Review by Benjamin on February 14, 2024.

There are relatively few albums in this listener’s collection that were purchased directly from the band. This one, however, was received directly from the hands of Ole Pedersen Luk, vocalist, guitarist and sole composer behind Danish black metallers Afsky, in return for some cold, hard British cash. Luk received his reward following an absolutely spectacular support slot with Panopticon, a performance good enough to render impossible the task of leaving the Boston Music Rooms (subsequently renamed Downstairs at the Dome) without a physical copy of the songs that Afsky had replicated so brilliantly onstage. It was difficult to reconcile the diminutive and softly-spoken frontman with the fearsome singer spitting so much bile into the microphone just minutes before, although in some respects, this was the perfect representation of both the beauty and the ugliness paradoxically present at the heart of Afsky’s music. Om Hundrede År (or, In A Hundred Years, when translated, hopefully accurately, into English), is the band’s third full-length, following the well-regarded Ofte Jeg Drømmer Mig Død, and entrances the listener straight away with a classical intro, picked out fingerstyle on acoustic guitar. This immediately recalls any number of metal classics that commence in similar style, not least Metallica’s "Ride The Lightning" and "Master Of Puppets", and Iron Maiden’s "Seventh Son Of A Seventh Son", the band placing themselves in the company of masters, as well as affectionately acknowledging a well-worn tradition that deserves to be maintained. This introduction also serves to generate a level of intimacy, bringing the listener closer to music that deserves undivided attention, and in some respects suggests that there is no artifice here, that what follows will be totally authentic and utterly sincere.

As the delicate acoustic tones complete the coda that precipitates an avalanche of frigid minor chords, savagely tremolo-picked against half-time drums, a sparse, but full, tone thickened by a pleasingly audible bass, Afsky’s curious approach to black metal slowly reveals itself, a blurry image through a telescope gradually coming into focus. Although the band are ostensibly black metal in tone and approach, there is almost nothing that can be described as a conventional riff to be found, with the primary mode of attack revolving around baroque, long-form melodies subtly moving through a wall of sound created by the chromatically moving chords. Small changes in these guitar lines, as they repeat through numerous hypnotic phases become fascinating points of interest, and Afsky’s music demands total attention if these are to be fully appreciated. The note choices may be quite different, but the band’s songwriting is frequently reminiscent of Agalloch, seen through a storm of static. The overall effect on a track such as the opener, 'Stormfulde Hav' (Stormy Seas), is highly atmospheric, but atypically for black metal, not in the kind of externalised manner that bands such as Winterfylleth and Wolves In The Throne Room utilise to evoke scenes of wild and untamed nature. Instead, the landscape here is internalised, the steep mountainous crags and plummeting depths travelled an emotional journey through one’s own dreams and nightmares, unsettling and ecstatic in equal measures. Throughout this track, and much of the rest of the album, Afsky delight as they transform what is often a sad and mournful sound into something more triumphant, moving through major key progressions, and betraying a melodic sensibility that suggests an affinity with some of the key Swedish bands of the mid-late 1990s, most obviously Sacramentum, with a dash of Viking-pagan era Bathory. These changes in feel could be jarring in clumsier hands, but the transitions mostly feel natural and satisfying, and this is a testament to the skill of a band that utilise few moving parts to create a symbiosis way beyond what should be possible with such a simple approach.

‘Frosne Vind’ (Frozen Wind) follows a similar pattern to the opener, although it plumbs even more corruscating emotional depths, while also increasing the richness and complexity of the harmonic layers that build another slow-burn masterpiece. Luk’s vocals come very much to the fore here, his orc-like screech recalling Varg Vikernes on the early Burzum albums, a wounded, despairing howl that pierces the icy heart of the listener. Filosefem-era Burzum is, in fact, an apposite comparison for Afsky. Luk’s compositions are a little more sophisticated, and show a greater inclination to add classic metal phrasing to the guitar work, but the trance-inducing nature of the almost cyclical chord progressions is similar, as is the overall feeling evoked by the disconsolate atmosphere. Not for Afsky the individualistic majesty and power of Emperor or Immortal, or the necrotic filth of Darkthrone or Beherit. Instead, the band appear to operate in their own hermetically-sealed world of internal pain and suffering, with their music a cold reflection of an inner turmoil. ‘Frosne Vind’ is almost unbearably intense, as a tidal wave of minor chords threatens to set the listener adrift on a stormy sea, but an infectiously simple arpeggio provides a life-raft, a point of focus to hold on to as a route out of the roiling waters is found, moments before everything goes black.

Afsky are the sound of what this listener imagined Depressive Suicidal Black Metal (DSBM) might resemble, prior to a note being heard, and in some respects their music is more affecting than that niche and perhaps sometimes contrived form of the sub-genre. There is something unutterably uncompromising about Afsky’s music, a sense that not only is it something that they want to create, but that it is something that they need, an essential outlet for emotions that might become dangerous were they repressed. At no point is there any indication that they are making music with anyone but themselves in mind – any audience that they do have has found them, rather than the other way round, and no concessions are offered to anyone that might find the longform nature of their music difficult to swallow. At times, Afsky’s are almost overwhelmingly melancholic, the band wallowing in an overflowing pool of sadness, filled by a never-ending waterfall of sorrow. On the best track, 'Det Der Var' (What Once Was), a harpsichord melody is added to follow the guitars, which adds an intriguing texture to the band’s sparse, but all-encompassing sound, threatening a slightly more progressive future for the band. Small motifs are gradually added and subtracted as the track progresses, and, a little like Der Weg Einer Freiheit’s most recent effort "Noktvrn", Afsky develop a narrative that it is impossible not to follow, pulling the listener through to a breathless conclusion.

Despite the scintillating quality of every song on the album, one can observe that there is still scope for Afsky to improve further. The drum patterns, while not detrimentally affecting the songs, are occasionally monotonous, and a more dextrous and dynamic performance could add an additional dimension to the band’s sound. In addition, although the majority of the transitions between sections are well-managed, some are not quite as fluid as they might be, exposing the internal structure of the song a little too transparently, and it will be fascinating to see if the band can render those joins a little less visible in future, without losing the slightly lo-fi charm of their core sound. For the most part though, the small flaws are easy to ignore. Om Hundrede År is a wonderful, mesmerising album, and one which only improves with every listen. Small details, miniscule changes to guitar lines that appear on the surface to be simple, but in reality weave a circuitous path around the pounding rhythm section, continue to reveal themselves long after one believes oneself to have got the measure of the record, and it practically implores the listener to continue to return, in search of another heart-wrenching harmony, or vocal inflection. Typifying the ugly beauty of black metal, Afsky’s music is caustic and even awkward at times, but it contains a seductive majesty, an enchanting spell at its heart, that cannot avoid bewitching those who return to it to feel, once again, the unbreakable emotional connection that the album cannot help but forge.

Rating: 8.4 out of 10

Review by Rosh on November 22, 2023.

This project has been, since its inception, a cornerstone of classic sounding doom as a more serious artform rather than just redundant riff-worship. I feel that neither big name band of the style which Lord Vicar's own Kimi and Chritus respectively come from, Reverend Bizarre and Count Raven, ever displayed a truly esoteric musical vision for doom metal that transcends its defining characteristics - both those bands simply played doom that danced with both the expected solemnity and a touch of absurdism, and never really went beyond making exquisite masterpieces like these. Lord Vicar, though, has proved to be a more substantial and memorable project than even those two bands whom I hold in high regard. In every sense they are a more unique, more defined vision that Kimi had post-Reverend Bizarre. Esoteric in a poetic and truly unpredictable sense, something I have a real liking for because it feeds originality. The music itself and the decipherable lyrics blend together beautifully on each of the four Lord Vicar full-lengths so far, crafting a brilliant set of dynamics that can portray with great emotional weight the band's heavy thematic overtones. Fear No Pain from 2008 is still the most approachable release they've done up to this point, since it balances so well between musical tendencies of both the Reverend and the Count, but even here it was clear that Kimi was doing something more distinctly his own, coming from deeper within himself, and this tendency only continued over the next decade (has it really been that long?).

In 2019, The Black Powder dropped, as a total surprise. The band humbly said something to the effect that this release was supposed to be layered, unfolding more and more of its artistic detail with each subsequent listen, and judging by their previous couple albums, I believed it. Their soundscapes had only become more diverse since the debut, yet Kimi's bludgeoning riff attack always seemed to prevail through all the atmospheric sections, and Chritus' vocals would adapt accordingly, thus proving his vocal range and personal investment in the band. And while The Black Powder isn't their most larger than life album, it is absolutely the most emotional, dynamic, and deeply resonant album they've crafted yet, due in no small part to its layered nature. Lord Vicar is still a relatively young band, yes, but this album has to be their creative peak and the ultimate realization of Kimi's superb musical vision.

Now, generally speaking, an outstandingly good album should feel just right regardless of whether it's relatively shorter or longer, because it gets the dynamics and pacing right. The Black Powder, though, is actually so varied that it seems to adjust to each respective listen in terms of duration, and multiple moods seem to bleed from each respective moment. The monumental opener, "Sulphur, Charcoal, and Saltpetre", which is, bar none, Kimi's greatest musical achievement so far, may feel a bit dreamlike so as to be uncannily familiar in its opening sequence, yet at the same time it feels esoteric and difficult to grasp thematically, to me at least. This is a doom metal record of course, but the heavy power chords seem all the more befuddling and abstract when they come in, mirroring an already vague moment with a fierce passion. But while the slow, heavy doom metal part of this piece is awfully perplexing and even somewhat unnerving, especially the hook of the first verse, the feel of the music becomes more emotionally accessible when it picks up a bit more of a rocking groove. The increase in tempo at certain moments is generally welcome in traditional doom for a number of reasons that mainly have to do with lending the music a natural feel, but Lord Vicar use it to evoke an entire palette of colors, emotionally speaking.

And they do offer more accessible doom fare across the next few tracks, while still having this mystique about them. "Descent", "World Encircled", and "Levitation" have these shades of melody that feel so fresh amidst an otherwise bottom-heavy riff swamp, but this is also where Chritus' vocals shine, since the music has just enough melody to compliment the emotion in his vocals, but not so much that it can really carry on and manage to be this engaging without such emotion. "Descent" is, to be sure, a more depressive piece but I get a sense of wistful hope from the other above mentioned songs as well as "Black Lines." The doomy esotericism still shines through during the bridge of the otherwise uptempo "Temple in the Bedrock" and the melancholic acoustics (which are just as distinct as the legendary acoustic segments on Epicus Doomicus Metallicus) return on "Nightmare", which is by far the most accurate yet unthinkable representation of our modern world in many ways. I do feel that "Impact" and the end of the closing track are totally contrary to that esoteric melancholic feel from some of the other songs, but they're uplifting in a manner that is just as esoteric.

Ultimately, Lord Vicar's fourth album is not their most approachable yet but is certainly their best - and it's honestly a contender for the best doom metal album of the 2010's. In fact, this album opened my eyes up to a new tier of albums - there's albums that merely feel like collections of songs, albums that feel like a cohesive experience, and then albums that can be anything you want them to be. This is one of those albums and they weren't kidding when they said it's meant for multiple listens. I swear the music adapts to your mood.

Rating: 10 out of 10

Review by Rosh on November 22, 2023.

This project has been, since its inception, a cornerstone of classic sounding doom as a more serious artform rather than just redundant riff-worship. I feel that neither big name band of the style which Lord Vicar's own Kimi and Chritus respectively come from, Reverend Bizarre and Count Raven, ever displayed a truly esoteric musical vision for doom metal that transcends its defining characteristics - both those bands simply played doom that danced with both the expected solemnity and a touch of absurdism, and never really went beyond making exquisite masterpieces like these. Lord Vicar, though, has proved to be a more substantial and memorable project than even those two bands whom I hold in high regard. In every sense they are a more unique, more defined vision that Kimi had post-Reverend Bizarre. Esoteric in a poetic and truly unpredictable sense, something I have a real liking for because it feeds originality. The music itself and the decipherable lyrics blend together beautifully on each of the four Lord Vicar full-lengths so far, crafting a brilliant set of dynamics that can portray with great emotional weight the band's heavy thematic overtones. Fear No Pain from 2008 is still the most approachable release they've done up to this point, since it balances so well between musical tendencies of both the Reverend and the Count, but even here it was clear that Kimi was doing something more distinctly his own, coming from deeper within himself, and this tendency only continued over the next decade (has it really been that long?).

In 2019, The Black Powder dropped, as a total surprise. The band humbly said something to the effect that this release was supposed to be layered, unfolding more and more of its artistic detail with each subsequent listen, and judging by their previous couple albums, I believed it. Their soundscapes had only become more diverse since the debut, yet Kimi's bludgeoning riff attack always seemed to prevail through all the atmospheric sections, and Chritus' vocals would adapt accordingly, thus proving his vocal range and personal investment in the band. And while The Black Powder isn't their most larger than life album, it is absolutely the most emotional, dynamic, and deeply resonant album they've crafted yet, due in no small part to its layered nature. Lord Vicar is still a relatively young band, yes, but this album has to be their creative peak and the ultimate realization of Kimi's superb musical vision.

Now, generally speaking, an outstandingly good album should feel just right regardless of whether it's relatively shorter or longer, because it gets the dynamics and pacing right. The Black Powder, though, is actually so varied that it seems to adjust to each respective listen in terms of duration, and multiple moods seem to bleed from each respective moment. The monumental opener, "Sulphur, Charcoal, and Saltpetre", which is, bar none, Kimi's greatest musical achievement so far, may feel a bit dreamlike so as to be uncannily familiar in its opening sequence, yet at the same time it feels esoteric and difficult to grasp thematically, to me at least. This is a doom metal record of course, but the heavy power chords seem all the more befuddling and abstract when they come in, mirroring an already vague moment with a fierce passion. But while the slow, heavy doom metal part of this piece is awfully perplexing and even somewhat unnerving, especially the hook of the first verse, the feel of the music becomes more emotionally accessible when it picks up a bit more of a rocking groove. The increase in tempo at certain moments is generally welcome in traditional doom for a number of reasons that mainly have to do with lending the music a natural feel, but Lord Vicar use it to evoke an entire palette of colors, emotionally speaking.

And they do offer more accessible doom fare across the next few tracks, while still having this mystique about them. "Descent", "World Encircled", and "Levitation" have these shades of melody that feel so fresh amidst an otherwise bottom-heavy riff swamp, but this is also where Chritus' vocals shine, since the music has just enough melody to compliment the emotion in his vocals, but not so much that it can really carry on and manage to be this engaging without such emotion. "Descent" is, to be sure, a more depressive piece but I get a sense of wistful hope from the other above mentioned songs as well as "Black Lines." The doomy esotericism still shines through during the bridge of the otherwise uptempo "Temple in the Bedrock" and the melancholic acoustics (which are just as distinct as the legendary acoustic segments on Epicus Doomicus Metallicus) return on "Nightmare", which is by far the most accurate yet unthinkable representation of our modern world in many ways. I do feel that "Impact" and the end of the closing track are totally contrary to that esoteric melancholic feel from some of the other songs, but they're uplifting in a manner that is just as esoteric.

Ultimately, Lord Vicar's fourth album is not their most approachable yet but is certainly their best - and it's honestly a contender for the best doom metal album of the 2010's. In fact, this album opened my eyes up to a new tier of albums - there's albums that merely feel like collections of songs, albums that feel like a cohesive experience, and then albums that can be anything you want them to be. This is one of those albums and they weren't kidding when they said it's meant for multiple listens. I swear the music adapts to your mood.

Rating: 10 out of 10