right to redline the monitors. On tracks like Crowned King Of The Worms and the title track, Sermon to the Lambs, the band hits with an "iron fist," but the production is so relentlessly saturated that it robs the music of any real dynamic weight. It’s a wall of sound that feels more like a static hiss by the time you reach the middle of the record.
There is definitely talent in there, though. Saints Are Centurions Of An Aristotelian Christ (which wins the award for the best title of the week) shows a band capable of technical dexterity. The riffs are jagged and the Chilean underground’s specific aura of "ancient rites" is palpable. However, you can feel the joins in the architecture; it feels constructed rather than delivered. It’s a direct, focused assault that lacks the solid foundation needed to truly make the "non-believers" fall to their knees.
The back half, Flagrum Taxillatum, Scourging At The Pillar, and Clergy’s Malevolence doubles down on the profane ceremonies, but the "addictive form of absolute annihilation" they promise becomes a bit of an endurance test. The "scratched-record" quality of the production makes it difficult to distinguish the technical brilliance from the sheer volume. It’s a snot-and-tears jolt of noise that needs a bit more air to actually breathe.
When the final bonus tracks eventually fade out, you aren't left with a sense of "judgement without mercy." Instead, you're left with the realization that Sermon To The Lambs are a band with a lot of potential that hasn't quite figured out how to use its own power yet. They’ve aimed for the throat, which is admirable, but they’ve forgotten that the best death metal needs a pulse, not just a heart attack. It’s an interesting start, but next time, they’d do well to build the fortress properly before they start trying to set the world on fire. 6/10
Fågelle – Bränn Min Jord (Independent)
Every now and then, the mailbox we use at Musipedia Of Metal delivers a problem you didn't know you needed to solve.
Hailing from the forests of southern Sweden, Fågelle is a project that sits entirely outside the usual metal blueprints I’m used to reviewing, yet it possesses a level of abrasive, melodic friction that hits with more force than most death metal records I’ve spun this month. Bränn Min Jord (Burn My Earth) is a documented cycle of growth and destruction, a record that understands the "soft punch in the face" dynamic perfectly, where a fragile pop melody is constantly being stalked by a tormented synthesizer or a roaring guitar.
The experience starts with Riv Mig, and the first thing that grabs you is the Swedish language itself. Even as a mono-linguist English bloke who hasn't got a clue what the literal translation is, the emotive weight is undeniable. It’s used as a musical instrument, rhythmic, snot-and-tears honest, and beautifully fragile. By the time the nine-second Skogsskrik 1 (Forest Scream) hits, you realize this isn't an exercise in "ambient" comfort. It is exactly what it says on the tin: a raw, high-velocity jolt of nature that acts as a perfect, jarring punctuation mark for the more expansive pieces like Innan Malen Hittat In.
What I love most here is the layering. After years in Berlin and Gothenburg, Fågelle returned to the inland of Halland to record among the community halls and forests (I researched this – I needed to understand), and you can hear the landscape in the production. It’s a sophisticated blend of field recordings, everything from the Moscow subway to local everyday sounds woven into a tapestry of distorted guitars and brass. Tracks like Det Blev Våra Liv and the title track, Bränn Min Jord, move with a patience an ice age would be proud of, building textures until the air in the room feels thick with the smell of wood smoke and old electronics.
The back half of the record, featuring Satans jävla fan and Det djur som är du, doubles down on the exploration of power. The "noise meets pop" tag is well-earned; using noise in and around the track underlines and brings out the heart of the melody. The tormented synths don't just provide a backdrop; they feel like they’re in a constant, violent argument with the vocals. It’s a masterclass in tension, leading toward the final, haunting stillness of Avslutning.
There’s a specific, rare thrill in finding something so different and epic in the stuff we get to review. One of the benefits of writing for MoM is finding new music. I was only discussing how much new, interesting and amazing music is out there with a friend at the weekend and this is the point that proves it. You spend so much time digging through the usual dirt that you forget music can still catch you off guard, and Bränn Min Jord is a heavy, beautiful reminder of why we bother to look in the first place. It delivers a punch to the face that is somehow both fragile and devastating, a soft, distorted ache that lingers long after the silence returns. It’s the kind of discovery that makes this hobby so damn worthwhile.
The experience starts with Riv Mig, and the first thing that grabs you is the Swedish language itself. Even as a mono-linguist English bloke who hasn't got a clue what the literal translation is, the emotive weight is undeniable. It’s used as a musical instrument, rhythmic, snot-and-tears honest, and beautifully fragile. By the time the nine-second Skogsskrik 1 (Forest Scream) hits, you realize this isn't an exercise in "ambient" comfort. It is exactly what it says on the tin: a raw, high-velocity jolt of nature that acts as a perfect, jarring punctuation mark for the more expansive pieces like Innan Malen Hittat In.
What I love most here is the layering. After years in Berlin and Gothenburg, Fågelle returned to the inland of Halland to record among the community halls and forests (I researched this – I needed to understand), and you can hear the landscape in the production. It’s a sophisticated blend of field recordings, everything from the Moscow subway to local everyday sounds woven into a tapestry of distorted guitars and brass. Tracks like Det Blev Våra Liv and the title track, Bränn Min Jord, move with a patience an ice age would be proud of, building textures until the air in the room feels thick with the smell of wood smoke and old electronics.
The back half of the record, featuring Satans jävla fan and Det djur som är du, doubles down on the exploration of power. The "noise meets pop" tag is well-earned; using noise in and around the track underlines and brings out the heart of the melody. The tormented synths don't just provide a backdrop; they feel like they’re in a constant, violent argument with the vocals. It’s a masterclass in tension, leading toward the final, haunting stillness of Avslutning.
There’s a specific, rare thrill in finding something so different and epic in the stuff we get to review. One of the benefits of writing for MoM is finding new music. I was only discussing how much new, interesting and amazing music is out there with a friend at the weekend and this is the point that proves it. You spend so much time digging through the usual dirt that you forget music can still catch you off guard, and Bränn Min Jord is a heavy, beautiful reminder of why we bother to look in the first place. It delivers a punch to the face that is somehow both fragile and devastating, a soft, distorted ache that lingers long after the silence returns. It’s the kind of discovery that makes this hobby so damn worthwhile.
This left me sitting in the quiet and wondering how I ever managed to miss something this vital. 9/10
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