Glen Benton unexpectedly went journalism and sent us the following review.
“So I’m sitting in my garage, minding my business—tuning my lawnmower to drop D and burning church incense for the weekend—when a package shows up. No return address. Just a black envelope sealed with wax and pretension.
Inside? A CD. A compact disc. In 2025.
It says “Sleep Token – Even in Arcadia” in gold calligraphy like it’s a wedding invitation or a perfume sample.
There’s a note:
“We’d be honored to have your thoughts on our latest offering. With reverence — Vessel.”
Reverence?
I once carved an upside-down cross into my own forehead with a steak knife. I don’t do reverence.
I hold up the CD like it might bite me. The cover looks like someone cried on a Renaissance painting. There’s mist. There’s some kind of blurry figure wearing robes. This is either a band or a cursed Dungeons & Dragons artifact.
I go inside, put the CD in the stereo—yes, I still own one—and brace myself for what I think will be metal. You know: blast beats, riffs that rupture your spine, vocals that sound like the gates of Hell rusting shut.
Look, I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I was told this band Sleep Token was “metal” and that I had to check out their “Even in Arcadia.” So I did. And now I’m sitting here, shirtless, confused, and slightly moisturized.
First off, let’s get this out of the way: This isn’t metal. This is candle store music for people who think having anxiety is a personality trait.
The song starts with some kind of piano whisper-core nonsense like someone’s about to confess they’ve been dead the whole time. Then the vocals come in—and I swear on all that is unholy—it sounds like Drake got possessed by a very polite ghost. The guy is either crying, seducing a scented candle, or both.
Where are the riffs? Where is the rage? Where is the double bass so fast it makes your blood boil and your pastor call the cops? Nowhere. Instead, I’m treated to this slow emotional build like we’re in a CW vampire drama. By the time the drums actually kick in, I’ve already written my will and accepted death.
The breakdown? Oh yeah, there’s a part that’s slightly heavier—like a lullaby on steroids—but it lasts 11 seconds and then we’re back to hugging in the rain.
I looked them up and apparently their fans wear robes and masks and call the singer “Vessel,” which honestly just sounds like the name of something I’d write on my forehead during a Deicide tour as a joke. But no, this is serious. This is art. This is emotional.
This is what happens when you let your black metal friends start therapy.
To be clear, I’m not against emotion. Deicide’s entire discography is powered by pure hatred—that’s an emotion. But this? This is like watching someone whisper-cry into a vegan brownie.
Final verdict:
Satan is not amused.
Keith Moon is turning in his grave just to drum faster than this.
I give it 6 inverted crosses out of 666 tear-streaked face masks.
I’m gonna go cleanse my ears with some Morbid Angel and light my real candles—made of goat fat and rage”.
