Published: April 30, 2018 

Life has gone on long enough is the most recent album by Cascadian black metal project None. An extensive record, fifty two minutes and a half long, it has eight tracks: Bleak, damp, and dead, A world, dead and gray, Bed the cold earth, Hypoxic, Corroded, Desiderate, Life is long enough and Illa Tiðandi. A more conventional atmospheric black metal record, permeated with the intuitive lucidity of slow harmonies, the album has a strong atmospheric cohesion and a very oblique linearity, saturated with the gray desolation of an eternal rainy afternoon, that seeks to multiply the disillusion of its obtuse despondency over the perpetual ritual of an harmonious expansion of introspective thoughts.

A more calm and serene album, vigorously peaceful and quiet, Life has gone on long enough is strongly recommended for enthusiasts of a more relaxing and soft sound, although the presence of consistently pungent guitar lines and ostensibly sordid vocals cannot be minimized. The somber patience and the echoes of shadows throughout the limits of the harmonies is an exhilarating factor of stability in the sound, that – nevertheless –, remains relatively and uniformly similar all the way through, without too much rhythmic variations.

Despite the fact that this album is more relapse and sober, there is a solid consistence of style and an organic coherence on its structural anatomy. The melodies in general are quite penetrative on the overall splendor of its expansive calmness, and the relaxing procedures that discreetly comes from the mountains of invisible thoughts that gradually emerges on the onset of its almost silent vicinities, exhibits to its audience the melancholic purposes of its lugubrious intentions.

An interesting album, that definitely deserves a place of honor in the slow atmospheric metal scene, None really has its own style, that conquers the attention of the listener by the splendor and the graceful sonorous ornament of its delicate patience, propitiating to the innermost elevations of the conscience a salutary moment of rest, and a somber infinity of relaxation, inherited by the dark abysses of the solitary confinements of the soul.