Pagan
Altar is one of
the few bands in heavy metal history whose story reads like a myth handed down
through generations. Formed in 1978 by vocalist Terry Jones and
guitarist Alan Jones, the English outfit emerged during the NWOBHM
surge. But unlike many of their contemporaries chasing speed and aggression, Pagan
Altar embraced a different path—dark, theatrical, steeped in doom and the
melancholy echoes of British folk. Their early demos and obscure gigs gave
birth to a legend that few had actually witnessed until much later. Their
original debut was recorded in 1982 but went unreleased until 1998, sparking a
renewed interest in their legacy. Subsequent releases like “Lords Of Hypocrisy”
and “Mythical & Magical” were a resurrection of sorts, created from
decades-old material that was reinterpreted with clarity and conviction.
Following Terry Jones' passing in 2015, most thought the band’s journey
had reached its conclusion. But what once seemed buried has stirred again.
"Never
Quite Dead" doesn’t feel like a comeback or a nostalgic reach backward.
It’s something else—an extension of the long, fog-draped path the band has
always walked. Vocalist Brendan Radigan, stepping into an unenviable
role, handles it with solemn restraint and an understanding of what made Terry
Jones’ voice so central to the band’s aura. He never oversells or
underplays—his tone is shaded, reflective, and careful.
Guitarist Alan
Jones continues to craft music that moves like time itself—sometimes slow
and heavy like tolling bells, other times lithe with melody drawn from the
woodland dusk. There’s an earthiness to the riffs, as if they were discovered
in a crumbling chapel rather than written in a studio. The flow from track to
track carries the sense of walking through ancient grounds—sorrowful and alive
at once.
“Never
Quite Dead” indeed feels aptly titled. There’s a ghost in this music—not just
in the literal presence of material penned before Terry’s death, but in
the way everything sounds suspended between worlds. The folk-laced passages,
the steady, mournful marches, and the lyrical references to old graveyards,
mystery, and fate are unmistakably Pagan Altar.
This is not
a modern album trying to align with current trends. Nor is it an artifact
trying to sound older than it is. It's music that naturally exists outside of
time, carrying with it a burden of memory and a clarity of vision that has
always defined the band. The inclusion of “Kismet,” originally tied to Alan’s
early ‘90s band Malac’s Cross, seals the album with quiet
purpose—everything here belongs, even what was once far-flung.
Score: 8.5
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