Wow. Listened late in December, MMXXIII, mid-night, as the season’s first sharp, sparse snow fell hopelessly through floodlights to the brutal metropolitan concrete. Deranged harmonic lines of Folded Immortal instantly captivated—intelligent composition, pulsating distortion. Structure of Pattern Amputation, masterful: striking the most-important balance between atmosphere and abrasion. A unique sense of terror, something cosmic, cerebral, interior. The best (so far) from this promising enclave.

One of the most genuinely moving pieces of dungeon synth I’ve ever heard. As with much of SoD’s fantastic catalog, the lo-fi textures and tactile soundscapes are instantly transporting. But the narrative implied by the progression of song titles, paired with tuneful compositions of tender nostalgia and rueful resolve, elevate the effect and instill a profound sorrow. A testament to the genre’s unique power to render the nonhuman by human means, and to engender empathy with bear and brush alike.

My favorite of Moulderyawn’s laudable discography, evoking both wonder at nature’s grandeur and dread at its power. Here viridescent dungeon synth is honed to perfection in timbre and melody—fine counterpoint to mingle with black metal of caustic chants, serrated guitar tones, and an awareness that endless blast beats are not the only rhythmic path to hypnosis. Especially suited to early Spring walks, as shoots of green spear up among once-dead roots, and the music mycorrhizal overgrows all ego.

Sunglitter upon rivers that ripple and run fast; mist over lakes ringed in emerald walls. Pollen and smoke wafting up and down city hills, as further tors mount in the distance. All conjured here in layered laminae of ambiance, out of which arise melodies both familiar and striking, like the unexpected voice of a dear friend finding you as you walk the river paths near dusk. Fernmage's pinked, engoldened musings (with ever the undercurrent of green) equal their craftwork’s charms, likewise cast.

Brilliant, in the literal sense: an exercise in luminosity. Though raw in principle, mystic tremolos and fluttering piano keys evoke effects as far-flung as Alcest's more celestial wanderings and Philip Glass's pulsing repetitions—at times minimalist, but never amelodic. Whereas Mystras recalls foregone strongholds of ruined marble, these walls instead seem keepers of the Delphic secrets deep within our own dreaming minds. Perle, plesaunte to prynces paye, to clanly clos in golde so clere. . .

In the crucible of all things death/black/war/grind, claims are often made as to a project’s superlatively filthy-pummeling-nasty-crushing quality. Such bonafides are sometimes overblown, failing to satiate the ever-escalating needs of those chasing the extremity dragon. Not so here: grating noise, unhinged vocals, and horrifying samples exacerbate malevolent riffs and percussive battery that churn with intention rather than simple aimless aggression. Truly some of the most fucked up shit ever.

A mimetic emanation of those corridors and complexes of dreams in which symbols and signs flicker coded meaning as intervals of light and shadow: up-and-down footfalls; pulsing fires in abyssal skies; shades who flit intermittent in the gloom. The music mirrors, alternating equally between tortured black metal that favors the midtempo and starry dungeon synth that inclines to minimalism. Deftly enshrines Moulderyawn in a genre-fluid canon of oneiric heaviness—maudlin of the Well, Lantlôs, etc.

Though Cascadia is most associated with its eponymous style of BM, the depressive strain proves an equally apt evocation of the region's mist-drenched forests, evergreens rich with darkness as the overcast glow gleams low. Mournful arpeggios, which follow surprising harmonic sequences, lead at languorous pace deep into those blanketing woods choking the most tortured of wails: the cold comfort of far light in a rainy night, lonely candelabrum-wisp's guidance through a clearing to the other side.