There’s something unsettling about Forgiveness, and I mean that as a compliment. Blunt Blade, hailing from the frozen edges of Winona, Minnesota, has cooked up a second album that doesn’t beg for your attention—it stalks it. It’s cinematic, punishing, and cold in a way that feels intentional. It’s art rock raised on betrayal, wine-stained regrets, and long winters that never end. It’s prog without the wank, heavy without the posturing, and dark wave without the fishnets. Mostly.
The opening track Sprawling does exactly what it says. A eerie slow-burning churn of sounds that sounds. It sets the tone early: nothing here is coming easy. The production—courtesy of Abbey Road, I feel should be better but hey ho.
Justified throws a bit more dirt in the mix. There’s a jagged swagger to it, but the groove never gets comfortable. Blunt Blade have this way of building tension and not releasing it, and here it works. The vocals are full of jazzy effects, but you’re never sure who the venom’s aimed at—possibly themselves.
Then comes Helpless, which is so emotionally raw it feels like it should’ve come with a warning. There’s a vulnerability here that’s frankly hard to sit with—like eavesdropping on someone’s rock-bottom moment and not being able to look away. The orchestral flourishes sneak in like ghosts. It’s fucking compelling.
Hindrance brings in more of that art rock edge, flirting with slow pace in this one. Maybe it shouldn’t work—but it does. Its a nice pallet cleanser before we move on to the tail end of this album.
The Journey to Hope/Esperanza is the record’s centrepiece. It’s weird, ambitious, and bold enough to actually say something. It stretches itself into something operatic without slipping into self-indulgence. The dual-language motif is a nice touch, too—hope being a destination you may or may not arrive at, depending on which road you take. It’s the most optimistic track here, but Blunt Blade still keeps the shadows close. This is hope with scars. Hope that limps.
Careless Acts is the most straight moment on the record, but even here, nothing feels generic. The riffs are tight, drums hit like wrecking balls, and the hook is buried under layers of distortion and doubt. It’s the sound of anger without clarity.
And then we get to Forgiveness. Ten and a half minutes of catharsis, despair, and some faint, flickering sense of peace. It’s prog without the ego, a multi-part epic that never forgets it’s telling a human story. The structure is smart—act one mourns, act two lashes out, act three crawls toward acceptance. The guitars swell, strings weep, and by the time it all collapses into that haunting coda, you don’t know whether to feel crushed or cleansed. Probably both. That’s the point.
Look, this album isn’t here for your weekend playlists. It’s not background music. It demands attention, and it gives nothing away for free. But if you let yourself fall into its world, Forgiveness doesn’t just reward you—it wrecks you in the best possible way.
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