Opening Invocation, First Flame, Threshold of Sound

When the listener hits play, the opening hymn, Octagon, erupts with a thick wave of atmosphere. It bursts out with a thick wall of sound. It hits hard, like a wave of fog rolling in. You feel it right away. It pulls you back to the raw days of early Black Sabbath. Imagine those old masters lurking in the shadows of your speakers, whispering from a forgotten time. This hymn sets the mood fast. It drags you into a place that’s dark, heavy, and full of pull. The band weaves stories of hidden magic and human weakness.

They build them into riffs that smash down. Melodies stick around, like a spell you can’t shake. The whole thing echoes with a deep sense of fear.

Descent into the Crypt

From there, Upon Tall Thrones takes you on a long ride, a full forty-minute journey. Think of it as a slow slide into dim underground halls. Deep guitar lines ring out like calls from old graves. They blend with rhythms that feel ghost-like. You catch hints of bands like Black Sabbath, Pentagram, and Pagan Altar in the mix. Shadows of their style hang heavy. Yet, it’s all tied up in a clear Italian feel. Picture mist drifting over crumbling old stones.

That gloom comes from the band’s roots in Italy’s doom scene. This style grew big in the 2000s, with groups drawing from heavy rock’s past. It adds a fresh layer here, making the dark tones feel both old and new.

Captured in the Flame

The whole sound stays raw and real, like it’s captured straight from a live room. They use analogue gear to keep that edge, no polish to hide the grit. Ripple Music handled the mastering, and they nailed the old-school vibe. Warmth fills every corner, with weight that presses down just right.

Warcoe‘s devilmanship reaches ceremonial perfection-each riff and arrangement carved with infernal intent. Stefano Fiorelli steps in on guitar and voice. His playing breaks through the sound, strong and clear. Yet, the notes carry a sweet pull. Reverb and fuzz coat them thick. They float in the air like drifting haze. The riffs circle back on themselves, like steps in a rite. They lull you into a deep stare. Leads twist up into breaks with a mind-bending twist. They climb like flames from a hidden blaze.

Stefano‘s voice rings out pure, laced with pain. He tells the tales in a calm stream. The words speak of stray roads, high perches, spell-casters, and inner voids. He never yells to drown the band. His tone lifts just high enough. It guides like a soft call in an empty hall, steady and sure.

There’s a southern rock inflection in the guitar tone that adds unexpected warmth to the otherwise funereal palette.