The Blizzard Beasts are back! Seven long years have passed since they shone their Northern Darkness down upon us, but Abbath and Horgh have returned with another icy assault. The word "epic" is bandied about all too often, especially lately where it frequently shows up in Facebook posts and has entered the vernacular of most sixth graders (never a good sign). But Immortal is the real deal, truly epic, standing on a snowy mountain top, clenched fist and spiked armband raised to the sky, howling at the gods, epic. Ridiculously epic, even. Few bands can conjure the sense of sheer majesty that these Norwegian masters do. The most effective means to achieving this end are the spectacular melodies running throughout the release. The title track, which opens the album, features scaled guitar riffs, capped with flourishes, whilst the drums are beaten mercilessly in the background. "The Rise of Darkness" is even more impressive with its dazzling speed-driven riffing, but it is also eloquent. In fact, there is a degree of grace all throughout this album; at first listen it might seem one-dimensional but in fact there is much going on, leaving new discoveries for subsequent listens. On the other hand, there is no shortage of blackened thrash mayhem to be found here, bursting with whiplash chords and wicked intensity. The breakdown late in "Hordes of War" is headbanging heaven. "Norden on Fire" arrives just in time to shake things up, opening with cool semi- acoustics before settling into a fist-pumping, mid-tempo crusher. "Unearthly Kingdom" is inspiring in its scope, working through an ominous build to culminate in wrath, with magnificent descending arpeggios. But "Mount North" tops them all, reeking of a mythic urgency, the chorus exploding into a searing melee of blast beats and stratospheric riffs. At once classic, but sounding remarkably fresh and driven, Immortal offer a collection of songs that any true metal fan would be hard-pressed to ignore.

Ah, the cycle of atmospheric noise rock. Neurosis were the progenitors, and Isis sprang on the scene some 12 years ago now. Then came Cult of Luna, Callisto, Pelican, and a host of others. For a time from roughly 2001 to 2004, it became amusing to sort out just who was the student and who was the teacher. Neurosis altered their sound, bringing in more post-rock elements. The next year Isis shattered all preconceptions with the godly Oceanic, an album oozing with surprising character. And so it went, with one band altering their style somewhat to be succeeded by another band following suit. I do not think any of them set out to ape one another, but the same patterns kept emerging. 2004 was the ultimate culmination when Isis, Cult of Luna and Neurosis all simultaneously released stunning albums, all of which were in my Top 5. And since then it has not been quite the same. Neurosis went back to their roots a bit, and Isis fell from grace with the flatly dull In the Absence of Truth. It seemed difficult to pin down the failure of that album, but it was clearly missing the "X" factor of greatness. Wavering Radiant, while by no means another Oceanic or Panopticon, is also certainly no ...Absence of Truth. To these ears it is a rallying cry, exuding an aura of power and the elegance for which this band had become known at the height of their career. Where does it plot on the line graph of this subgenre? Somewhere between Panopticon and ...Absence of Truth, but with a dash of Cult of Luna and some definite mid-period Neurosis elements. In fact I think it may be accurate to say that this is the album that Absence SHOULD have been. It explores new directions, but it maintains interest. Refreshing myself on the the band's back catalog, it was readily apparent that Isis have regained some of their fire. They are once again wielding dynamics as a primary weapon. "Ghost Key" is a fine example: the band spend several minutes in a blissed-out, shoegaze jam, then roughen the edges with Aaron Turner's bellowing roar and thick, chunky riffs. "Hand of the Host" is similarly styled, with spacey verse and bridge setups before thundering chords and percussion blow it apart. This track also has several guitar lines that remind me distinctly of Tool. "20 Minutes/40 Years" ends on chugging riffs, staccato percussion, and a single big chord that is reminiscent of Tool's panache when closing a song. Perhaps it was from touring with them in 2006, or the collaborations, first with Justin Chancellor on Panopticon, then with Adam Jones here, that have led to this influence. In either case, it suits Isis well. "Threshold of Transformation" finishes out the album with class, taking a ride through bombast, mysterious mood, and what can almost be called some country twang near the end. More than anything else, the charm of this album lies in the details. Melody lines laid atop quaking, downtuned guitar chords are like delicate flowers growing atop a massive concrete wall -- seemingly out of place but adding beauty and richness. Friends of mine that are also longtime Isis fans seem to be bored by this album, but for the life of me I cannot understand why. It is not a return to the heyday of the band and those quintessential albums that put them on the map, but it is a far cry from the humdrum noise they put out a few years ago. After many, many listens, it remains an engaging, engrossing journey.

I think a lot of people stopped caring about Amorphis after Elegy, but I was a big fan of follow-ups Tuonela and Am Universum. I really appreciated the progressive rock elements the band introduced while keeping great signature melodies and even a harsh vocal here and there amongst the sweet crooning. And then came 2003's Far from the Sun, an album that was incomprehensibly boring compared to prior works. The damned thing is virtually unlistenable, and completely put me off the band. I therefore paid no mind to back-to-back releases Eclipse and Silent Waters, but I guess enough time had passed that when my eyes landed upon Skyforger, I was intrigued. A few online clips showed real promise, so I bit, and soon found myself thrilled beyond my expectations. What a stunning return to form! Granted, there are "poppy" elements to some of these songs that might still have the stubborn old-schoolers crying foul, but I find those elements to be used prudently. To be sure, the sound is tidy and polished, but that in no way detracts from the great songs on offer here. What makes this album for me, first and foremost, are the melodies. Gobs and gobs of spellbinding guitar melodies. The epic ones that are the engine of "Silver Bride," the brightly sparkling ones in "My Sun," and the driven, echoing ones that push "Sky is Mine" forward at an energetic tempo -- all of these, and more, are the centerpieces of these tracks. This focus is largely what brings to mind the Elegy days, but even beyond that factor, the whole vibe of this album is that of classic Amorphis. "From Earth I Rose" could fit nicely on an updated Tales of the Thousand Lakes, its combo of driving keyboards and classic melody mirroring the jumps between clean vocals and a death roar. The piano intro to "Sampo" also strongly resembles that period. Back in 2005, nine-year vocalist Pasi Koskinen left and was replaced with Tomi Joutsen, and that now seems to have been a favorable change. Joutsen's voice is smoother and richer, less nasal. He conveys the vocal lines with conviction and grace. In the pre-chorus of "Sky is Mine" he even bears an odd resemblance to Queensryche's Geoff Tate. In the course of research I went back and found a couple tracks off both Eclipse and Silent Waters and it appears I did not miss much. Odin knows what woke Amorphis up, why there is such stark contrast between Skyforger and the drivel they pumped out in the prior five or six years, but I will gladly champion this change. I have high hopes that their recaptured vitality will continue.

After taking an unfounded and inexplicable break from this band after their fuzz- drenched Gravity X debut, I am now hopelessly in love with them. While Mania is not quite the supersonic slab of smoking greatness as its predecessor Phi, it once again showcases a band with a knack for writing nearly perfect rock 'n' roll. You see, while the stoner rock genre is, by and large, more about grooves and riffs than it is about emotion, Truckfighters wield a sword with both of those edges. "Monte Gargano" is instant foot- tapping, head-bobbing addiction. "The New High," a wondrous stew of thundering, distorted chords, is just plain classic riff rock. While songs like these might place the band in the company of Swedish compatriots such as Ridge or Lowrider, "Majestic" invites you to bask in a 13+ minute journey that shows how much more is going on with these guys. A rollercoaster of wax and wane, it intersperses anticipatory builds with dense, planet-shuddering guitar sludge, akin to Monster Magnet when they really dig in and pile on the amp-wash. It also showcases a technique that Astroqueen brought to light in the early part of the decade, that mesmerizing harmonic guitar pitch that resonates through every bone in your body. And then it has the balls to finish with a gentle, beautiful acoustic outro framed by what sounds like water slowly dripping into a serene pond. Glorious, stupendous stuff. Not about to let you rest comfortably, "Monster" shakes things up once again as perhaps the most unusual song the band has produced thus far. With a loose, strummed approach, backed up with more crushing axe attacks, it reeks of early Queens of the Stone Age, never a bad thing. "Con of Man" strains and soars, its feverish chorus like desperate fists upon a wall. Finale "Blackness" is moody and subdued, brimming with emotional weight, a fitting album closer. Thus while this recording can lay down the cannabis-encrusted hum and feedback with the best of them, it simultaneously tugs at the soul, provoking a deeper, more meaningful connection. Ten years on from the heyday of the genre, Truckfighters are carrying the torch proudly and representing what stoner rock ought to be.

Close on the tail of last year's blistering The Bedlam in Goliath, one of my favorite bands returns with another delicious array of aural treats. In fact, it turns out that songwriter Omar Rodriguez-Lopez was already discussing this record at the time that Bedlam... was being released. One might expect that a glut of creating albums could lead to diluted, dull material, possibly even leftovers from the previous recording session. Not so when dealing with the brilliance of The Mars Volta. These guys have been on a hot streak and show no sign of letting up, but Octahedron presents a different side of the band. In comparison to the last release it has a kinder, gentler approach, focusing much more on the soft and pensive, rather than the spastic and frenzied. In that way I think it is more like the Amputechture album which, while cranking up the intensity at times, also focused often on the quieter side of their musical palette. "Cotopaxi" is really the only song here that kicks up the tempo, with a rolling, rollicking percussive spine that keeps it bouncing. But it is still running at half the speed of many songs on Bedlam..., where the drumming was so fast it was very nearly a blur. "Since We've Been Wrong," "With Twilight as My Guide," and "Copernicus" here represent the precise opposite end of the spectrum. All three are prime examples of pieces that move at a relatively dreamy crawl, but brilliantly convey their effectiveness. The second and third, in particular, are achingly beautiful as Cedric Bixler-Zavala's voice arches toward falsetto, ensconced in gorgeous guitar serenades. "Desperate Graves" and "Teflon," on the other hand, move at mid-tempo but strike with more ardor. The latter also contains the creepy lines "Let the wheels burn, let the wheels burn, stack the tires to the neck with the body inside." That is another signature trait of these demented geniuses: lyrics that are rather curious and sometimes make you squirm a little. So all in all, this recording is unquestionably identifiable as The Mars Volta. They have not strayed so far off their path as to disenchant anyone that loves them for what they have done up to this point in their career, but it does add a new dash of flavor to their musical stew. Maybe the band just felt they needed to relax a bit after the former whirlwind, or maybe they chose to get into this more introverted headspace, but the result is another excellent album from one of the finest progressive rock bands in the scene.

On Nostalgia, Opeth have really gone back to their roots, delivering a... Hold on. Wait, what? This is not an Opeth record? And you are quite sure about that? Could have fooled me. Could have fooled just about anyone for that matter, including diehard Opeth fans that have been there since the beginning. No, for once I am not being hyperbolic. These guys are, for all intents and purposes, the Polish Opeth (though they live in Brooklyn). I mean this recording is a dead-on replica, genuinely shocking in its similarity. One review I read compared this to Deliverance or Blackwater Park, but that is way, way off. Perhaps Gwynbleidd themselves long for the olden days of the world's greatest Swedish progressive death band, and we should infer that from the title of this album. In any event, these tunes are firmly rooted in the mid-'90s. You know that great Morningrise follow-up album we never got from Opeth? Well here it is. Nostalgia is Morningrise Part II. There are moments where it may as well be Morningrise itself! Aside from the fact that the tracks are not long enough (the title track tops out at a measly 10:05; where is the 20-minute opus, guys?) the band nails the material stylistically. Roaring death vocals, interspersed with folksy, gentle ones; spellbinding, gorgeous guitar melodies; elegant, lovely acoustic passages; tight drumming, crisp and powerful in the mix -- all of it is here in spades. And really, the breaks between tracks are completely arbitrary. For example, "Egress" segues into "New Setting" as if it were simply the first movement of the same song. Without noting that the track numbers have advanced by one, you would never know it was a separate song. In the end, Gwynbleidd's song structuring is the same as their mighty forebears. So, should I not be crying "rip off!" and dismissing such a piece of blatant mimicry? Maybe, but I just cannot help myself. This stuff is that goddamn good. Ultimately, the reason is because it goes beyond mere copycatting. Somehow, by tapping into some cosmic pool of musical inspiration, or maybe by drinking lots and lots of the magical Swedish water that creates some the greatest bands on earth, Gwynbleidd legitimately capture the feel of Opeth. And the truth is, getting this material right is not easy. If just anyone could write and play it, there would be dozens of Opeth wannabes. I have to dock Nostalgia some points for lack of originality, but not many. It showcases such phenomenal talent that it warrants being recognized and held up as a genuine achievement. It deserves serious credit for flawless execution. Perhaps most importantly of all, I enjoy the hell out of listening to it.

Wasting absolutely no time after last year's triumphant self-titled album, which was my favorite of the year, technical gods Krallice descend upon us once again. The concern over the debut was that Colin Marston and Mick Barr, coming from such technically overdriven misfit bands such as Dysrhythmia and Orthrelm, would bury everyone in piles of emotionless showmanship and little else. Thankfully that did not happen, and like the last release, Dimensional Bleedthrough once again wrangles all that over-the-top wizardry into compelling, comprehensible songs. Looping, dizzying melodies and riffs weave patterns of gleaming black brilliance against a backdrop of relentless chaos, but also manage to evoke emotion and create memorable tunes in the process. The title track twists and winds through warps of melodic flourish, racing up and down mountain sides of crashing, flailing rhythms. "Autochthon" is hypnotic in its use of a circular melody that spirals around and down. On "Aridity" these speed freaks move at an unusually slow pace for nearly five minutes before the pedal hits the floor again. Then the final five minutes are dominated by two meticulous, looping drum patterns. At first you do not realize they are necessarily present, until other sounds die away and there is nothing left but churning guitar and that rolling drum, fading in tandem. The second drum loop, which is several times faster than the first, is almost creepy in its soulless precision, Lev Weinstein relentlessly pounding his tom skins into oblivion. The longest track on the disc, "Monolith of Possession," clocks in at a whopping 18:44. Within that lengthy journey, however, lies the most astounding playing on the entire album. Melodies zig and zag, darting about like hummingbirds, almost impossible to aurally track at times. It is remarkable that these guys can keep up this pace for so long, and execute these notes and runs with such devastating clarity. As this track, the album's finale, screams toward its final moments, the volume of the recording goes up and up, reaching a deafening crescendo. The trick is startling, and damned alarming the first time you hear it, but extremely effective. This wash of noise, this wall of distorted insanity, is the perfect end cap for the collection of controlled madness herein. It is an apocalypse of sound, brought about via complex spells wrought by the demented magicians that called themselves Krallice. Overall this sophomore effort is perhaps a touch less visceral, less impassioned, than its predecessor, but certainly no less impressive.

Now here is a release of which I had high expectations. Possibly too high, but Amesoeurs' Ruines Humaines EP was nothing short of breathtaking, presenting three songs of blackened classic Katatonia worship, and so much more. It was an almost unbearable tease, and the future of the band looked bright. Amesoeurs are part of an incestuous French black metal scene that includes Peste Noire, Alcest and Les Discrets. Members of these bands seem to move through revolving doors of membership and live/session contributions, frequently turning out noteworthy material. So when I heard that this full-length debut was finally to arrive, I was giddy at the prospect. It does not deliver precisely what I had hoped, and was met with initial disappointment. It is somewhat less edgy, less atmospheric and, like Alcest, utilizes pop elements quite a bit. It is Amesoeurs lite. While I did enjoy it, I moved past it after a relatively short time. But in returning to it for the year's recap, I have found a great deal to like, and even love, after all. The largely instrumental initial track "Gas in Veins" is extremely promising, pulsing with a Sisters of Mercy bass line and an Anathema-like dark beauty. The song does a fine job of building upon itself and adding tension, thus making its break into blazing black metal very satisfying. "Les Ruches Malade" and "Heurt" deliver the gloomy pop goods, though the latter does ride atop hyperspeed black metal thrashing. Both of these songs, however, are sung by Audrey Sylvain, and her gentle and somewhat deadpan delivery softens their edges significantly (minus her mad shrieking at the 2:30 mark of "Heurt"). "Heurt" also features some excellent guitar riffing, with an open, atonal sound. But to my ears, "Recueillement" is the first time the album really digs in and lays on the atmosphere I love and expect from this band. Perhaps not coincidentally, it is also the first song where Neige sings in his acidic, mid-range approach. More than that, though, this track takes its time at a medium tempo, a haunting melody woven through it, with interludes that have a loose, spontaneous feel. It is simply a very interesting song, but its high point comes in the last third, when a gentle guitar/spoken word passage is broken by a one-two beat, and then explodes into marvelous riffing straight out of Katatonia's landmark Brave Murder Day release. The album shifts back to pop in a big way with "Faux Semblants," the bass of which could easily have been lifted from an early '80s Cure album. As if to throw off these pop shackles as feverishly as possible, a couple tracks later "Trouble (Éveils Infâmes)" lights the world aflame with easily the most aggressive song on the album, charging ahead like a black metal bullet train, lean and stripped to the razor-sharp basics. To top it off, the track ends with the sound of grinding, screaming machines, akin to the true industrial mayhem of Controlled Bleeding at their most severe. And then "Video Girl" swings us back the other way and once again lays on some serious early Cure vibe. The title track is also a tremendous salute to '80s new wave; in fact it could not be more so if A Flock of Seagulls were performing it themselves, but it is also one of the album's finest moments. In some ways Amesoeurs' strength lies in this diversity, this veering from scathing necro black to gothic pop. It never pours on too much of one thing, and applies its tactics expertly. Sadly, this proper debut would also prove to be Amesoeurs' swan song, as the band could not overcome personal differences and disagreements about their future direction. So we are left with only this release, and the preceding EP. Though the two albums are different, both are imbued with a special magic and they are worthwhile contributions to the musical world. It would have been great to get more from this gifted band, but I am happy to have at least this much.

It feels like Katatonia have been on a long hiatus since their last album, but really it has only been three years, a not-uncommon period of time to pass between releases. But then maybe that feeling is because it has been so long since they released a truly great album. Night is the New Day is such an album, but it did not come easily for me. Opening track "Forsaker" brings a disarming heaviness, studded with massive, rumbling, low-tuned riffs. It is a curious start, because while it is unmistakably Katatonia, it sets a tone that the rest of the disc does not follow. Perhaps for this reason, or for unknown others, I probably spun this album close to ten times before it clicked. My persistence paid off. This band's hallmark has long been a pop-inflected gothic gloom that can be incredibly effective at engulfing one in a fog of desolation and hopelessness. A lyrical line such as "You, there, bringer of my despair," which opens the amazing "Idle Blood," more or less sets the stage for the pervasive mood throughout these songs. And all this enrapturing gray misery is here in spades, delivered in an expert manner that few other bands can accomplish. Jonas Renske long ago honed his vocal approach, singing these lines of sweet suffering like lullabies to an abandoned child, but here he achieves perfection. His voice is silky smooth, a polished bringer of woe and despondency. The marketing material for the album contained this quote from longtime friend of the band, and leader of Opeth, Mikael Akerfeldt: "Night is the New Day is possibly the greatest ‘heavy’ record I’ve heard in the last 10 years." Bold words perhaps, but what is particularly interesting is that this release contains some downright Opethian moments. "Idle Blood" is so much in that vein, in fact, that it could honestly be mistaken as an Opeth track from one of their last few albums. The vocal delivery, keyboard lines, even Jonas' voice itself, conspire to create this illusion. "Onward Into Battle," too, has a prog-rock keyboard section that sounds like Opeth by way of Porcupine Tree. But I am merely observing, not complaining, as these tracks are two of my favorites. As with many great albums, the wonder is in the details. The quiet sadness of the acoustic guitar in the bridge of "Liberation" and the haunting vocal inflection in "Inheritance," just two of many examples, add that extra spice that shift the whole affair from great to special. Finally, another Katatonia album that is a truly worthy companion to curling up in a dark corner, alone with your doubts, failings and anguish. Rejoice!

The masters return, emerging from their Cascadian forests to shower us with more majestic pagan hypno-buzz. Seems like Two Hunters only just came out and claimed the top spot on my 2007 list. I guess time flies when you are awash in the blazing flames of nature's wrath and beauty. On Black Cascade the Wolves do not stray from familiar territory, offering another searing platter of rapid fire snare/bass assault and cosmic, writhing guitar melodies. Somber acoustic lulls such as can be found midway through "Crystal Ammunition" are also par for the course, especially when followed by the abrupt reignition of blast beasts and shimmering melodic swarm. Interestingly enough, the addition of bass guitar to this recording seems to have had almost no effect whatsoever on the band's sound. It is still sparse and trebly, which of course provides the desired atmosphere in this style anyway: cold, bleak desperation. Winding through four tracks and 50 minutes, there is no cause for disappointment here. All four tracks are equally strong, with moments in "Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog" and "Ahrimanic Trance" standing out as highlights, especially the latter with its achingly melancholy keyboard line. At their best, WITTR pull listeners out of their insulated worlds and into the band's, naked beneath a black sky choked with stars, whilst a bonfire rages and the wind whispers ancient words among the trees. They achieve a heady concoction of power, grace, and mystery. And yet, after three albums, the band would do well to show some evolution on the next release lest all this resplendent madness become old-hat. Even now, the impact of this recording is slightly diminished by the fact that students such as Skagos are upstaging the teachers. That is not such a bad thing, because it shows a vitality in the scene that equates to a genesis of great bands. The only concern is that WITTR may lead the inevitable decline of that same scene. Still, as it stands in the present, the edge of their blackened blade is still very keen indeed.

If you have not yet discovered the bizarre wonder that is Antony Hegarty, you need to remedy that situation immediately. To offer fair warning, his voice is rather polarizing. You are likely to adore it or despise it, though you may be just as likely to be entirely confused about how you feel at first. His croon is a piercing warble at times, a gentle lullaby at others, but it always has a beautiful, gnawing fragility about it. As a follow-up to the remarkable I Am a Bird Now, this album seemed pleasant enough when it was released nearly a year ago. I found some songs to be excellent and others passable. But apparently Antony's woeful cries have been steeping in my subconscious. Coming back to it now I am awestruck and utterly riveted. Musically, the band behind the man serve up many quiet, lilting melodies, sometimes in sort of a dark jazz style ("One Dove"), other times more like a movie score ("Dust and Water," "Everglade"). In any case, the arrangements and execution are of the finest order. The reference that continually comes to mind is Jeff Buckley, with maybe a streak of Nick Cave running in there somewhere, except weirder than either one of them. But these curious vocals from this curious man almost do not matter after a while, as they become just one part of the larger picture of stunning artistry on display here. If you are not hooked by the first track, "Her Eyes are Underneath the Ground," then maybe Antony is lost on you. Its deep melancholy is tangible, it sits like a lead weight upon the soul, yet it is absolutely exquisite. "Epilepsy is Dancing" is captivating in much the same way, backed by sorrowful piano and strings, yet buoyed by strangely cheerful woodwinds. "Another World" is crushingly lovely, resplendent in its desperate longing. "Daylight and the Sun" took a bit of time to grow on me, but ultimately became one of my favorites. At more than twice the length of several other songs on the album, it does not feel unnecessarily drawn out. It has excellent pace and movement, and again a definite movie score quality about it. Though it is filled with despondency, it is also powerful, achieving its greatest moments when it swells to surging crescendos. Certainly, The Crying Light is not all doom and gloom, punctuated by the jaunty "Kiss My Name" and the spirited, upbeat "Aeon." But to be honest, people are not listening to Antony to perk themselves up. The Crying Light is a gospel of the lost, of dreams and wishes that may die unfulfilled. But that does not mean we give up hope, and if we are so lucky as to have Antony by our side, that is all the better.

Early in the year when this album came out I found myself listening to it and thinking, "Wow, how could this not be the #1 album of the year?" Ha! Little did I know then that 2009 would assault me with a shocking number of masterpiece albums that would all end up fighting for the top spots. Still, the fact that I thought so highly of this release at the time is indeed indicative of its caliber. A clear parallel that can be drawn here, right from the opening track "Exile's Journey," is classic Agalloch. Fen ply their trade in this same haunting, soul-stirring pagan vein, and oh how well they ply it. The vocals are an obvious point of reference, with Grungyn's raspy cries bearing a striking resemblance to John Haughm's. "A Witness to the Passing of Aeons" also injects some very Agalloch- like ambience with a backdrop of melancholy keyboard chords, further intensified by the guitar line that enters in the last two minutes. But suddenly, with the switch to "Colossal Voids," the bands take up the gloomy pennant of Alcest, with cleanly-sung vocals and a dreamy pop vibe. A blackened shroud does return, along with some superb melodic riffing, but the whole affair returns to quiet piano for the outro. What comes next? Primordial! "As Buried Spirits Stir" features that excellent DUM-da-da-da-da-DUM-da- da-da-da-DUM gallop that seems to be the hallmark of those Irish masters. And like their material, the rhythm periodically shifts down to slower interludes before once again surging ahead. In the case of both bands, the effect is one of unstoppable power. Among these absolute gems of songs, "The Warren" may be the finest one of all, taking its time to tease with an enchanting intro, rife with portent and calling to mind Anathema's brilliant work on Judgement. After nearly five minutes of this preparation you just know something good is coming, and the song does not disappoint. The percussion becomes a clattering mass and guitar melodies attack, evoking the feeling of being violently driven downward, downward, into a ravenous earth. The stunning "Lashed by Storm" returns to Agalloch territory, also painting with shades of Wolves in the Throne Room. At the midpoint, a somber melody line emerges, sounding like The Cure in their darkest days or The Smiths at their most paralyzingly depressing. It fits in seamlessly to the beautiful black mayhem to which the song returns in its final phase. Closer "Bereft" again shifts to a WITTR style, blasting away with grim abandon, but it interestingly ends on major chords (and more of that Alcest sound), lending an unexpected air of light and hope to the finale, even as Grungyn screams "I am bereft!!!" It is a curious choice, but just adds another layer of interest to a stellar recording. When all is said and done, The Malediction Fields is brilliant and inspiring. It invites comparison to many other bands, but it may be successful simply because it does wield all those elements so successfully, sounding at once familiar, yet possessed of its own strong creative spirit. It is worthy of the highest praise, but it just happens to have been released in a year when that can be said of several other albums.

A pair of guitar notes pierce and resonate through the haze, crawling up through layers of synth. Anticipation builds. The keyboard wash begins to fade, feedback cries out, and then the hyperblast comes, like whirling scythes mowing down everything in their path. So begins the jarring, seething, exultant journey that is White Tomb. Atmospheric black metal of this ilk seems to be exploding prolifically the last couple of years, but Altar of Plagues now stake their own claim to those murky waters, and they do so in the name of...Ireland? Not so far-fetched perhaps, given the epic, blackened tendencies of their mighty countrymen Primordial, but this? No, I did not quite expect this from the Emerald Isle. This album is a Wolves in the Throne Room-style brain scorcher, a swirling, enchanting miasma of light-speed percussion and buzzsaw guitar evisceration. But it is also a cut above all that due to a special factor: passion. Passion of the kind lurking herein leads to a frightening intensity that precious few bands can truly muster. Irish heritage may well prove beneficial in this respect; perhaps the history of tragedy and loss of these proud and fierce people gives them that extra fire. Like Primordial, Altar of Plagues are capable of summoning a spine-chilling ferocity at times that is wondrous and terrible to behold. This album is essentially two movements, with each movement containing two parts. Part one of movement one ("Earth: As a Womb") is delightfully vicious, the vocalist setting upon the listener as a rabid beast, his every word an icepick to the heart, proselytizing against the ills of the world. As part two ("Earth: As a Furnace") catapults into part one of movement two ("Through the Collapse: Watchers Restrained"), we encounter the greatest of the fiery, impassioned moments. With virtually no warning, the drums hammer forth as battering rams of rage, coupled with a surging wall of guitar and bass punishment as the vocals are spat with vehement madness. The storm subsides into a relative calm of mesmerizing melody and restrained drums, punctuated with frantic tom abuse, then the blitzkrieg resumes. Even now, after countless listens, I am awed and sent reeling by this coordinated bombardment. Just when you think you might have a handle on this frenzy, what follows thereafter turns it upside down. The tempo slows to a doomed plod, and the vocals raise in pitch to sound like an accursed witch shrieking from the bowels of her cave, laying her caustic spite upon all humankind. This skin-flaying exercise passes into the final chapter, "Through the Collapse: Gentian Truth," which glimmers initially with dazzling melody, recedes into a contemplative mood, and then takes up a steady middle tempo that snowballs into a crescendo of beautiful noise to close out the album. With all the grand Cascadian black metal being released lately, I was not looking to Eire for music of that nature. But Altar of Plagues have delivered it, and done so masterfully. White Tomb is right up there with the classics of the genre, and will surely be heralded in future days.

It is becoming clear that not only is Washington state a hotbed of amazing pagan black metal right now, but rather the entire Pacific Northwest region of North America. Agalloch have been slowly releasing their works of grandeur for ten years out of Portland, Oregon, and Wolves in the Throne Room have established themselves as the eminent leaders of buzzing, hypnotic hymns that incite wood nymphs to riot. Now we move still farther north, across the border to Canadian Cascadia, specifically Vancouver Island, for a couple of inspired misfits known as Skagos. Even fans of this subgenre may not have heard of these guys, and here is one likely reason why: the album is only available on cassette. Yes, that is correct, those rectangular plastic things you used to buy in the '80s and possibly early '90s. Apparently, when it comes to musically rendering the fury and beauty of nature, analog is king. Though the band eschews CD pressings, they do have an EP available in that format and a I think a CD release of Ást is forthcoming. But I say embrace the tape and get yourself some cult cred. All discussions of packaging aside, let it be known that Skagos are deadly serious in their pagan proclamations. They talk the talk and walk the walk. Their misanthropic disgust at an industrialized world gone mad has led one of the members to consider leaving society and living in a cave. Yes, seriously. Or he may simply choose to live on a bio-dynamic farm and learn sustainable agriculture. Either way, the man is sincere. So what kind of music comes from someone so utterly driven by a cause? Some of the finest black metal that I have ever had the fortune to hear. Beautiful, marvelous, breathtaking black metal. Largely taking their cues from early Agalloch, Skagos conjure a formidable sonic wall, all buzz and agonizing loveliness. Quieter interludes dwell amongst the clattering washes of furious blasting, and striking melodies are everywhere. Theirs is the sound of misty forests, placid mountain lakes, and craggy, windswept peaks. All the majesties of Mother Nature, her intense beauty and unstoppable wrath, are channeled through drums, bass, guitar, and scathing vocals. Highlights need not be pointed out, as the entire recording is inspired from start to finish. However, the transition from mournful, piercing atmosphere to epic eruption in the final minutes of "Blossoms Will Sprout from the Carcass" is staggering and gives me chills every time. And "A Night That Ends, As All Nights End, When the Sun Rises" is perfectly doleful acoustic heaven, in line with Agalloch's "The Hawthorne Passage," until it detonates into jaw-dropping heathen glory, boring through your soul at light speed. As a finishing touch, it backs the pace off to a fast shuffle for the final minute, with a prominent bass line that would do Iron Maiden's Steve Harris proud. Though Skagos have parted ways and are no more, they leave an indelible mark upon the scene. In a genre that is churning out more and more great bands, they shall forever stand as one of the finest.

Faunts' debut album High Expectations/Low Results was a revelation to me. It was like nothing I had ever heard before, a platter of airy space rock that was deeply melancholy but also deeply personal, and it affected me greatly. Now along comes Feel.Love.Thinking.Of, and plies its trade in an altogether different manner. Or so it seems, at first. This album's modus operandi is pop, plainly put. The electronic beats and bouncing synths of the title track and album opener can be likened to early Depeche Mode. "It Hurts Me All the Time" is a light-footed romp that positively reeks of '80s pop, though its grim, stifling lyrics belie its upbeat sound. One might even be tempted to dismiss many of these songs as fluff, but that conclusion could only be reached by giving this material no more than a cursory glance. In actuality this recording is an emotional atom bomb cloaked in simplistic dance beats. It is entirely more than the sum of its parts. "Input" is the first glimpse of the iceberg beneath the tip, with its haunting lyrics and Thom Yorke-styled vocals. Still, it manages to kick into an energetic tempo, with rocking little guitar parts that again scream 1980s. "Out on a Limb" is irresistibly groovy, with a catchy guitar line woven throughout and snappy drumming. Yet there are chord changes that awaken darker tones, and lend a sinister air to the track. Then we reach roughly the halfway point of the album, and something is happening. The shuffling, tight percussion is still bouncing along, but it is becoming evident that this is no mere pop record. The vocals take on an ethereal quality, stretching for higher notes and achieving a beautiful poignancy, while guitars shimmer and echo all around, resembling the work of surf rock maestros The Mermen. Instrumental "Das Malefitz" is a descent into dark passages, an eerie keyboard line leading the way to a danceable doom. The harpsichord-like tones that open "I Think I'll Start a Fire" continue to anchor the pervasive '80s vibe, conjuring classic New Order, but this track is also fragile and bleak, ending with a curtain of ambient gloom. "Alarmed/Lights," my favorite track, summons the spirit of Radiohead at their best, a pulsing synth loop blinking out a dim warning in the darkness. The sense of loss and sorrow is palpable, and the desolate lyrics echo this sensation. The lines "And I cannot feel a thing; I cannot carry on" are the final blow: the last five minutes of the track are instrumental, leaving that line to simmer in your brain, exploiting the framework that has been laid and ending in ambient keyboard resonance. The ever-increasing murk all culminates in "So Far Away," a hymn of frigid loveliness, of emptiness and longing that brings a smothering weight upon the soul. Lest we forget to dance, even in our times of gray stupor, "Explain" ends the album with notes of light and hope. "I think the world is cold, but I can keep you warm right now until the sun comes up," goes the final line, and hints that salvation may yet come. And it is at the end of this journey that it all makes sense, that those earlier songs with their lithe beats couple elegantly with the lowest of the lows, forming a magnificent whole. It is frankly difficult to describe how much I adore this album. It is one of those rare works where every note and beat are perfectly placed, as if the universe itself should seek to align them that way, and when I listen to it the outside world fades and I lose myself in wonder, amazement, and a blissful trance. Faunts' latest work is deceivingly simple on the surface, but that simplicity is only a veil, behind which lies a work of transcendent beauty and stirring depth.