Múr’s self-titled debut is a labyrinthine exploration of sound, a sonic journey that pulls you into a world as vast and enigmatic as the Icelandic landscapes that birthed it. Across 54 minutes, this progressive/post-metal opus unfolds with an emotional intensity that feels both deliberate and intuitive, as if each note has been carefully placed yet retains a natural, flowing spontaneity. It’s the kind of record that demands your full attention—not because it shouts for it, but because its intricate textures quietly command it.
The album opens with “Eldhaf,” which translates to “blaze” or “sea of flames,” a title that hints at its dual nature. The track begins delicately, its restrained intro almost meditative, before heavier guitar riffs storm in like an unexpected squall. There’s a push-and-pull tension here, a balance between aggression and reflection that feels like a thesis statement for the album. Vocals—clean and introspective—carry a sense of resigned acceptance, their calm at odds with the storm brewing beneath. By the time the guitars sync with the drums in a hypnotic rhythm, you’re no longer just listening; you’re immersed.
What stands out about Múr is how well they avoid the pitfalls of mimicry, despite drawing clear inspiration from a pantheon of progressive and post-metal greats. Echoes of Gojira’s muscular riffing and Ihsahn’s avant-garde tendencies ripple through the album, while moments of cinematic grandeur nod to Devin Townsend. Yet Múr never feel derivative. Instead, they’ve managed to synthesize these influences into a sound that is distinctly their own. It’s a rare feat for a debut, and it speaks to the band’s cohesion and vision.
The second track, “Múr,” is as unrelenting as its namesake—a brick wall of sound. Here, the band leans into their heavier instincts, with screamed vocals tearing through a backdrop of pummelling guitars and drums. It’s a visceral experience, almost confrontational, but there’s a precision to the chaos that keeps it from veering into pure noise. It’s hostile, yes, but also deliberate, a reminder that anger can be as sculpted as it is explosive.
By the time “Frelsari” arrives, the album begins to shift. This track, translating to “liberator,” explores themes of surrender and illusion, pairing them with vocals that oscillate between feral screams and moments of eerie calm. There’s a controlled ferocity here, a sense that the band is holding back just enough to let the tension simmer. It’s a calculated move, one that keeps the listener on edge, waiting for the inevitable eruption.
That eruption comes, albeit in unexpected ways, with “Vitrun.” The track, whose title can mean “vision” or “revelation,” feels like an awakening. It opens with industrial-tinged synths that pulse beneath thunderous riffs, creating an undercurrent of unease. Yet as the song progresses, it sheds its initial aggression, becoming more introspective, almost transcendent. It’s a turning point in the album, a moment where the band allows themselves to linger in quieter spaces without losing their edge.
The latter half of the album pushes these contrasts further. “Messa” is haunting, its sense of ritualistic unease palpable in every note. There’s an anxiety here, a weight that feels tied to something ancient and unseen. In contrast, “Heimsslit”—a term loosely translating to “world’s tearing” or “apocalypse”—takes a more narrative approach. It begins tenderly, as if bracing for impact, before spiralling into chaos. The midpoint introduces a marching rhythm, its militaristic cadence lending the track a sense of inevitability. By the time it fades into its desolate conclusion, you’re left with the impression of a world unravelling, both violently and beautifully.
The album closes with “Holskefla,” or “deluge,” a fitting title for a track that embodies both the album’s thematic and sonic peaks. It’s a sprawling ten-minute epic that refuses to stay still, weaving between moments of quiet introspection and towering, defiant crescendos. The final moments feel cathartic as if the album is exhaling after holding its breath for too long. It’s a conclusion that feels both definitive and open-ended, leaving you with the sense that Múr have only begun to scratch the surface of what they’re capable of.
What’s perhaps most striking about this album is its emotional depth. Múr have described their sound as “a wall of sound and emotion,” and that feels apt. There’s a rawness here, but also a refinement—a sense that every riff, every vocal line, every atmospheric flourish has been carefully considered. It’s a balancing act, and Múr walk it with the confidence of a band far older than their years.
The choice to sing in Icelandic adds another layer of mystique. For non-Icelandic listeners, the lyrics become less about literal meaning and more about texture, their rhythms and cadences blending seamlessly with the instrumentation. It’s a reminder that music can communicate far beyond language and that emotion often transcends words.
Múr’s debut arrives fully formed, a statement of intent from a band that feels poised to carve out their own space in the metal landscape. They’re not without their influences—there are moments where the spectres of Townsend and Gojira loom large—but they wield those influences with a deftness that makes them feel like collaborators rather than shadows.
If there’s a criticism to be had, it’s that the album occasionally leans too heavily on its darker, heavier moments, leaving its more melodic and experimental sides underexplored. Tracks like “Eldhaf” hint at a broader range that the band could tap into, and one can’t help but wonder what a more melodic follow-up might sound like. But these are minor quibbles in an otherwise remarkable debut.
The album is due digitally on November 22 via Century Media Records, while CD and vinyl will be available January 10, 2025.
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