Grumpy Metalhead

Converge | Love Is Not Enough The thing about getting older, man, really older, 45 and carrying all these old records and forgotten friends and dead versions of yourself rattling around inside your skull like loose cassette tapes in the glove compartment of some rusted Renault driving nowhere through rain soaked back road at three in the morning, is that heavy music changes shape. It stops being about rebellion because rebellion is a young man’s gasoline fantasy, leather jackets and cheap beer and thinking Slayer riffs can somehow protect you from the slow machinery of life grinding your bones into dust. No, now it becomes recognition. Communion. The sound of other exhausted bastards screaming into the same cosmic furnace you’ve been staring at for decades.

And Converge, Jesus Christ, Converge still understand this better than almost anyone.

"Love Is Not Enough" is not nostalgia bait. Not some embalmed relic crawling out of the crypt to collect applause from aging metalheads with expanding waistlines and receding hairlines pretending the old wars still matter. This thing breathes. Sweats. Foams at the mouth. Thirty minutes, ten tracks, lean as a starving wolf and twice as vicious. No bloat. No self indulgent mythology. Just pressure and blood and emotional collapse compressed into a tiny ugly diamond.

The title track hits early and hard, all hooks and hardcore propulsion, Jacob Bannon sounding like a prophet screaming through static transmission towers while the world burns behind him. "Love Is Not Enough". Hell of a title. Says everything, really. Love cannot stop systems from rotting. Cannot stop loneliness. Cannot stop pharmaceutical numbness or technological alienation or the strange hollow sensation of staring at glowing screens while civilisation quietly decomposes in the background like roadkill under summer heat.

The first half of the record moves like a street fight. Fast. Political. Brutal. "Distract and Divide" especially lands with that old hardcore urgency, the kind that reminds me of staying awake during the Kazaa years downloading rotten quality live bootlegs while forums screamed about whether "Jane Doe" was genius or just chaos pretending to be art. Back then we thought intensity itself could save us. Funny. Now the world feels even more fractured and Converge somehow sound more relevant than half the younger bands trying desperately to imitate them.

And man, Ben Koller.

That lunatic does not play drums so much as survive them. The man sounds like he’s wrestling gravity itself, cymbals exploding around him like collapsing cathedral bells. Meanwhile Kurt Ballou continues shaping riffs the way some deranged architect might design a fortress during the apocalypse, all jagged corridors and collapsing staircases and sudden flashes of eerie beauty hidden beneath the wreckage.

But the real magic happens when the album slows down.

That second half feels like walking home alone after the violence finally burns out of your bloodstream. The adrenaline fades. The ghosts return. Suddenly the record grows heavier without needing speed. Sludge soaked, reflective, tired in the most human way imaginable. Not weak tired. Soul tired. The exhaustion of men who have lived long enough to understand that survival itself becomes a burden you carry like old armour fused permanently to your skin.

"Force Meets Presence" is glorious, swaggering almost absurdly at times, theatrical guitar leads cutting through the smoke like neon lights flickering outside abandoned cinemas. Then "Make Me Forget You" arrives and everything caves inward emotionally. That track hurts. Properly hurts. Feels like staring at old photographs while thunder rolls outside. Feels like every friendship you lost simply because time kept moving forward without permission.

And "We Were Never The Same", fuck, what a closer. Isolation everywhere. Fragmentation everywhere. The sense that modern life has shattered people into disconnected little islands screaming into endless digital voids. But there’s empathy here too. Converge have always understood that rage without humanity is empty noise. Even at their most violent there’s compassion buried underneath the debris.

Not everything works perfectly. "Beyond Repair" drags slightly, feels less fully formed than the surrounding material, but honestly who cares. Records like this are not meant to be clinically perfect. They’re meant to feel alive. Dangerous. Human.

That’s what strikes me most about "Love Is Not Enough". The humanity.

So many bands age into comfort. They become museums of themselves, dragging old glories around like taxidermied animals. But Converge refuse fossilisation. They still sound hungry. Still sound furious. Still sound emotionally exposed in ways most modern metal bands are too cowardly to attempt because sincerity became unfashionable somewhere along the line.

And maybe that’s why this record hit me so hard, not through some romantic old ritual, but through the ordinary blur of modern life. Headphones on at the gym. Spotify during work. Cleaning the house while Converge tear through the speakers like accumulated emotional static finally finding a voice.

That feeling never really leaves.

The isolation. The exhaustion. The need to feel something real underneath all the noise.

Maybe that’s what Converge still understand better than most bands from their era. Not nostalgia. Not toughness. Just endurance. Emotional endurance.

We get older. Life gets louder. But somewhere inside all the routine and distraction, the signal still cuts through sometimes.

And for thirty furious minutes, "Love Is Not Enough" reminds you that you are still here too.

8/10

Mayhem | Liturgy of Death There’s a strange thing that happens to old extreme metal bands if they survive long enough. The fury changes shape. The hunger becomes colder. Less about rebellion, more about staring into the abyss with tired eyes and realizing the abyss has been sitting beside you for forty years already, smoking silently in the dark while the room grows old around you. That’s where Mayhem are now on Liturgy of Death, not the reckless ghosts from tape trading mythology, not the scandal preserved forever in documentaries and cheap internet shock culture, but older men walking through the ruins of their own legend with deliberate steps and enough scars to understand what mortality actually means.

And by the abyss, that changes the music.

What strikes me first is how focused this thing feels. Mayhem records always carried instability inside them, even the masterpieces, like the songs could collapse under their own madness at any moment. Here, the violence is disciplined. Controlled. Like watching an execution performed with ceremonial precision. The production helps enormously. Modern, yes, absolutely modern, but not sterile. Tore Stjerna gives the album enormous weight without draining the frost from the riffs. The drums hit like collapsing stone walls, the bass actually breathes underneath the guitars, and for once in black metal you can hear the low end twisting around the songs like some subterranean serpent slithering through crypt corridors.

Hellhammer remains absurd. At this point the man feels less like a drummer and more like a supernatural engine fueled by nicotine, hatred, and old Scandinavian winter spirits. The blastbeats come in relentless waves, but what really elevates the album are the transitions, the strange rhythmic pivots, the tribal percussion that emerges later in the record like some ritual concluding beneath torchlight in a cave no sunlight has touched for centuries. There’s intelligence in the violence. Restraint, even when everything sounds catastrophic.

And Attila. Ah, Attila Csihar. There are vocalists who front bands, and there are vocalists who haunt them. Without him, half these modern black metal bands collapse into anonymous blur. Here he sounds utterly inhuman, constantly shape shifting between grotesque shrieks, theatrical chants, subterranean growls and strange operatic phantoms floating above the chaos. Sometimes he sounds like a dying priest mumbling visions into candle smoke. Sometimes like a demon laughing through broken teeth. The man prevents Mayhem from ever sounding ordinary, and that matters enormously on a record this dense.

Because dense it is. Liturgy of Death is not an easy listen. Not one of those modern “extreme” albums people consume while checking Discord notifications or scrolling Reddit with one dead eye open. These songs unfold slowly, repeating motifs hypnotically until they become atmosphere rather than riff. The album demands patience. It demands immersion. Some passages linger perhaps a little too long, but honestly, that also feels intentional, like Mayhem want you trapped inside the suffocating ritual instead of offering convenient exits.

Despair arrives early like a knife to the throat, dramatic and suffocating, Attila twisting himself into monstrous shapes while the band surges underneath him with almost militaristic force. Weep For Nothing carries some of the strongest traditional black metal riffing on the album, icy and ferocious in that old second wave spirit, but there’s maturity buried beneath the attack. These are not young men screaming about death because it sounds dangerous anymore. This feels like older survivors contemplating the inevitability waiting for everybody. Different weight entirely.

Aeon’s End becomes pure violent momentum, Hellhammer nearly stealing the entire thing through sheer technical insanity, while Realm of Endless Misery contains one of the album’s most unsettling sections, the bass suddenly crawling to the foreground like something malformed emerging from black water. That moment sticks in the brain long after the album ends. Creeping, diseased, deeply wrong.

But the real center of gravity is The Sentence of Absolution. That’s where the album transcends mere excellence and becomes something almost spiritual in its ugliness. The slow build, the mounting tension, the ritualistic percussion closing the record, it feels less like a song ending and more like some ancient ceremony finally reaching completion after decades of blood, myth, tragedy, and survival. There’s emotion there, genuine emotion buried underneath the hostility. Not sentimental nonsense, not cheap melancholy, but exhaustion, transcendence, acceptance.

And maybe that’s why this album works so well.

Because Mayhem no longer sound interested in proving they’re dangerous. They sound like men who have already lived through enough darkness to stop romanticizing it.

I remember discovering black metal through horrible tape dubs and blurry magazine photos, back when Mayhem felt less like musicians and more like forbidden folklore whispered between metalheads in tiny record shops smelling of dust and cigarette smoke. Back then everything about them seemed larger than life, terrifying, chaotic, mythological. But honestly? Liturgy of Death might be more unsettling than those early records precisely because it replaces youthful extremity with contemplation. Death here is not spectacle. It’s inevitability. Philosophy. Ritual. The cold final horizon waiting for everybody eventually.

That realization hangs over the entire album like winter fog.

And somehow, against all logic, Mayhem still matter.

8/10

I have spent decades straddling nostalgia and noise, a grumpy metalhead with MTV pop memories tucked under one arm and the dust of tape trading and early CDs under the other. Poppy’s "Empty Hands" lands in that strange intersection, where the synthetic sheen of her earlier glitch pop has hardened into industrial grit and post-metal weight. It feels like someone handed her a well-worn metal playbook and asked her to scribble in the margins, and she has, with a precision that is impressive and a little too neat.

From the first surge of "Public Domain", a bright, almost playful chorus rides atop distorted guitars, teasing your pop instincts while reminding you this is still very much metal territory. Later, "Eat The Hate" leans into raw grunge energy, a pulse that makes you remember why you ever loved noisy, unapologetic guitars, even as you grumble at how comfortably it nods to Nirvana. "Dying to Forget" punches through with unrestrained force, a reminder that Poppy can summon pure, fist-pumping metal intensity when she wants.

Yet there are subtler turns, tracks like "Time Will Tell" that coax you into enjoying melodies you never thought you would, and "Bruised Sky", where industrial clangs meet surprisingly clean hooks, a collision of harshness and accessibility. "Guardian" whispers pop sensibilities beneath layers of distortion, and "Unravel" flirts with a pure pop heart, showing that Poppy’s duality of metal and melody is alive and intentional. By the time the title track arrives, "Empty Hands" lands on a genuinely heavy, full-bodied note, wrapping the record in a sense of finality and weight.

The craftsmanship is undeniable. Vocals are pushed further than ever, guitars rumble with controlled power, and production glows with modern polish. The influences are audible: alt-metal atmospherics, nu-metal echoes, industrial grit, all balanced meticulously. And yet, that precision comes at a cost. Some of the raw edges, the wild, unpredictable spark that could have made this record unforgettable, have been smoothed away. The second half sprawls just enough that you feel the restraint behind the sheen.

Empty Hands is modern, accomplished, and undeniably well-made. It flashes with ambition, energy, and moments of thrill, and the hooks sneak under your defences. But in its clarity and polish, it sometimes feels too clean, too measured, leaving you wishing Poppy had let the machine run wild just once.

6/10

I came to Revocation as an adult already long weathered by the old guard of metal. I had grown up with the classic waves of Thrash and, outside of metal Prog Rock and all the strange cosmic detours that defined my youth, so when Revocation first appeared around 2008/10 they felt like a reminder that newer generations could still push the craft forward. "New Gods, New Masters" carries that same spark but wrapped in a thicker hide, heavier and angrier, almost feral in places.

The title track opens with the energy I always admired in them, a kind of controlled chaos that feels sharpened rather than reckless. What surprises me is the moment of calm inside it, an ethereal break that lets the room expand before the walls crush inward again. It shows the band has learned the value of contrast, the value of letting the listener breathe for a second before being swallowed again.

The new members add strength rather than distraction. Their playing feels intentional, like musicians who know they have stepped into a respected modern band and want to raise the foundations rather than simply fill space. The bass has gained weight, the rhythms feel locked in with a confidence that was still forming in earlier years. Davidsons solos remain the wandering spirit of the group, emotional and unpredictable, always searching for a new angle.

The record hits its stride when Revocation follows its experimental instinct. "Despiritualized" feels alive with that restless spark, the refusal to fall into predictable technical patterns. "The All Seeing" brings a strange and delightful sense of colour, almost playful in places, as if the band opened a mysterious door just to see what lived behind it. "Data Corpse" continues that adventurous path with tight control and imagination.

Not everything works. "Dystopian Vermin" never fully grips me and feels like the only moment where the energy dips. The guest appearances offer interesting flavours, though at times they blend so completely into the songs that you question where the band ends and the visitor begins. It does not harm the record, but it creates a sense of blurred boundaries.

Listening to "New Gods, New Masters" as a grumpy older metalhead who lived through several eras of heavy music, I appreciate the sincerity behind it. Revocation were never part of my teenage awakening. They arrived later, in a world already full of noise. Yet they earned their place for one simple reason. They play with heart, with grit, with curiosity still alive in their hands. That remains true here.

A strong record with powerful peaks, a few dull corners, and plenty of reason to keep listening.

7.5/10

I was a kid in Portugal when Megadeth first sank its claws into me. Symphony of Destruction on an old television screen, a cheap pair of headphones, and the sudden realisation that guitars could feel like prophecy. Now I am forty five, looking at the final chapter of the band that helped build the emotional brickwork of my youth. This record feels like closing a book that has travelled with me from school corridors to adulthood fatigue. The strange comfort of an ending that hurts in the right places.

It begins with a fire that still knows how to burn. Tipping Point pulls you in with that familiar charge that once made us believe we were invincible. The sound has that nineties echo that so many of us carry in our bloodstream. There is energy here, a pulse that remembers its younger self even if the body is older. Then the album moves into the swagger of I Do not Care, a song that carries a grin at its own attitude. The lyrics lean into that older bravado, a bit of a boomer flavour perhaps, yet the guitars keep everything alive and kicking.

There are moments that feel like the old days. Hey God and Another Bad Day wake up the teenage version of me who scribbled angry lines into school notebooks. They have that nostalgic angsty shine, that sense of wounded pride mixed with melodic bite. It is easy to imagine hearing these during the late night channel surf of the nineties. Made to Kill and I Am War bring back the trademark anti war stance that Mustaine carved into metal history, the kind of message that always suited the band when the riff and rage came together.

Not everything hits with the same force. Puppet Parade sinks into predictable introspection, the sort of inner pondering that loses its edge when the music is too clean. And yes, the production across the album is too polished for my taste. It is tidy, sterile even, and this band was always better with dirt under its nails. But the solos still soar, and every now and then the old lightning flickers through the strings.

Then comes The Last Note, the farewell that lands straight in the chest. It feels like a parting letter written with a clear mind and an unflinching heart. Those closing lines carry the weight of a career spent fighting, bleeding, rising, falling, and refusing to fade quietly. I came, I ruled, now I disappear. That line alone feels like a final curtain slowly drawing shut. It is emotional in the way only a lifetime of sound and fury can be.

This final record is not a masterpiece equal to their eighties magic, but it is an honest goodbye. It salutes the nineties era with enough strength to remind old fans why they ever cared. It is imperfect, sentimental, grumpy, and defiant. Maybe that is exactly the right way for them to go. I feel older listening to it, but I also feel grateful.

"They gave me gold They gave me a name But every deal was signed in blood and flames So here's my last will My final testament, my sneer I came, I ruled, now I disappear"

7/10

I’m a metalhead at heart, neck damaged from too much headbanging to Sabbath dirges and Maiden’s thunder, but post-punk’s barbed sneer and 90s rock haze carved deep too. MTV flickering through teenage nights, cassettes swapped like sacred relics in dim garages, Napster’s wild grabs when music hit like unfiltered lifeblood. "Viagr Aboys" slams in like a bad trip locked in supermarket limbo. Scuzzy laughs spin out into sour void gazes, crouton quips and OnlyFans jabs slapping paint over crumbling meat and phony tough-guy slump turning lounge-singer sob for shadows. Rebel spark gutters from outcast blaze to empty-room croon, self-mocking filth clawing psychedelic ghosts as the body hacks and folds. Echoes those tape nights when raw feeling trumped all the shine. "Man Made Of Meat" bursts sloppy-chorus wild, howling 70s escape dreams. "I don’t wanna pay for anything. Clothes and food and drugs for free. If it was 1970 I’d have a job at a factory." Streetlamp Walkman rush, that free defiance gone missing. "Uno II" eases chill, sly cuts ripping privilege bare. "His folks are from Croatia. They been through some shit, man. I seem like such a bitch when I talk about Swedish politics." Feels like a late-night Napster find that clings too honest, grumpy truth slicing fog. "Pyramid of Health" drifts murky, burning cactus-cult crap to death visions. "Some guy’s yelling in my ear about eating cactuses for breakfast. And if I follow seven easy steps, I’ll see visions of my death." There's a Loud Reed voice here, but in sound and in spirit. A playground twist through a weary squint, absurd hitting bone."Medicine For Horses" locks 90s bruise deep. "Life is hard, and it’s harder when you like it hard. Or at least when your subconscious seems to like it hard." Gut-throb no frills, just the dreamer’s frayed cry. Peaks tear real, busted hymns for us tape-era wanderers chasing lost pulse in the grime. 8/10

I put on Para Bellum late last night, headphones too tight, a beer sweating at my elbow, and I swear I could hear the ghosts of my sixteen-year-old self rattling the walls. Testament is still here, still thrash, still teeth and fire, and the album is good, sharp, precise, every drum and guitar lick measured and clean, the kind of thing that would make you nod even if your back aches and your ears ring from too many shows. But the raw emotion of the old Testament, the bleeding heart that once tore through my chest and made me feel alive, it’s not here. I knew it wouldn’t be. They are older now, they carry the years like armor, and that changes the way the fire hits.

Para Bellum, the title track, hits like a familiar fist to the gut, relentless, and I can see them, older men in a studio, still pummeling their instruments, still yelling at the world. Infanticide AI bites and snarls, sharp-edged thrash with a modern twist, like metal sharpened on the grindstone of decades. Shadow People creeps along with menace, grooves dark as alleyways, reminding me they can still conjure shadows that hang heavy in the air.

Meant to Be. God, Meant to Be. That ballad hits me sideways, sentimental, historical, a bridge back to that boy who first discovered tapes and MTV and Napster and peer-to-peer chaos. I feel him again, wide-eyed and frantic with excitement, clinging to every note like a lifeline, and I know he would have loved this track forever and ever, as much as he loved the first riffs he ever heard in his bedroom.

Some tracks wander a bit, they stretch, they pause where once they would have screamed and driven straight through. But craftsmanship is everywhere, precision everywhere, and you can feel the weight of experience shaping the sound, making every note count, making restraint a new kind of fury. It is not the screaming Testament of old, but it is Testament, tempered, still sharp, still alive, and it reminds me why I fell for them in the first place.

Para Bellum is a solid seven out of ten. Sharp. Tempered. Veteran. Still Testament. Still thrash. Still formidable. Still worth hearing. Still carrying a bit of the kid I used to be, still alive somewhere in the riffs, waiting for me to remember.

7/10