Released: March 13, 2025
Dead Again doesn’t arrive as a revival or a final statement. It feels more like a record made after choices have already been narrowed. There’s no interest in reopening old shapes or revisiting earlier excesses. Instead, the album moves with restraint, pulling its ideas inward and holding them there. What once sprawled is still present, but it’s contained, trimmed down, and allowed less room to wander.
The album establishes that posture immediately. “Dead Again” and “Tripping a Blind Man” unfold with deliberate pacing, guitars pressed low and heavy, rhythms favoring drag over drive. Nothing rushes forward. The record advances by staying where it is, letting duration and repetition apply pressure rather than momentum. The sound feels grounded, almost immovable, as if the band is less concerned with motion than with weight held in place.
“The Profit of Doom” sharpens that approach without altering the temperature. The riff cycles methodically, vocals delivered as presence rather than performance. Peter Steele’s voice doesn’t dramatize the material—it occupies it. Lines land and remain, not because they’re emphasized, but because the music refuses to hurry past them.
“September Sun” stretches that method to its longest reach. Its length isn’t ornamental; it’s functional. The song sustains a single state for an extended period, allowing repetition and atmosphere to accumulate naturally. There’s no arc toward release. The track holds its shape long enough for the listener to adjust to its gravity.
As the album continues through “Halloween in Heaven” and “These Three Things,” there’s a noticeable stripping away of flourish. Humor remains, but it’s dry and unsignaled. Irony exists, but it doesn’t wink. The band sounds uninterested in contrast for its own sake. Each song reinforces the same inward pull, tightening the album’s internal orbit rather than expanding it.
“She Burned Me Down (3000)” adds movement without opening space. The groove deepens, but the posture stays intact. Even where the record flirts with something more direct, it quickly folds back into its established restraint. The album doesn’t loosen; it recalibrates and continues.
“Some Stupid Tomorrow” and “An Ode to Locksmiths” maintain that equilibrium. Riffs repeat with purpose, drums remain exact, and arrangements avoid excess. These tracks don’t function as peaks or valleys. They exist as continuations, reinforcing how consistently the album holds its ground.
“Hail and Farewell to Britain” closes the record without summary or softening. It doesn’t resolve what came before or gesture toward closure. The album maintains its stance until it stops, leaving the listener inside the same confined space where it began.
Production across Dead Again is thick and grounded without becoming ornamental. Guitars are layered but muted, drums heavy but controlled, and vocals sit firmly within the mix. There’s little air between elements, reinforcing the album’s sense of enclosure. Everything feels deliberate, measured, and unadorned.
Dead Again doesn’t evolve through reinterpretation. It holds its shape. Each return confirms the same limits, the same restraint, the same refusal to reopen space once it’s been closed. The album matters because it shows a band choosing containment over expansion, letting reduction sharpen what remains.
When it ends, it doesn’t resolve or fade. It simply stops. That lack of release feels intentional. Dead Again holds because it commits fully to its narrowed focus, trusting time and repetition to carry the record without apology.
Written by Rob Joncas for DeadNoteMedia.
Artist information and music courtesy of the band.
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