No Rush. No Hooks. Just Presence.
Larvatus is the sixth full-length offering from Osi and the Jupiter, out July 18th via Eisenwald. If you’ve been anywhere near my previous blog ramblings, you’ll know I’ve already made a public spectacle of my affection for this band—twice, if we’re counting the time I nearly fainted off a balcony during our interview.
So let’s dispense with any pretence of objectivity up front: Larvatus isn’t just a record I respect—it’s one I’ve lived with for the past four weeks. Sometimes playing softly in the background. Sometimes demanding my full attention. And every time, it worked.
This album is, quite simply, a convergence. A deliberate merging of the band’s early, more ritualistic soundscapes and their later Americana-tinged singer-songwriter approach. Eight tracks. Forty minutes. Equal parts incantation and comfort.
Let’s have a closer look at what makes it so quietly devastating.
I Asked. They Were Vague. I Listened Anyway.
I’d already been briefed, in a way. When I spoke with Osi and the Jupiter at Fortress Festival, I asked—somewhat hopefully—why they’d picked Snake Healer as the first single. Sean answered in that calm, matter-of-fact way he has: “It’s a good single. The next one is also a good single. But when Larvatus drops… fans will be really surprised and happy.”
Then, almost offhand, “Don’t let it fool you. There’s instrumental stuff too.”
That was it. No further elaboration. Just the assurance that I’d understand eventually.
I remember sitting there with my notes thinking, Alright then. I suppose I’ll find out.
Fast forward a week. I’m back home, inbox blinking with the promo link. I hit play. And within minutes, it made sense—why he hadn’t over-explained it.
Because Larvatus isn’t the kind of record that benefits from tidy definitions.
On the surface, it’s a return to the band’s more mystical, instrumental roots. The official blurb name-checks Uthuling Hyl and Nordlige Rúnaskog, and that’s accurate enough. But it’s also something new: a deliberate merging of those early droning soundscapes with the more structured, Americana-inflected songs of later releases.
It’s an album that doesn’t rush to be understood. Half of it doesn’t even bother with lyrics. It simply unfolds—patient, unhurried, quietly self-assured.
And somewhere in that first listen, it clicked. This wasn’t just a collection of songs. It was a reminder of why I’d fallen into this band’s orbit in the first place.
Where One Song Blurs Into the Next
I’ve had Larvatus in rotation long enough to stop thinking of it as “the new album” and start thinking of it as a place—a particular headspace I disappear into when the outside world feels especially abrasive.
It begins without urgency. Saged Incantations stretches itself over ten minutes, unspooling slow layers of cello and quiet synth until you’re not entirely sure where the song ends and your own thoughts begin. Kakophonix said in the interview he lit sage and let the smoke guide his playing here—and if you pay attention, you can hear it: the way the melody seems to drift and curl without ever settling into a fixed shape. No percussion. No anchor. Just a feeling that keeps expanding.
There’s no clean break before A Dark Carriage Led by Blind Men emerges—more a continuation than a transition. The cello remains, but this time the guitar steps forward, delicate picking pulling the song gently toward something that feels almost Americana by association. It still aches, but differently—less like a wound and more like a memory.
Then comes Passage, another instrumental, but this time moving in a distinctly different direction. There’s percussion here, but not in any conventional sense—single, pointed strikes that feel ritualistic, almost like someone marking time for something you can’t see. Between them, you catch fragments of vocalising—wordless, distant—and synth textures that drift in and out like raindrops hitting water. Toward the end, the drums fall away, leaving just the quiet, the space, and whatever thoughts you’ve been trying not to have. This isn’t the track you casually put on while doing something else. It’s the one that turns you inward, planned or not. The most ritualistic piece on the album—and certainly not for every mood.
When Snake Healer arrives, it feels like relief—warm, familiar, gently melodic. This is the side of Osi and the Jupiter that’s easiest to love: the open acoustic strumming, the cello threaded carefully beneath, the vocals that feel like a quiet reassurance that you’re not alone in whatever’s weighing on you. It doesn’t ask anything of you. It simply offers comfort.
Wild Host drifts back into instrumentals—cello and synth woven into a soundscape that feels almost endless. If you let it, this track will pull you straight into wide, imagined landscapes: rolling mountains, rain-lashed hills, that particular hush you only get when the world is bigger than you can comprehend. You can practically hear the wind in it. But you have to meet it halfway. This isn’t music you throw on in the background while checking your phone. You either sit down and let it move in, or you miss the point entirely.
I Am the Howling Mountain gathers up all the threads of what came before—banjo, soft and ethereal backing vocals, familiar motifs—and weaves them together into something that feels instantly recognisable, even if you’ve never heard it.
And then there’s Promethean Gallows. Slow piano chords, each one landing with a kind of reverence that feels deliberate—like the song refuses to be rushed on principle. That’s something I’ve come to admire in this band: the way they take their time to build a feeling instead of chasing immediacy. When Kratz finally begins his vocal part—more an incantation than a melody, distorted and distant—it sounds like someone speaking from another plane, calmly informing you that yes—you are about to drown in melancholia. As you should. It’s grounded. Anchored in a quiet sort of nature worship. And it never once feels contrived.
And finally, Lurking Beneath the Pines. The second single, and another small act of mercy. It’s the kind of song that rushes in like a friend with a warm cup of tea and a biscuit, insisting you sit down and breathe for a moment. Every time I hit play, I end up smiling—because it feels exactly like someone checking in on you, just to make sure you’re alright. Musically, it’s all gentle acoustic strumming, cello wrapping around it like a blanket, and Elyse Hirsch’s backing vocals adding just enough softness to make you feel, for a few minutes at least, that everything might actually be okay.
Nothing to Prove. Everything to Feel.
Taken as a whole, Larvatus is less an album and more an invitation. It asks for time, presence, and a certain openness to sit with feelings you might prefer to ignore. It’s not for everyone—especially if you’re looking for hooks or immediacy. But if you’re willing to meet it where it lives, it has a way of becoming something much more than a collection of songs.
For me, it’s become a kind of refuge—a place I can step into when the world feels too loud or too sharp. A reminder that sometimes the quietest music is the most transformative. And that not everything beautiful has to explain itself.
I’m glad it exists. And if you have the patience—and the curiosity—you might be too.
Just don’t try to multitask while you’re listening.