Top 40 Albums of 2024 (40 - 36)
Posted by Captain Beyond Zen on Wednesday, December 4, 2024And again the theater curtain of 2024 is slowly closing. It is the time to pause and look back. Year-end list time. What was, what remains? As always, it was a year full of musical highlights and surprises.
You get older and are no longer so easily get excited. I am an old man. What do I know about the current music trends? Sure, nothing. So be it!
I will bother, surprise, bore or even annoy you again this year, dear reader, with a Top 40 list. It doesn't matter. I'll do it anyway. As always: only albums, no EPs, no singles, no splits, no live albums, no samplers.
This time I expanded my musical spectrum to include a few genres. But don't worry, I left country out.
And yes, again, it's pretty damn quirky and subjective.
Big respect and thanks to the many bands and artists out there for the many hours of great music!
Many thanks to the Doom Charts and its great and honest contributors! Keep it up and don't let it get you down!
40. Hammok - Look How Long Lasting Everything Is Moving Forward for Once
Label: Thirty Something
Location: Oslo, Norway
The album title alone is an endurance test. "Look How Long Lasting Everything Is Moving Forward for Once" carries with it the weight of a manifesto—a declaration that everything, including the listener’s sanity, is on the verge of collapse yet moving with inexorable momentum. Hammok’s audacious foray into the realms of noise rock, post-hardcore, and screamo feels less like an album and more like a life experience you’re thrust into without a guidebook or map. A swirl of disorienting feedback, unrelenting aggression, and chaotic beauty that can leave you bruised and exhilarated in equal measure.
Hailing from Oslo, the band doesn’t just make noise; it weaponizes it. Their sound is less “music” and more an exercise in controlling entropy. It is a hyperactive beast, born from the swarming tension of too many ideas crammed into too little space. The songs themselves are best described as sonic landscapes in flux: jagged riffs, thunderous drumming, and screamed vocals that often feel less like communication and more like the primal release of pure emotion. Every song on this album is a raw, bleeding wound—a burst of energy, pain, and catharsis, wrapped in distortion.
From the opening track, it's clear that this isn’t going to be a smooth ride. The first few minutes disorient you with looping, frantic guitar lines, while percussion crashes like thunder on a restless sea. It's at once claustrophobic and liberating—like you’re being pinned under an avalanche of sound, but there's a sense of release in the surrender. The vocals—a mix of screamed catharsis and guttural groans—feel like the last shout of someone who's lost all hope but refuses to let go.
"Look How Long Lasting..." is not an album that fits neatly into the post-hardcore formula. Hammok disregards expectations of verse-chorus structure or conventional song forms. They thrive in spaces where the tension isn't resolved, where the emotions run unchecked, and where silence is the exception rather than the rule. It's an album about everything and nothing—about the weight of existence, the friction of living in a world that moves far too fast, and the fragile beauty of things that are always in motion, even when they seem to be falling apart.
There’s a sense of paradox in the title itself—the contradictory idea that things can be both “long lasting” and “moving forward.” Hammok lives in that contradiction. They don’t offer any answers, but they don’t let you leave unscathed either. It’s a ride that demands your full attention and a readiness to embrace discomfort. Some might say it’s too much, too loud, too unyielding. But in the right frame of mind, it’s an experience that grips you and doesn’t let go, even as the last note fades into the ether.
Some bands settle for making noise, while others, like Hammok, are the noise. This is an album that doesn't just push the boundaries of genre; it smashes them into pieces and then dances on top of the wreckage. It’s messy, it’s brutal, it’s beautiful in its disarray. If you’re looking for something that challenges you, that drags you out of your comfort zone and forces you to reckon with the world’s chaos and the human condition, look no further.
"Look How Long Lasting Everything Is Moving Forward for Once" isn’t just music; it’s a call to arms, a challenge to stop hiding from the noise and confront the rawness of life. Will you survive the experience? Probably not. But you’ll be changed.
39. Castle Rat - Into the Realm
Label: Wise Blood / King Volume
Location: Brooklyn, NY, USA
Into the Realm by Castle Rat is like stepping into a world where the rules of music are warped and contorted, a place where you're not sure whether you've stumbled into an ancient dungeon or the aftermath of a fever dream. It’s a haunted house of sound, but the ghosts are playing distorted guitars, and the cobwebs are made of feedback.
From the very first track, Castle Rat announces that they’re not here to politely introduce themselves to the listener. No, they grab you by the throat with a riff so thick and chewy, it feels like you could slice it. Their brand of doom-laden rock feels like a collision between the darkened spirals of stoner metal and the feral energy of a punk show gone terribly, thrillingly wrong. The rhythm section, an unrelenting force of nature, drives the songs like a drumming thunderstorm, while the guitar tone seems to come from a parallel universe where amps are always on the verge of exploding.
And then there’s the voice. Oh, the voice. A guttural, primal yowl that could rival the screams of a creature who’s only half-human. The lyrics don’t always make sense, and maybe that’s the point—this is an album where coherence takes a back seat to emotion, atmosphere, and the feeling of being somewhere dangerous but compelling. Listening to the album feels like getting lost in an eldritch maze where the walls are made of sonic sludge and the air is thick with something ancient and untold.
The band’s songwriting is unconventional at best. There are no verse-chorus-verse formulas here—songs shift in mood as if the band is trying to outrun their own shadows. One minute you’re in a swamp of grinding bass, and the next, a sudden shift will take you to a surprisingly tender breakdown that almost feels like a lullaby, if lullabies were meant to be eerie and unsettling. At times, it’s as if the songs are morphing into their own monsters, each one distinct, but all with a kindred spirit of chaos.
While it might be tempting to peg Into the Realm as a mere exploration of heavy rock's darker corners, it’s really more of a journey through the subconscious. There are moments that feel as if the band is playing with an almost childish sense of abandon, taking joy in how dissonance can be just as beautiful as melody. The arrangements are dense, full of layers you didn’t know existed, and yet there's something so organic about it—like an improvised jam session where everyone forgot the rules, but somehow the chaos clicks.
Sure, it’s abrasive. But it’s also fascinating, unpredictable, and—dare I say—alive. Castle Rat doesn’t ask for your permission to exist in their strange world; they invite you to come along for the ride. By the end of Into the Realm, you’re not sure whether you’ve conquered the darkness or been consumed by it. But either way, you’ll be left thinking about it long after the last note fades out.
If you like your music experimental, heavy, and utterly unhinged, Into the Realm will be your new soundtrack to a world that’s as terrifying as it is enthralling. Just don’t expect to understand everything—sometimes, it’s better that way.
38. Kontact – Full Contact
Label: Dying Victims
Location: Calgary, Canada
A Sonic Collision of Chaos and Precision
Imagine you're driving through a storm, gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity. The sky churns above you, thunder cracks like a whip, and rain lashes the windshield in sheets. Your heart races. The air is thick with anticipation. Then, suddenly, Full Contact by Kontact slams through the speakers, like a bolt of lightning that seems to perfectly match the storm outside. It’s chaotic. It’s beautiful. It’s uncomfortable in the best possible way.
“Full Contact” is not an album that asks to be liked. It demands to be felt—raw, visceral, unapologetic. The Canadian band Kontact has crafted a sonic experience that balances on the razor’s edge of madness and genius, a collision of forces that seems to be both breaking down and building up simultaneously. There’s a sense of urgency, as if every note is a momentary act of defiance against the mundane, and yet the music feels eerily controlled—like a tempest that never loses its shape.
The album opens with “Emperor of Dreams,” a track that doesn’t so much start as it erupts, as if the band was waiting for the right moment to detonate. The guitars sound like they’re about to disintegrate at any second, but somehow, they hold together, propelling the track forward with relentless precision. Vocals emerge from the wreckage, snarling with a ferocity that makes you wonder if the singer has just swallowed a live wire. It’s abrasive but strangely addictive, like watching a train crash in slow motion.
Throughout the album, Kontact plays with the concept of tension—building it, releasing it, and then building it again, often in ways that feel unpredictable and jarring. One moment, you’re riding a wave of rhythmic intensity that threatens to drown you, and the next, the music drops into a bizarrely serene interlude, as if the storm has passed and you’re left standing in its eerie aftermath.
Tracks like “Doppelgänger” and “Bloodchild” feel like musical maelstroms, yet they’re steeped in a kind of precision that borders on mechanical. The rhythm section locks in like a machine, churning out beats that are hypnotic in their repetition. But it’s the tension between the dissonant guitar work and the pounding drums that creates this unique, almost unearthly effect. It’s the sound of a band determined to push their limits, but never losing control.
“Full Contact” doesn’t cater to conventional structures; it’s as if the album itself is a challenge. A challenge to the listener to hang on and accept the chaos. Some might find the dissonance off-putting, but that’s the point. It’s not about comfort or easy listening. It’s about confronting the raw, unfiltered experience of being alive in a world that doesn’t always make sense.
But that’s not to say the album doesn’t offer moments of reflection. Tracks like “Heavy Leather” introduce some surprisingly subtle melodic lines that offer a brief respite from the controlled chaos. These moments are like small pockets of calm, but they never last too long before the storm returns.
By the time the final track, “Spectral Fire,” blasts through your speakers, you’ve been through an emotional rollercoaster. You’re bruised, exhilarated, and questioning what just happened. But you also find yourself wanting more. It’s an album that lingers in the subconscious long after the last note has faded. And perhaps that’s the true genius of Full Contact—its ability to leave an indelible mark, one that might not be immediately comprehensible but somehow feels all the more profound because of it.
In the end, Kontact has created something that’s impossible to ignore. It’s loud, it’s messy, and it’s unapologetically bold. Full Contact isn’t for the faint of heart or for those who prefer their music neat and tidy. But for those brave enough to embrace the chaos, it’s an experience that’ll leave you forever changed. Welcome to the storm.
37. Void Commander - Alien Queen
Label: Interstellar Smoke / Majestic Mountain
Location: Karlskrona, Sweden
The Cosmic Heavyweight Punch from the Abyss
If you thought stoner rock was just about fuzzy guitars, hazy riffs, and a heavy dose of existential dread, think again. Alien Queen by Void Commander takes this familiar formula and catapults it into another galaxy, blending the viscous sludginess of doom with the vast, exploratory reach of space rock, all while maintaining the gritty attitude of a band that’s here to break the rules.
The Swedish four-piece delivers an album that’s not just a collection of songs but a cosmic journey through distorted riffs and planetary basslines, as though the universe itself is being unzipped in real time. From the first crushing note of "To The Grave," it’s clear that this isn’t your average stoner rock experience. Void Commander feels more like intergalactic cartographers mapping out a dark and electrifying universe, and Alien Queen is the map they hand you to find your way in.
The opening track sets the tone with a slow, creeping bass line—heavy and suffocating. But just when you think it's going to swallow you whole, the vocals come in like a telepathic message from some ancient, distant ruler. The alien queen, perhaps? The voice is haunting yet commanding, floating over the distortion as if it’s coming from another dimension. There's something deeply otherworldly about the way Void Commander balances the terrestrial and the alien. It's like they took a page from Black Sabbath, added some Hawkwind and Pink Floyd, and then somehow trapped them in a black hole.
The key to Alien Queen is its unpredictability. It's not content with sticking to one mood or one tempo. One minute you're plodding through the depths of "Bloodred Knight Alright," with its slow, brooding riff and vocals that feel like an ominous warning. Then, before you can get comfortable, "The Night Took My Name" erupts, shifting into a little faster, more furious rhythm, like a ship breaking orbit into hostile territory. It's a wild ride, with tempo shifts that keep you guessing.
The title track "Alien Queen" feels like an encounter. The riff lumbers forward like a giant serpent, wrapping around your skull and squeezing until your ears beg for mercy. But it’s that alien presence—the queen, the one who rules this planet of heavy sound—that elevates this track. The otherworldly vocals, drenched in effects, tell a story that’s both captivating and unnerving. Are we worshiping her, or are we being enslaved? The line is razor-thin, and that's what makes it so magnetic.
But just when you think you've been taken to the farthest reaches of the universe, "Alien Wizard" drops the tempo and pulls everything back into the void, a track that’s more introspective, almost meditative. Yet even here, in the depths of space, Void Commander makes you feel like you're floating in the cold vacuum, contemplating your existence—or lack thereof.
By the time the final track fades out, you're left with the sensation of having traveled somewhere deep, dark, and entirely unfamiliar. Void Commander doesn't just play stoner rock—they've created an entire universe, one that exists on its own terms. They’re not here to appease the genre’s conventions, nor are they here to follow in anyone’s footsteps. Alien Queen is a statement—one that says, “This is our realm now, and you’re just passing through.”
So, if you're into stoner rock that’s willing to venture into uncharted territories, bending genres like light around a black hole, Alien Queen is your ticket. And don’t bother looking for a map. Just sit back, plug in, and let Void Commander take you where no one’s gone before.
36. Soft Kill - Escape Forever
Label: Cercle Social
Location: Portland, OR, USA
"Escape Forever" is a record that whispers in your ear like the ghost of your past self—someone who almost made it, but didn’t. It’s a grimy, urban soundtrack to an eternal retreat, but what does escaping forever even mean? You won’t find answers here, but you will find a place to sink in, a mood to drown in, and a sound that feels like being under water with the muffled static of life pressing in from above.
If you’re looking for something traditional, you might want to look elsewhere. Soft Kill’s new offering is not a neat little package, it’s more of a broken mirror. The parts don’t always fit, but when you step back, they reflect a jagged whole that’s oddly beautiful. The album drips with melancholy, and not the kind that’s easily fixed with a pint of beer or a Netflix binge. This is the kind of sadness that lingers like cigarette smoke, following you into the next room, and the next, and the next.
"Escape Forever" doesn’t scream, it mutters. It doesn’t tell you how to feel; it shows you, through sparse guitars that crawl along the edges of the tracks like fingers brushing against a concrete wall, through synths that are more like a distant siren than anything warm. The drums are buried somewhere deep in the mix, like someone’s trying to bury their regrets under the weight of industrial noise. The bassline? Oh, it’s slinking along in the background, quietly reminding you that you’ve been here before.
The vocals are the star here—soft but desperate, as though they’re not sure whether they want to stay or leave. They beg for redemption, but seem unsure that it’s worth the trouble. The voice dips in and out of the fog, sometimes distant, sometimes close enough to whisper in your ear, but it never quite offers comfort. There’s something beautifully haunting about it, like a love letter from a version of yourself you’d rather forget.
And then there’s that title: Escape Forever. It’s an oxymoron. You can’t escape forever. But you can make the attempt, again and again. Soft Kill seems to know this intimately. This isn’t an album of grand gestures or moments of triumph; it’s an album about running in place, about getting lost on the same street corner, about knowing the way out but somehow never finding it. It’s the soundtrack to existential wandering, to standing at a crossroads where you could go anywhere but still feel stuck.
Every track feels like a quiet rebellion against the world outside, a refusal to participate in anything too bright or too loud. There’s no catharsis here, no release. It’s an album that asks you to stay in the storm, to embrace the discomfort rather than wait for it to pass. And in that refusal to escape, you find something more profound than peace—resignation.
Escape Forever isn’t meant to be "liked" or "understood." It’s meant to be felt, slowly, over time. It’s a record to let sink into your skin, to become a part of the noise in your head when everything else falls silent. The world doesn’t care if you escape or not—but Soft Kill might just make you wish you could.