Review by SzejkElRopa on August 31, 2026.

I like fog. I like it as a weather element and in music. In Polish, "fog" obviously translates to Mgła. I have said multiple times that I like Mgła, and I will not drag it out. However, despite Hoest being a little legend in the Norwegian black metal scene, I have never experienced Taake, which also translates to "fog" from Norwegian. With the new album recently put out - "En Skog Av Nidstang", I tried delving into this music, and it wasn't easy.

That's because Hoest doesn't try to gain attention the easy way, with ear-friendly tremolo riffing and a song structure that has been tried out tens of thousands of times throughout music history. Moreover, he creates an atmosphere evoking something unfamiliar and definitely unpleasant. I had to acquire a taste for the rough sound of mastering, and I must admit it required many listens. There is no one pattern leading the songs. In many albums, it is rather easy to know what to expect - whether it's hate, disappointment, melancholy, or anything that springs to mind. It reveals itself after two or three listens, and after that, it either reassures you or not. What I could gather - there is a little bit of everything; for instance, the closing solo of 'Einstoeingen Og Eg' conjures up melancholy, and the middle section of 'Et Dyr Tok Min Hud' is very chaotic, but not in a bad way. Moreover, we cannot forget about the aggression, which is mostly reflected in brutal vocal shouts, which also sound at times despairful. There are also some heavier riffs throughout the album, although they aren't the most spiteful I've ever heard. Less volatile moments include those when clean guitars, as in 'Einstoeingen Og Eg', kick in or when the more melodic riffs are played, as at the end of 'Engler'. To summarise, I have to admit I am not entirely sure what this album wants to convey. Is it because I'm unfamiliar with Taake? Or maybe I am unprepared for such an experimental approach? One thing can be said for sure - while this is kept within the broad standards of the genre, it is not something one can stumble upon every day.

"En Skog Av Nidstang" is obviously riff-driven for the most part. Most of the riffs are led by a melody; however, as previously stated, not earworms. Certain sections are more melodic, notably in the song 'Av Guds Ville Naade', which excels at that compared to the rest of the album. 'Engler', on the other hand, is driven by heavier riffing. The vocals are, most of the time, furious shouts; however, in 'Av Guds Ville Naade', clean vocals can be heard, although they still sound as sinister as the rest of the song. To top everything up, the drumming is quite standard for the genre, sounds as though it were a drum computer, but I have no idea what the truth is. Nevertheless, it still uses quite a wide range of cymbals and isn't boring.

Is it just the lack of time or my inexperience? Whatever that is - Taake didn't reveal itself to me with the first approach, but I am sure I will continue to dig into Hoest's music more. Although this wasn't my favourite album I've listened to, I need to say that I really appreciate that this project isn't going the easy way and decides to try out something new, something experimental. Whether it's successful or unsuccessful, it still deserves some praise. Speaking of "En Skog Av Nidstang", I think a fair score is 7.5/10. There were great moments, such as the solo at the end of 'Einstoeingen Og Eg', but I didn't have enough grasp to fully understand the concept of the album.

Rating: 7.5 out of 10

Review by Jeger on July 12, 2026.

What to say about Hoest? The man has performed live with his cock & balls exposed, he performed in Germany with a Swastika painted on his chest as a way to remind Germany of its greatest shame, a genuine eccentric and a man who spends his days on the fringes of Society. Since its inception, Hoest's Black Metal endeavor, Taake, has been renowned the world over as a true-to-the-bone Norwegian Black Metal project, whether it be in band or Soloist form and the music has always been the product of Hoest's pride in Norway, pride in what was birthed by a whisper and a match to oaken Churches all those years ago. And instead of riding BM's coattails toward a lucrative career like those who've sold out: Satyricon, Dimmu Borgir and Emperor, Hoest remains rooted in the Artistic ways of Norse culture as both an ambassador for BM but also for Norse heritage. And on July 31, Taake will unveil its ninth LP offering in "En Skog Av Nidstang" via Dark Essence Records.

"En Skog Av Nidstang" was recorded just South of Bergen in the forests surrounding the island of Borgøy - the same environment depicted by Norwegian Artist, Lars Hertervig. No studio indulgence, no ego-infused creative disputes between band members as it was recorded in solo fashion and nothing more than instinct, emotion and of course Hoest's own remarkable Black Metal IQ to realize what is shaping up to be an epic.

Four expansive tracks make up this latest volume. Will it live up to its acclaimed predecessor, "Et Hav Av Avstand"? I would imagine not… Difficult bar to reach twice in a row, but I'm sure it matters not one iota to Hoest, only what is true, only what is genre optimal, and from what I'm able to put together so far, we're in for a bit of experimentation along with hefty doses of textbook Taake complexity in melodicism, dry tones and unconventional yet classic stylings.

Lars Hertervig was an ill-fated soul. He was born in poverty but was able to nurture his love for painting by attending the Düsseldorf School of Painting as a pupil of Hans Gude. In 1854, as a result of a cruel prank played on him by his fellow classmates, Lars suffered a nervous breakdown. Two years later, he was institutionalized at Gaustaud Asylum. Lars spent his remaining 30 years in poverty; hardly ever able to afford oil paints and canvases. His final works were done with watercolors on gouache paper. The compositions that make up "En Skog Av Nidstang" are similarly desperate and crazed, deranged and unpredictable. Just like the life of its inspiration. Just another example of the brilliance of Taake: darkly sophisticated and intrinsically constructed Black Metal that stirs up from deep within a sense of pride in the genre. A deep appreciation for one of the Norwegian scene's most prolific Artists.

From the opening track, "Einstoeingen Og Eg" through to close, the final moments that culminate "Av Guds Ville Naade", "En Skog Av Nidstang" is definitive Norwegian BM: so pure/unfiltered, stripped down tonally and alternating between sheer momentum and melody. Not raw by any means but exposed like those aforementioned cock & balls, bare in essence with nothing to hide, nowhere to mask any mistakes and yet so down-to-earth in production quality. An album to which one must relinquish all of his/herself in order to rightly experience such a pridefully created piece of art.

Hoest just continues to organically live as a specimen of what BM is supposed to represent: rebellion, intelligence, independence and pride. Some guys just get it. Some Artists keep the gates by just being who they are - living, breathing examples of what cannot be emulated or mimicked - true Black Metal spirit and real-world intellect. Another opus! Another victory for Norwegian BM and an example of why true Black Metal shall always endure.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Norbert on June 24, 2026.

A priest from a small Tuscan town decided to bless a newly opened pizzeria. The ceremony was proceeding exactly as planned until one of the cooks discovered a medieval crypt beneath the building. Inside was an ancient book containing a recipe for a pizza that, according to legend, had once been baked by Lucifer himself.

Being Italy, nobody spent even a second wondering whether this might be a bad idea. As everyone knows, Italians treat common sense with roughly the same level of respect they give speed limits. The recipe went straight into the oven. The first bite triggered mass hysteria. The second opened a portal to Hell. The third caused the local mayor to start speaking Latin and claiming he was an archangel. By the time a vortex of foul-smelling smoke appeared above the town, accompanied by blasphemous incantations, it was already too late.

Instead of trying to save the situation, the townspeople became embroiled in a heated debate over whether the infernal recipe should include mozzarella di bufala. Disaster was inevitable.

If this story were ever made into a movie, the soundtrack could easily be handled by the three maniacs known as Necromorbid.

The Tuscan trio have spent years behaving as if the internet had never been invented and the only source of metal knowledge came from dubbed cassette copies of Angelcorpse and Blasphemy albums. Necromorbid have never been a band interested in musical revolutions. They're the kind of group that shows up at a party, smashes the table, sets the curtains on fire, drinks the host's wine, and leaves without providing a phone number.

Following their 2016 debut and 2020's Sathanarchrist Assaulter, the gentlemen from Florence made fans wait six years for new material—which is, in itself, a very Italian thing to do. In a country where highway construction projects can last longer than entire musical careers, such a modest delay should practically be considered a sign of punctuality.

Ceremonial Demonslaught, their third album, released on April 17th through the ever-reliable Godz Ov War Productions, takes no prisoners. After a brief introduction, we're treated to a relentless barrage of war metal-infused black/death assaults delivered with the precision of a Mafia accountant. The riffs come thick and fast, the drums hammer away like a Vespa courier fleeing from the Carabinieri, and the vocals sound as if someone locked Beelzebub in the basement of a medieval church and forced him to record audiobooks.

Necromorbid excel at balancing bestial chaos with surprising control. The songs are brutal without being mindless, and beneath the layers of sulfur, soot, and anti-Christian fury lies a surprising number of memorable hooks. The kind that reappear in your head at the most inappropriate moments—during grocery shopping, for example, or at a family dinner.

The greatest strength of this album, however, is its shameless honesty. Necromorbid have no interest in pretending to be explorers discovering new musical continents. They know their job is to deliver thirty-odd minutes of sonic warfare, and they accomplish it better than many bands with far greater experience and considerably larger budgets. You can hear the experience, you can hear the songwriting skill, yet there is none of the self-important posturing that often accompanies it.

It's a bit like Italian cuisine. The ingredients have been familiar for decades, everyone knows roughly what to expect, but if the proportions are right, you can still leave the restaurant completely satisfied. The difference is that instead of pasta, Necromorbid serve a barrage of blast beats; instead of tomato sauce, hectoliters of sulfur; and instead of espresso, a steaming cup of boiling tar.

Did Necromorbid record an album that will redefine black/death metal? Of course not. But did they record an album you'll happily throw on the speakers when you're craving uncompromising extremity backed by a devilishly good sense of melody? Absolutely.

Ceremonial Demonslaught is like an old Alfa Romeo. It may not be the most modern machine on the road. Sometimes something rattles. Sometimes something smokes. But once it gets moving, it does so with such undeniable style that it's impossible not to smile.

Even if that smile ends with a few missing teeth.

Rating: 8.5 out of 10

Review by Norbert on June 24, 2026.

A priest from a small Tuscan town decided to bless a newly opened pizzeria. The ceremony was proceeding exactly as planned until one of the cooks discovered a medieval crypt beneath the building. Inside was an ancient book containing a recipe for a pizza that, according to legend, had once been baked by Lucifer himself.

Being Italy, nobody spent even a second wondering whether this might be a bad idea. As everyone knows, Italians treat common sense with roughly the same level of respect they give speed limits. The recipe went straight into the oven. The first bite triggered mass hysteria. The second opened a portal to Hell. The third caused the local mayor to start speaking Latin and claiming he was an archangel. By the time a vortex of foul-smelling smoke appeared above the town, accompanied by blasphemous incantations, it was already too late.

Instead of trying to save the situation, the townspeople became embroiled in a heated debate over whether the infernal recipe should include mozzarella di bufala. Disaster was inevitable.

If this story were ever made into a movie, the soundtrack could easily be handled by the three maniacs known as Necromorbid.

The Tuscan trio have spent years behaving as if the internet had never been invented and the only source of metal knowledge came from dubbed cassette copies of Angelcorpse and Blasphemy albums. Necromorbid have never been a band interested in musical revolutions. They're the kind of group that shows up at a party, smashes the table, sets the curtains on fire, drinks the host's wine, and leaves without providing a phone number.

Following their 2016 debut and 2020's Sathanarchrist Assaulter, the gentlemen from Florence made fans wait six years for new material—which is, in itself, a very Italian thing to do. In a country where highway construction projects can last longer than entire musical careers, such a modest delay should practically be considered a sign of punctuality.

Ceremonial Demonslaught, their third album, released on April 17th through the ever-reliable Godz Ov War Productions, takes no prisoners. After a brief introduction, we're treated to a relentless barrage of war metal-infused black/death assaults delivered with the precision of a Mafia accountant. The riffs come thick and fast, the drums hammer away like a Vespa courier fleeing from the Carabinieri, and the vocals sound as if someone locked Beelzebub in the basement of a medieval church and forced him to record audiobooks.

Necromorbid excel at balancing bestial chaos with surprising control. The songs are brutal without being mindless, and beneath the layers of sulfur, soot, and anti-Christian fury lies a surprising number of memorable hooks. The kind that reappear in your head at the most inappropriate moments—during grocery shopping, for example, or at a family dinner.

The greatest strength of this album, however, is its shameless honesty. Necromorbid have no interest in pretending to be explorers discovering new musical continents. They know their job is to deliver thirty-odd minutes of sonic warfare, and they accomplish it better than many bands with far greater experience and considerably larger budgets. You can hear the experience, you can hear the songwriting skill, yet there is none of the self-important posturing that often accompanies it.

It's a bit like Italian cuisine. The ingredients have been familiar for decades, everyone knows roughly what to expect, but if the proportions are right, you can still leave the restaurant completely satisfied. The difference is that instead of pasta, Necromorbid serve a barrage of blast beats; instead of tomato sauce, hectoliters of sulfur; and instead of espresso, a steaming cup of boiling tar.

Did Necromorbid record an album that will redefine black/death metal? Of course not. But did they record an album you'll happily throw on the speakers when you're craving uncompromising extremity backed by a devilishly good sense of melody? Absolutely.

Ceremonial Demonslaught is like an old Alfa Romeo. It may not be the most modern machine on the road. Sometimes something rattles. Sometimes something smokes. But once it gets moving, it does so with such undeniable style that it's impossible not to smile.

Even if that smile ends with a few missing teeth.

Rating: 8.5 out of 10

Review by Norbert on June 24, 2026.

A priest from a small Tuscan town decided to bless a newly opened pizzeria. The ceremony was proceeding exactly as planned until one of the cooks discovered a medieval crypt beneath the building. Inside was an ancient book containing a recipe for a pizza that, according to legend, had once been baked by Lucifer himself.

Being Italy, nobody spent even a second wondering whether this might be a bad idea. As everyone knows, Italians treat common sense with roughly the same level of respect they give speed limits. The recipe went straight into the oven. The first bite triggered mass hysteria. The second opened a portal to Hell. The third caused the local mayor to start speaking Latin and claiming he was an archangel. By the time a vortex of foul-smelling smoke appeared above the town, accompanied by blasphemous incantations, it was already too late.

Instead of trying to save the situation, the townspeople became embroiled in a heated debate over whether the infernal recipe should include mozzarella di bufala. Disaster was inevitable.

If this story were ever made into a movie, the soundtrack could easily be handled by the three maniacs known as Necromorbid.

The Tuscan trio have spent years behaving as if the internet had never been invented and the only source of metal knowledge came from dubbed cassette copies of Angelcorpse and Blasphemy albums. Necromorbid have never been a band interested in musical revolutions. They're the kind of group that shows up at a party, smashes the table, sets the curtains on fire, drinks the host's wine, and leaves without providing a phone number.

Following their 2016 debut and 2020's Sathanarchrist Assaulter, the gentlemen from Florence made fans wait six years for new material—which is, in itself, a very Italian thing to do. In a country where highway construction projects can last longer than entire musical careers, such a modest delay should practically be considered a sign of punctuality.

Ceremonial Demonslaught, their third album, released on April 17th through the ever-reliable Godz Ov War Productions, takes no prisoners. After a brief introduction, we're treated to a relentless barrage of war metal-infused black/death assaults delivered with the precision of a Mafia accountant. The riffs come thick and fast, the drums hammer away like a Vespa courier fleeing from the Carabinieri, and the vocals sound as if someone locked Beelzebub in the basement of a medieval church and forced him to record audiobooks.

Necromorbid excel at balancing bestial chaos with surprising control. The songs are brutal without being mindless, and beneath the layers of sulfur, soot, and anti-Christian fury lies a surprising number of memorable hooks. The kind that reappear in your head at the most inappropriate moments—during grocery shopping, for example, or at a family dinner.

The greatest strength of this album, however, is its shameless honesty. Necromorbid have no interest in pretending to be explorers discovering new musical continents. They know their job is to deliver thirty-odd minutes of sonic warfare, and they accomplish it better than many bands with far greater experience and considerably larger budgets. You can hear the experience, you can hear the songwriting skill, yet there is none of the self-important posturing that often accompanies it.

It's a bit like Italian cuisine. The ingredients have been familiar for decades, everyone knows roughly what to expect, but if the proportions are right, you can still leave the restaurant completely satisfied. The difference is that instead of pasta, Necromorbid serve a barrage of blast beats; instead of tomato sauce, hectoliters of sulfur; and instead of espresso, a steaming cup of boiling tar.

Did Necromorbid record an album that will redefine black/death metal? Of course not. But did they record an album you'll happily throw on the speakers when you're craving uncompromising extremity backed by a devilishly good sense of melody? Absolutely.

Ceremonial Demonslaught is like an old Alfa Romeo. It may not be the most modern machine on the road. Sometimes something rattles. Sometimes something smokes. But once it gets moving, it does so with such undeniable style that it's impossible not to smile.

Even if that smile ends with a few missing teeth.

Rating: 8.5 out of 10