Conan’s doom is singular. Carved of granite. Yes, of course there’ve been changes since guitarist/vocalist Jon Davis founded the group in 2006, but the intention at the time toward superlative heavy – tonal extremity wrought with impressionist lyrics stripping ideas to the core where sometimes the whole line is just one word; they’ve always called it “Caveman Battle Doom” – remains at the root of everything they’ve done since. And across five studio records in the decade from 2012-2022, Conan have set the standard by which much of “heavy” anything is judged. And in comparison, most is found wanting.

But for every time you’ve heard about Conan’s music being like galloping steeds or frost-covered sharp-peaked mountains, etc., imagery of largesse and violence, the truth is Conan are an exercise in frequency. It’s the low resonance that shakes your chest, the depth of the bass – now handled by David Ryley (ex-Fudge Tunnel) – the push of air from Johnny King’s kick drum, or the way the dark-fuzz distortion of Davis’ guitar is offset by shouting vocals cutting through that sometimes punishing onslaught, rarely to offer comfort so much as add viciousness to the crash, plod and pillage.

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