There’s a strange, magnetic nostalgia pulsing through Ends of Eden’s latest release — the kind that feels both dug up from the early-2000s metalcore underground and twisted into shape by the disillusionment of now. It’s a record that carries the ghosts of its genre’s golden age — the DIY grit, the half-broken tones, the sincerity that bleeds through the static — yet it never settles for pure homage. Instead, it lives in the tension between ruin and revival, a sound both resurrected and restless.
The opening track, “In Which She Named the Night Sky,” sets the mood with unnerving patience. The guitars creep in like fog — slightly detuned, blurred around the edges, and heavy with decay. For a moment, the music seems to teeter on collapse, as if unsure whether it wants to fall apart or explode. And then it does — the full band crashing in with drums, bass, and guitars moving like tectonic plates shifting in sync. The effect is immediate and visceral. It’s less about polish and more about weight — every hit dragging like the sound of something massive being unearthed.
It’s in that deliberate imperfection that Ends of Eden find their identity. The sound is neither clean nor chaotic; it’s that in-between space where emotion drives every decision. The vocals scrape at the edges of melody — harsh, unrefined, but honest — while the guitars lean into familiar early-metalcore tropes: stuttering breakdowns, melodic interludes, and those classic clean-spoken phrases that give the rage a human core. It’s nostalgic without being sentimental, and that balance is crucial.
“Fantasia Fades” deepens that balance between momentum and drift. The riffs are massive but mechanical, caught in rigid cycles that create a suffocating rhythm — a kind of musical claustrophobia. The drums, however, swing with life, cymbals crashing like lightning to keep the blood flowing. Midway through, the song slips into silence, fading out like a lost transmission before snapping back with a gut-punch of bass and low-end growl. It’s a moment that feels almost accidental — like the band stumbled into brilliance — and that spontaneity gives the track real force. Yet the hazy guitar layers that return near the end feel unresolved, as if the band were chasing an idea they haven’t fully caught yet.
Then comes “Of Hydrangea,” and everything clicks into place. The bass surges forward — deep, tactile, and commanding — grounding the song with a groove that recalls the best parts of late-’90s nu-metal and early hardcore fusion. The guitars loosen up, the rhythm breathes, and the vocals finally find a space that suits them. There’s a swagger here that feels earned — not showy, but confident. Even when the tempo slows, the tension holds, like a coiled spring. It’s one of the album’s most complete moments, capped off by a smartly placed vocal sample that bridges the record’s emotional and sonic halves.
That bridge leads seamlessly into the self-titled closer, “Ends of Eden.” The title track feels like the band throwing everything they have onto the table — a culmination of their ambition, their flaws, and their raw sincerity. The guitars hit harder, the drums find more punch, and the riffs twist into shapes that hint at experimentation beyond their influences. There’s even a sense of structure — deliberate false endings, layered fades, and haunting clean vocals that linger like ghosts behind the distortion. The final moments swell and collapse under their own weight, equal parts exhaustion and release.
The production remains gritty throughout — a little murky, sometimes uneven — but that’s part of the record’s charm. You can hear the room in these recordings: the air between hits, the mic distortion, the subtle tension of a band pushing themselves without filters. It’s not flawless, but it’s alive.
Ends of Eden aren’t reinventing metalcore here, and they don’t need to. What they’ve made is a love letter to the genre’s spirit — messy, emotional, cathartic, and real. The seams show, and that’s exactly the point. In an era where heaviness is often airbrushed and quantized, this album feels human. You can hear every bruise, every misstep, every moment where the band chooses honesty over perfection.
If Only an Echo (by Fading Signal) felt like hardcore’s beating heart, Ends of Eden feels like its haunted reflection — nostalgic but restless, fractured but full of feeling. It’s music for those who remember why they fell in love with heaviness in the first place: not for how clean it sounded, but for how true it felt.
Rough, beautiful, and sincere — Ends of Eden’s latest release may not perfect the past, but it captures its spirit better than most. A flawed, fascinating record that finds transcendence in the dirt.
NOTABLE TRACKS:
...In Which She Named The Night Sky
Ends Of Eden