Sweden's Witchcraft are key figures in the so-called hard rock revival: Originally conceived at the start of the century by singer Magnus Pelander as a tribute to the pioneering doom outfit Pentagram, the group has since expanded those paradigms to encompass Palm Desert stoner rock, Jethro Tull-style blues, and the heady psych of the '60s. Compared to the rudimentary sounds of peers like Graveyard, Kadavar, and Truckfighters, Witchcraft's music—however indebted to the past—skews progressive, a cumulative approach to riff-building beget by several decades' worth of influences.
On their fifth album Nucleus, Witchcraft continue to carry the torch of '70s hard rock/proto-metal bands while striving torward a broader sound. Pelander has put down his axe to focus entirely on singing, as well as production; unsurprisingly, the mix that he and producers Philip Gabriel Saxin and Anton Sundell decided upon gives him all the space he needs to croon to heart’s content. Apart from that, the album sounds downright gargantuan. From the airtight, string-inflected boogie of "The Outcast" to the grizzled march of the title track, each cut optimizes volume over vulnerability, a torrent of liquid lead rushing into the ears. Folk, and maybe even a little bit of jazz, sveltely sneak their way into the mix in the form of of flutes and strings—but by and large, Nucleus is an album that refuses to stay quiet, roaring and clawing forth for over an hour before coming to a shuddering halt.
Like so many of the groups before them, Witchcraft draw inspiration from high fantasy, an aesthetic that manifests itself with the ren-faire woodwind and string arrangements and in the epic tales of wanderlust, misplaced faith, and heroic striving in the lyrics. Thankfully, the fanciful mood never gets mired in Blind Guardian-style goofiness, gesturing more generally to the haggard adventurer in us all: "The Outcast" focuses not on some wayward brigadier, but rather on the growing alienation of a global population becoming more resigned and hopeless by the second. The universality makes the record more approachable, but the lyrics can’t rise to accommodate it, as evidenced by the aformentioned track’s head-scratching, grammatically-tenuous refrain: "Save a nation from a bad economy/ Is like sailing away on an endless sea." Pelander’s stilted cadence compounds the problem; if he’s not squeezing an extra syllable out of a word like "indecision," he’s attempting to rhyme "loving parents" with "discontent"—and botching the emphasis on both.
It’s up to Rage Widerberg on drums and Tobias Anger on bass to convey what Pelander’s words can’t, and they deserve a considerable amount of credit for channeling all the rage and confusion coursing through tracks like "Malstroem" and "The Obsessed"'s percolating, crowd-pleasing doom riffs. Unfortunately, the glacial pacing of Nucleus’ slow burn frequently snuffs its own flame. Following "Maelstrom"’s opening inertia, the album sinks into a figurative tar pit: a seemingly endless progression of the smoky, wail-ridden jams Blue Cheer could write in their sleep. Even by doom’s slow standards, the record’s second half is plodding and woefully self-indulgent, relying more on Pelander’s killer pipes than on developed songcraft. Of course, it goes without saying that Nucleus rocks: its nine tracks (two of which extend past the 14-minute mark) pack in enough solemn solos, furied backbeats, and majestic stoner breakdowns to hold fans over until next time. But how good is pure volume when it's lacking a furious heart to match?
