Review by Mandeep Arora on June 23, 2025.

Some albums have a special kind of aura about them. We know, rationally speaking, they're just an inanimate collection of varying sound effects and instrumentation, yet we also feel, sometimes, that there's something distinct there; an encapsulation of the spirit of the musicians who created it. A soul, perhaps. In my opinion, 'Marrow of the Spirit' is one such album. Admittedly, it's an acquired taste even amongst the band's staunch fanbase and isn't as universally acclaimed as their previous efforts, 'The Mantle' and 'Ashes Against the Grain'. But it's also deemed an equal to its siblings or even a notch above by a handful few, so there's that. To say it adopts a radically different sound is honestly pushing it, but there's no disputing its descent into darker, bleaker soundscapes; it's a bit like reading the first chapter of a new book in a series you already like and are familiar with, but now the focus is shifted to newer characters, in darker settings.

It starts with the cover - desaturated, haunting, desolate. Gone are the pristine white snowy landscapes of yesteryears and in comes the deplorably bleak and forsaken scenery. To befit this newfound imagery, the production's kept muddy and raw too, which in consequence, very crucially, grants the album its dense and plaintive atmosphere. It's multilayered, but everything, including Haughm's raspy vocals, plays aide to the guitars - they're definitely a very dominant element of the sound. The flow and structuring of the songs is quintessentially Agalloch, but it's also different in sections, case in point being 'Into the Painted Grey'. An enormous composition that's very fleet-footed and catchy by the band's standards, with monolithic riffs abound that scream old-school Bathory-cool. It matches 'Not Unlike the Waves' for scale, only with less flamboyance and polish. There are various simple and single-note underlying melodies that bind its many sections together, an approach they explore even on 'Black Lake Niðstång'.

The latter is, in some ways, the blockbuster song of the album. Sprawling over majestic seventeen and a half minutes and ever diverging from forming a definite structure, it slumps into a legitimately transcendental section midway, where it's kind of difficult to pinpoint the exact instruments being used. If anything, this makes it all the more alluring, more enigmatic, more otherworldly. You feel lost and insignificant in this seemingly limitless soundscape, its tender orientations tranquilising you yet at the same time, bewildering you. When listened to in conjunction with the lyrics, which I'll highly recommend, you feel a bit spooked yet intrigued by the subject matter and the fantastic manner in which it is written. To my eyes, it's the highest possible form of artistic expression. While the instrumentation side of it delivers in spades, the vocals are very elemental in telling this solemn tale too. Haunting and subdued whispers, wailing shrieks, and Haughm's classic raspy screams all come together to tell this three-part story of a cursed and forsaken lake and the niðstång, a long-lost pagan ritual. Now, I honestly don't mind talking about my interpretation of the lyrics and expand it to maybe four more paragraphs, but in the interest of the review to keep it an appropriate length, I'd rather suggest you to read this fantastic article about this song on the questionably named website called The Toilet Ov Hell. Not only does the writer delve deep into the lyrics and the soundscapes, but he also elaborates on the rituals and what they stood for; a bit nerdy, perhaps, but it's also a captivating and fantastic read, written in quite an astute, compelling style.

As I write this particular bit, fragments of the song still playing in my head and the evocative cover weaving images of a haunted lake and a weathered horse face on a totem pole, I shudder with awe and excitement at how fantastic a piece of music this mammoth song is. That being said, such is the quality of the rest of the album that it doesn't act a vessel for just this song. As I have already ascribed, the overall production is so key to augment the texture and feel of the album - the guitars have such a sharp, buzzing sound with a certain heft to every stroke. I personally wouldn’t call it outright or even moderately black metal but you do get that sort of an impression sometimes, courtesy especially of Æsop's drumming style. It's a lot faster than anything the band's done before, replete with persistent blast beats, but everything sounds quite muted in the mix, including the bass pedal which can certainly be descried but only just so. Haughm's alternating soft whispers and signature raspy screams are also very pivotal to intensify the atmosphere. I've been a fan for as long as I can remember but never would I have known about the generalised dislike of his vocal style had I not read so many Agalloch reviews here on Metallum, flattering and derogatory alike.

Customarily, they stick to a single idea to fully explore and develop it, to create this binding atmosphere and musically tell the story they have in their heads. There may just be six songs, but they're all very long. And nearly all of them build to a booming crescendo and bleed seamlessly into one another unlike 'Ashes Against the Grain' where nearly every song ended with a fade out. A minor and inconsequential observation perhaps, but something that does kind of stick out when 'The Watcher's Monolith' beautifully flows into 'Black Lake Niðstång' or when 'Ghosts of the Midwinter Fires' seamlessly gives way to the last track. It gives a strong impression of being one whole musical piece as opposed to an assortment of miscellaneous songs. The final song, 'To Drown', ends the album on a very dismal but dramatic note. Dramatic because while it's one of the most sorrowful tunes I've ever listened to, the way its second half morphs into a louder and fuller segment almost borders on being a theatrical excerpt from an orchestra. Those cellos when they meld with the acoustic guitars together form a sound that pervades my spirit and rends my heart. It seems to pull you into the bottom of this imaginary lake where no light prevails; that's exactly how the end feels - a few sprightly but futile strokes to try to survive in the accursed waters, a gradual weakening of those attempts, and then... silence. Nature engulfs you completely, indifferent to your death. It's hauntingly beautiful and masterfully done.

Now an album that I've rated a perfect 100% should be virtually flawless, right? Ideally, yes, but this one isn't. You see, 'Ghosts of the Midwinter Fires' is not a very good song. It runs five minutes too long, seems too ploddy as a consequence, and comes off as one of the band's most boring songs on a studio release, even undermining a bit of the album's momentum. But it does get its act together towards the climax and ends things on a decidedly better note, so I should cut it some slack. The rest of the album, more or less, is perfect to me. Sure, it's not sumptuous like 'The Mantle' or polished like 'Ashes Against the Grain', but it has its own dark, sinister charm that works very well in its favour, carving its own niche, and not lurking in the shadow of its famed companions. Now that Agalloch’s reunited, until they record another album with similar overtures, this is going to be their last one with such a sound; 'The Serpent & the Sphere' departs from tangible landscapes and precariously drifts into the cosmic dimensions of space and creation, splitting the fanbase even further. But that's another story for another day. 'Marrow of the Spirit' is an acquired taste and may not be to your liking, or it may take too long for you to actually like it, but there's no denying that it's a brilliant showcase of the band's unfaltering and plucky commitment to their art that pays off with some of thier darkest, most exclusive moments. It's phenomenal.

Rating: 10 out of 10