Converge walk into God City Studios and record a new album at full volume. No guests, no studio tricks, no bullshit. Just four people playing like the building might come down if they hesitate.
Salem, Massachusetts again. Kurt Ballou behind the desk, Jacob Bannon gripping the mic like a problem that won’t quit, Ben Koller pounding out nothing but impact, Nate Newton holding everything down with a bass tone you can feel in your chest. Love Is Not Enough sounds like Converge hitting their stride and refusing to slow down.
The title track explodes right out of the gate. Thrash riffs snap together, then swerve into powerviolence territory. Bannon’s voice comes in already torn to shreds, hammering that phrase home like he learned it the worst way possible. Koller’s drums keep pushing, every fill there to drive things forward, not show off. The whole thing is lean, rough, and in a hurry. It doesn’t give a fuck if you’re ready for it.
Bad Faith slows down just enough to let the heaviness sink in. The guitars churn instead of sprint. Newton’s bass rumbles underneath, thick and ugly. Bannon sounds like he’s watching something collapse in real time and can’t do anything about it. When the chorus hits, it’s a dead end. Nothing changes. Nothing gets better.
Distract and Divide is over before you can process it. Pure grindcore speed, guitars ripping into each other, Koller playing like he’s settling a score. They pack an insane amount of rage into barely two minutes and then they’re gone.
To Feel Something takes the anxiety and stretches it out instead of letting it go. Guitars scrape and howl, feedback everywhere. Bannon keeps repeating the title like he’s trying to figure out if making enough noise can actually make him feel anything. The song caves in on itself, messy but controlled, never quite landing on solid ground.
Beyond Repair feels like walking through a dark hallway between rooms. No vocals. Just droning guitars, feedback rising and falling. It doesn’t give you a break, it just makes everything sharper. The quiet parts hit as hard as the loud ones.
Amon Amok takes that tension and drags it through the mud. The riff stumbles forward, massive but not overdone. Ballou keeps the guitars raw and direct, nothing fancy. You can hear every scrape, every little imperfection. It sounds like they set up mics and captured whatever happened, then left it alone.
Force Meets Presence throws a curveball. Opens with this quick burst of speed metal, almost like a wink, then immediately twists into something else. Hardcore blasts slam into sludgy breakdowns, guitar leads cutting through without dragging things out. The changes feel abrupt and violent. The band go where they want, structure be damned.
Gilded Cage digs into noise rock ugliness. Newton’s bass is the star here, distorted and threatening, while the guitars screech around it. Bannon’s vocals sound different, less manic, more pointed. Instead of building speed, the song builds pressure until something has to give.
Make Me Forget You lets a bit of melody slip through without softening anything. The guitars actually soar for a minute, pure emotional hardcore, before yanking you back into the grind. Bannon still sounds shredded, the words still come out jagged, nothing gets resolved. Whatever hope sneaks in feels like it won’t last.
We Were Never the Same closes things out by getting bigger instead of winding down. Koller’s drums are relentless, fills crashing into each other, cymbals going off like warning bells. The guitars can’t decide if they want to be melodic or abrasive, so they do both. Bannon’s lyrics circle around grief and loss, that weird closeness you feel with someone when something terrible happens, then the loneliness that follows. The ending feels huge but not victorious. The album stops because there’s nowhere left to go, not because anything got fixed.
They didn’t polish the life out of this thing. You can hear people breathing, edges catching, things not quite perfect. Ballou’s production lets the rough spots stay because they make it hit harder.
The track order wears you out on purpose. Each song cranks up the pressure a little more. There’s no obvious radio single here, no safe entry point. The songs work specifically because they’re in this order, because they crash into each other the way they do.
I’m writing this next to a framed print of the Jane Doe artwork, and Bannon’s artwork fits perfectly here again. Stark, aggressive, each piece connected to a song. The cover shows someone watching, not saving. The art doesn’t explain anything. It just exists alongside the music.
35 years in and Converge still sound hungry. The anger is specific, the violence deliberate. This record just sharpens everything they’ve always done until it draws blood.
There’s nothing romantic about this album, Valentine’s week release or not. No comfort, no resolution. Just forward motion, mounting pressure, and a band that won’t look away.
Love Is Not Enough will be released on February 13, 2025 via Epitaph Records.
Converge play Fairmount Theatre on April 8th. BUY TICKETS
Photos – Jason Zucco & Steve Gerrard
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