A lot. Everything. Never too much.
Maladie. Sickness, in French. Which feels appropriate, considering this band spent over a decade turning black metal into an ongoing medical condition. Their discography reads like a hypochondriac’s diary: Plague Within, Symptoms, The Sick Is Dead – Long Live the Sick, For We Are the Plague—
They call it Plague Metal, which is frankly adorable—like any label could possibly cover what’s going on here. The Internet tries to wrangle it into categories: progressive, avant-garde black metal, experimental something-or-other. Whatever. I don’t care. It slaps.
And yes, Déhà lends his voice here too. Because apparently I can’t pick up a record these days without stumbling over him somewhere in the credits.
Maladie—a band of wildly talented musicians from my home region. They’ve been active since 2009, brewing this glorious sickness somewhere in the Rhein-Neckar-Kreis, where I grew up. And honestly? That little detail nearly made me lose my mind. Because music always hits harder when it feels like it grew out of the same dirt you did. When it feels like a secret jewel you’ve dug up yourself, screaming, “Look at this. It’s mine.”
What Does It Sound Like? Absolutely Everything.
Maladie have seven full albums and four EPs to their name—each one another entry in their increasingly chaotic medical record. Symptoms, Symptoms II, Symptoms III—and since November 2024: Symptoms IV.
I’ve listened to the entire catalogue, more than once. But this is the one I keep coming back to. Over and over, like some deranged lab rat pressing a dopamine lever. Why? No idea. It just resonates with me. Big time.
And the thing that stands out the most? The saxophone. Hauke Peters doesn’t just sprinkle a few polite jazz flourishes over the riffs. No. Holy fuck, no. The saxophone here is an integral organ of the beast. Just as crucial as the guitars, the drums, the Hammond organ that sounds like it crawled out of a 70s prog record and decided to possess a black metal band.
Maladie aren’t shy about any of it. They combine everything. They layer everything. They create rhythms and melodies and textures so dense you’re sometimes not entirely sure what you’re supposed to latch onto first.
And that’s the beautiful part—it’s never tipping into excess. Never confusing. Just this gleeful, genre-scrambling ride that throws you from one thing to the next while you stagger along whispering hell yes under your breath.
The Calm Mind: Where Everything Starts
I’ve listened to Symptoms IV so many times that the saxophone is basically part of my blood chemistry now. Every time I think I’m done—like maybe I’ve finally wrung the last drop of dopamine from this record—it claws back in with some ridiculous flourish I’d somehow missed.
And it all starts with The Calm Mind. The first track I ever heard—and still my favourite. It opens with this longing saxophone melody, crooning guitar underneath, so sexy I have no words. You sit thinking, Oh holy fuck, what is happening here? And then it slows down. Open strumming. Déhà’s clear vocals, with female backing vocals layered in, and it’s tender. Loving. Caring. Absolutely not what I expected.
Two minutes in, the tenderness drops out like the floor caving in. The black metal rasps kick in—seriously, some of the best rasps I’ve ever heard—and every. bloody. time, goosebumps. Then everything soars together: rasps, clean vocals, female harmonies, synths, a guitar solo so pretentious and yet understated it’s basically perfect.
And when the Hammond organ joins, the song becomes something you want to spin in circles to. I live there now. Under that melody. Under that scream. If you only listen to one song—make it this.
Other Beautiful Disasters
After The Calm Mind, the album refuses to settle—it’s a nonstop cascade of little moments that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.
Like the Maiden-esque gallops that erupt out of nowhere, complete with classic heavy metal screams—just the band cosplaying Bruce Dickinson for thirty seconds to keep you off balance. Or the middle of Far Away, At Home, when the saxophone slinks back in, pure seduction in audio form. I don’t even know why it hits so hard—why it makes me feel like I need to sit down real quick. It shouldn’t fit, but it does, and by the time the Hammond organ joins in and the whole thing turns gloriously danceable, I’m gone.
Then there’s the way Between the Stars pretends to be gentle—opening with piano, soft vocals, female harmonies wrapping around you—before the rasps tear everything wide open again. That steady bass underneath it all? Perfect. It even gets a little solo part. It’s not as impactful as the opener, maybe, but it keeps you on your toes, and the rasps alone make it worth coming back.
The Principle feels different—less playful, more urgent riffing. The vocals never quite decide if they want to be clean or raw, and there’s no saxophone stealing the spotlight this time. Maybe it’s the safest track here, but honestly? After everything else, a little stability isn’t the worst thing.
And then there’s Of Mysteries and Secrets, all reckless abandon and pure fun, crowned by that short, unhinged scream—half hardcore, half black metal, all chaos. Listen for it. It's my personal little nugget of glorious recklessness.
Finally, Art Is God tries to close it all down—slower, brooding, anchored by a gorgeous sax solo. It’s technically flawless, but honestly? After everything that came before, it feels like the record is gently setting you back on your feet—whether you’re ready or not.
Rebirth: Perfect Madness
So if you think I’ve been rambling and fangirling up until now—hold my beer. Because now we’re talking Rebirth.
It kicks off with an intro so bright and catchy it almost feels like a joke—like the band is daring you not to get sucked in.
Then something that sounds suspiciously like a kazoo slides in—because apparently nothing is sacred—and somewhere in the background, a laugh cracks through the mix: “You’ve gone mad.”
And yes, my friend. By that point, I have. And you know it. And if you’re reading this: it’s absolutely unfair how stupidly good that moment sounds. Consider this my exasperated eyeroll in your general direction.
From there, it’s everything at once: cowbell (because of course there is), black metal rasps, clean vocals, sax, Hammond organ swirling underneath, drums pounding through your chest, basslines that make you want to drop to your knees, lead guitar lines that feel like the final triumphant flourish.
And somehow—somehow—it never feels like too much. It fuses into this delirious maelstrom: joy, chaos, precision, abandon. Everything Maladie are capable of, all in one perfect storm.
It’s the masterpiece. The moment you realise you’ve stopped taking notes and just started grinning like an idiot.
The Final Diagnosis
Why do I keep coming back to this one?
Because it’s exhilarating. Slightly breathless. Sheer joy in audio form.
Because someone handed it to me with, “Here. Obsess about this for a change.”
And they were right.
I did. I still do.
If you’re looking for something safe, predictable, or easily labelled, keep walking.
But if you want a record that feels like a late-night fever dream—equal parts seduction, violence, and ecstatic abandon—Symptoms IV is waiting.