The Book of My Silent Wake: a chronicle of the final live ritual; plus MMV – MMXXV reviewed

The Beautiful South

Friday 29th August I set off to see the last ever live performance of UK doom legends My Silent Wake. It was taking place the following day at the One For Sorrow festival @ the Junction, Plymouth.

Despite the last minute offer of a ride down in a car, I opted to still take a train; the views on the line something else. It’s only a two hour journey give or take, but there’s something about train travel that requires the creation of a picnic; in this case, one big enough it was still supplying breakfast come Sunday morning (so more of a mid-size buffet really).

I was staying in the same AirB&B as My Silent Wake founding and only consistent member, Ian Arkley—much thanks to his better half Sarah for making that happen—and found them already there, along with three longstanding friends—JM, DM and MV—who’d also travelled for the gig, beers open and in full swig.

I’d travelled down with JS, who despite also knowing Ian for many years revealed at this point never having seen My Silent Wake live before; this revelation even though they’d lived no more than ten minutes away from a venue MSW played numerous times, ffs! Instead, they waited until the last chance which meant having to travel all the way to Plymouth . . .

When everyone’s laughter died down, Ian reminded me I’d been at My Silent Wake’s first gig too; not that I knew it at the time.

In the Beginning (2004):

I remember it as an incredible performance, though not what I’d been expecting.

A mate had recently been raving to me about someone he’d met who had a band. The mate—SL—is quite excitable as general rule of thumb and so I didn’t hold out much hope for some random unheard-of-before local band beyond being middling at best.

But the Ashen Mortality CD he brought round a week later blew me away, in particular thanks to its phenomenal blend of female and male vocals that felt new and needed at the time (and since has become commonplace).

How a band of this quality had suddenly sprung up in Weston was easily explained by Ian being from Birmingham and having a strong music history already behind him; he’d been a member of UK thrash legends Seventh Angel no less.

I was over the moon at the prospect of seeing Ashen Mortality not only live, but locally too; and I didn’t need to wait long for it to happen, a gig at the local alternative club only a month or so down the line.

Only thing, the band on stage the night of the gig was missing its keyboard player / female vocalist, something that changed the dynamic.

It’d still been an outstanding gig, and I was hardly going to walk around in such an afterglow asking why it hadn’t been something else. I later heard Ashen Mortality was no more and Ian had a new band called My Silent Wake.

In Plymouth, Ian told me that gig was for all intents My Silent Wake’s first.

The keyboard player had discovered they could no longer commit to the band; but with the gig already confirmed, the other members—Ian (guitar/vox); Andi Lee (bass); Jasen Whyte (drums)—decided to honour the commitment, in the process playing some amended Ashen Mortality tracks, plus some new material that went on to be songs on My Silent Wake’s first release in 2005.

The first gig actually billed as My Silent Wake didn’t take place until 2007, in Switzerland. By this time the line-up had changed slightly. Jasen Whyte unfortunately suffered an accident that meant the 2004 gig was the last he played behind the skins (he was to later return to My Silent Wake as a vocalist), Steve Allen then filling the roll; Ian remained on vox and guitar, while the addition of Kate Hamilton on bass had seen Andi Lee move to rhythm guitar.

From there talk moved onto some of the more memorable moments along the My Silent Wake way; a highlight being what is perhaps best called:

‘The Festival of Ostentatious Raffle Calls’

It was a new festival with incredible potential, being in a large country pub that had a dining area, huge function room and substantial camping area with full-on facilities plus massive car park. There were vendors of all sorts (I still have some Apocalypse Now themed jerky bought there). It was clear a lot of effort had gone into setting it up.

I’d travelled there with Ian and other members of the band, and after finally managing to find the place without the aid of sat nav—it was 2007—we pulled into a set-up that looked the full deal albeit on a smaller than average festival scale.

For whatever reason—location; lack of promotion; who knows—the event had seriously undersold; enough so that some of the vendors had left by Saturday afternoon – never a good sign given they pay to be there for the duration.

Most people there were in groups of two to four, something that left a large clique of bikers sticking out like a sore thumb. It also turned out the pub was a regular haunt of theirs and that they were heavily involved in the running of the event.

All of which being absolutely fine but for a couple of minor points; they were the type of bikers—very common to be fair—that when it comes to music only listen to seventies and eighties rock like Deep Purple and Thin Lizzy and not much else beyond, except perhaps The Black Crows and Guns & Roses; meaning that not one of the bands playing live had any real interest to them as none were covers bands and neither was what they did play anything like what the bikers were normally accustomed to.

As soon as a band finished and the DJ came on some of the group would head straight towards the dance floor in anticipation of a tune they knew; on one particularly memorable occasion, a woman actually pushed past people and ran while shouting, ‘he’s playing my song; he’s playing my song!’ like the world would end if she didn’t shake her toosh—or however it is bikers describe their style of dancing—to it with Godspeed.

It might not have been intended, but it sure created a weird dynamic for those playing live.

The second thing was a lack of event running experience clashing with some very good intentions. A raffle had been organised for a good cause; and judging from the amount of prizes piled up on a table by the entrance to the function/band room, a lot of importance had been given the notion of as many people winning one as possible, the material value of the prize not so important in that equation.

My Silent Wake was the headline act of the whole weekend and so it had been decided to hold the raffle’s draw during a break in the band’s set. To be clear; the band hadn’t planned to have a break – taking fifteen minutes mid-set for a quick cuppa tea and visit to the loo wasn’t a My Silent Wake thing no matter how much Ian might’ve liked it to have been. No, this was break asked for at the last minute by the organisers.

Ian had mentioned this to me quite casually just before going on. Taking another look over at the table, a quick count confirmed that, yes, there were about thirty prizes on it . . .

A committee of three had been nominated from amongst the bikers to conduct the draw: one to draw tickets; one to read it out; and one to check that the person coming to the stage with a winning ticket did indeed have the number corresponding to that just announced. Once phase three of the draw had been completed, the winner would go to the table, select their prize and then let the committee know which they had chosen.

This charade dragged painfully on until a couple of concessions were made about halfway in: people nearby a winning ticket holder could shout out to confirm its validity; the committee didn’t have to know what prize was taken, just that the ticket holder was heading in the general direction of the prize table to take something.

Still, things far from became fast.

Initially My Silent Wake behaved in perfectly good faith, standing aside with guitars still slung, as though a brief announcement was to be made before they continued with what had been billed as the shining diamond of the whole weekend – their set!

Most of the band did a reasonable job of maintaining the initial smiles, even if it was becoming ever clearer a mild irritability was slowly creeping towards seething rage. Except guitarist Andi Lee however, who didn’t try to mask his displeasure in the slightest; so it really was something when he won a prize and had to de-guitar to leave the stage and chose it.

I still cry thinking about it now (I’ll let you decide whether with laughter or despair).

It would’ve been the icing on the cake but for the next morning getting a Full English on it instead. With literally all the food vendors gone by Saturday afternoon (see above), Ian, Andi, NB and I, decided to splurge on a proper sit down breakfast in the pub before packing up and heading off.

According to a sign breakfast was still fifteen minutes from being served, so we grabbed a table and had a natter while waiting. An elderly woman appeared, and it was obvious—even though the fifteen minutes had now just about passed—that she wasn’t happy to find four people already seated. I’d like to remind that it was meant to be a festival with significantly more people in attendance; the expectancy would’ve seen the dining area full of hung-over breakfast-desperate metallers with a line-up out the door (as it was we were the only people in there!).

She came to the table, said something about not expecting anyone yet, then added she might as well take our orders as she was stood there. She asked me first, and I replied, Full English with a mug of tea, please; she then turned to Ian, who asked for exactly the same, please. NB was next, and again the exact same order was requested. But before turning to Andi, she let out a loud exasperated gasp and said:

“I can’t remember all this, I need to go get a pad to write it down.”

And off she went to soon return with said pad to start the whole process all over again, only this time writing it down and getting to hear what Andi actually wanted; which as it turned out was a full English and mug of tea.

My Misplaced Concern for Plymouth’s Piss-Poor Pubs

To be fair, this aspect of things really pertains to me and the fact previous experiences of drinking in Plymouth led to my being appointed head of a pub crawl that turned out to be a lot less exciting than excitedly promised (by me).

The whole thing becomes so far removed from My Silent Wake’s chronicle that at one point it even changes genres!

First stop was a small craft beer taproom in what once would’ve been a local high street shop; being a result of the craft beer revolution, it hadn’t existed on my previous visits and was very close to being a great place to drink—the beer was beautiful—but for one of the two barkeeps having the somewhat unsavoury habit of constantly picking at his nose.

The pub crawl took us by the venue, where Ian took a moment to pose with the gig poster:

From there we met up with GS and ML—also down especially for the gig—and headed into the ‘student drinking quarters’ where so many fun times had been previously had.

Unfortunately, in generally being frequented by students every night of the week, the pubs have had no motivation to become anything more than they type that sells the run-of-the-mill slop served by all pubs with regular footfall that cares not beyond money being exchanged for alcohol.

Yes, the pubs were exactly like that twenty-five odd years ago—two to three lagers, one stout and cider on tap and little variation on what they might be from pub to pub—and today have added a likewise mass produced ale or two in lose attempt at keeping up with the times.

Why did I think these pubs would’ve changed their format without reason? And with all the students on term break it made for stark drinking, indeed.

Plymouth, where change is apparently frowned upon:

But I didn’t for a second think all was lost, for in amongst it all is what I’d billed as the highlight of the night: Plymouth’s once gem of a punk pub, The Nowhere Inn.

Twenty-five years ago it was a true down to earth pub selling proper ales; its décor was wholly unique and thoroughly interesting. It was a place that shouted out ‘punk’ the second one walked through the door.

Today it’s like walking into Temu’s idea of a Planet Rock.

When new owners took over sometime ago, I remember there being an online debacle about the interior being redecorated. Anything new was going to takeaway from a distinct character, so they were always going to be up against it. But I didn’t expect a kitschy rock memorabilia bar that felt half kitchen showroom.

I know plenty of people on the South West punk scene that have come to thoroughly love the place, but I’m at a complete loss to understand how punk ethics have allowed such devotion given the pub sells, along with other mainstream slop, BrewDog, a company that amongst its many infractions has:

Released beer in taxidermied animals to the condemnation of animal rights groups
Been accused of transphobia, sexism and punching down on the homeless in advertising
Wilfully lied about ingredients of a product to get around import laws, as the ingredients in question were not approved in the country (while elsewhere claiming to be a fully transparent company)
And let’s not get into all the controversies surrounding the treatment of staff

Does that sound like the sort of product that should be sold by a ‘punk’ pub or have we reached a point where the fact one of its beers is called Punk IPA gives it a free pass?

Ian was so upset he actually asked for a coffee and I must give credit where it’s due by saying staff were kind enough to oblige.

Any punks I used to drink there with who likewise haven’t been for sometime have absolutely baulked at the news of what the pub has become. It compares appallingly to the punk pubs of Bristol, where one finds the likes of The Lion BS5, The Chelsea Inn and The Plough refusing to sell Thatchers due to its historical ties with slavery.

Then, while writing this, news broke that the Nowhere was changing hands; hope, it seemed, was on the horizon, especially when plans to redecorate were also announced. Alas, though, it has since transpired the new owners have previously had some choice things to say on social media about various marginalised groups. It would seem than that the Nowhere has been lost forever, if it wasn’t already.

R.I.P. it would seem then to what was once an absolutely amazing pub.

So . . . what does a street gang of goths bereft of decent ale do?

Find a cocktail bar doing two for one cocktails! It’s here things get a bit vague. Ian pulled out a massive pack of Rocky chocolate bars and started throwing them at everyone; and while I tried to lick the chocolate off mine as I don’t eat gluten, I realised MV and ML had become engrossed in a game of chess, the latter having produced the board and pieces from their person.

. . . A blurry late night Spa—the grocery store kind—of previous visits; a garbled joy at finding Proper Job IPA; a taxi home; spilling a can of said IPA over the kitchen table during a discussion about the dangers of injecting magic mushrooms . . . heading to bed.

Ian letting me know just how disappointed he was with my choice of pubs by drinking coffee on such a momentous occasion.

Gig Day

The next morning, I was woken by a constant, hard ‘hammering’ noise. Ian and Sarah’s room being next to mine; it seemed I was finding out the noisy way how the great man prepared for a gig; the shower in their en suite room having been built against the separating walls clearly without the adequate soundproofing given it sounded more like the water was running in my room.

There was no getting back to sleep with that racket going on, so disgruntled I got up to open the curtains. Rain lashed the window relentlessly. Beyond that not a great deal could be seen.

Heading down to the kitchen, I bumped into Ian; he told me I’d disappeared at about half twelve, while everyone else was up to the wrong side of three. I was clearly the worst person to be self-appointed chronicler of events.

Ian planned to head to the venue with Sarah and MV at about middayish to sort out the merch table and catch the opening acts. Given the previous night’s performance, I realised the best I could hope for was being consistent at the very least, so with that in mind retreated back to bed, ordered a pizza and listened to the Chelsea game on the radio.

Chelsea beat Fulham 2-0 and the pizza was really nice; after, I had a shower: all things wholly irrelevant to why anyone is reading this chronicle, except maybe for the fact Simon arrived during the latter aspect having just completed the five-plus hour journey from Derby, a drive made all the more fun by the ongoing deluge.

On which point, it seems to have been taken by many that My Silent Wake are splitting-up; not so, it’s just the playing live bit getting knocked on the head as the members now all live so far apart.

Soon after, a knock on the door announced the return of an extremely wet Ian, Sarah and MV; they’d returned to get the rest of the gear, walking back to meet the yet to arrive Addam and his van. So wet were they, showers and full changes of clothes were warranted, Ian mightily relived he was yet to don his carefully chosen final gig attire.

From there an all sitting round the giant kitchen table and drinking tea ensued; and very merrily we quaffed indeed – so much so, both Ian and Simon were completely oblivious to the fact Addam, who was with his other half Sarah and drummer Gareth, had arrived some time ago, all three sat in the van trying to get hold of another band member by phone to confirm someone was in the house before walking all the way up the steep road and then all the stairs just to find out the old fashioned way, something that would guarantee a soaking for potentially no answer.

I was ready to get back on the beer and hear some tunes, and with a break in the rain JS and I decided to walk to the venue while the band had its final pre gig meeting before its last ever load in.

It was raining again by the end of the road. I had a waterproof, so JS decided to run the gauntlet until the first charity shop found. We ducked in the first one; it stopped raining while we were inside. Given the walk’s entirety was no more than ten minutes, we left again, only for the rain to recommence with such ferocity, we were back in the next one. It stopped raining again, again we left, and again we were suddenly needing to duck in the next charity shop passed; a comment on the now frequency of charity shops on British high streets and the irrationality of the nation’s weather; both of which are of course the fault of capitalism, but moving quickly on:

When finally reaching the venue, we found GS and ML at the bar looking very dry and toasty indeed; they’d had the ingenious idea of popping into the laundrette next door to dry their clothes. JM and DM were already there too (though neither had anything to say regarding the dryness or not of their clothes).

The Gig

An added dimension came by way of The Drowning being not only on the bill too, but also directly before My Silent Wake. The two bands first shared a stage in 2007 at the Railway Inn, Burnham on Sea; a gig that I was also at and is memorable for so many reasons, it being a hot summer’s night and the pub the least likely type to hold a metal gig, yet it turning out to be one hell of a blast.

From there many more stages were shared, the bands released a split album Black Lights and Silent Roads, while The Drowning member Michael Hitchen also became an integral part of My Silent Wake live not to mention a deeply close friend of Ian and Sarah.

Mike unexpectedly passed away in 2024; a monumental loss for all who knew him. At Mike’s funeral, The Drowning had played ‘Blood Marks My Grave’. At One For Sorrow, it was the last song of the set and Ian joined them on stage to pay tribute to a much missed friend.

Seeing the affect on those in the audience who knew Mike it feels an intrusion to say anything beyond deeply stirring to witness. R.I.P. Mike Hitchen x

And then it was the turn of My Silent Wake to take to the stage for the final time; the final live line-up being:

Ian Arkley – vocals/guitar
Simon Biddy – keyboard/vocals
Addam Westlake – bass
Gareth Arlett – drums

They were joined by

Jasen Whyte on vocals; the former member of My Silent Wake who was on drums at the very first gig
Kostas Panagiotou of Crippled Black Phoenix and Pantheist fame, who ensured enough hands were present to cover every aspect of keyboards

My Silent Wake has always been a tour de force in the studio, but even what happens there is no match for the energy emanating from live performances. Both are so accomplished in no small part thanks to Ian ensuring he only works with top quality musicians who can deliver and then some in both scenarios.

The last live show certainly didn’t disappoint, could indeed be held as the example of My Silent Wake live: Gareth’s drumming insanely precise regardless of timing or achieving the perfect low velocity; Addam’s bass like a conduit rooting the band to the heartbeat of the Earth; while the keyboards of Simon and Kostas soared eloquent and free throughout the sound; as Ian’s leads reached orgasmic into the depths of anyone listening; though, as ever, it’s in his vocals where My Silent Wake’s Holy Grail is found: never written on a whim, they are delivered brimming with the same in-the-moment passion leading to their creation, be it twenty years ago or in the last week; and with this being the last time they were going to be . . .

Though it wasn’t all doom and gloom—well it was all doom, it was a festival precisely for it—Ian laughing and cracking off jokes inbetween songs, creating an laidback informal atmosphere that drew the crowd into the occasion like everyone there had been part of the entire journey regardless if One For Sorrow was the first time of seeing My Silent Wake.

And then it was done, the final note of the final song played: an incredible moment of connection took place between the band members; a quick look round the crowd found plenty of tears, many from people not knowing Ian directly; indeed, there was certainly a brief moment of cracking in the great man’s voice too.

But rock ‘n’ roll stops for no one, and with the band having to get its gear off stage so the next could get on, there was little time to dwell; that had to come later.

I’d gone to the event fully expecting to enjoy it in entirety as much as My Silent Wake per se, but even if feeling worse for wear thanks to the night before hadn’t put pay to that idea first thing, it turned out it was an occasion about Ian and Co and nothing else for me. I tried watching some of the following band, but my heart really wasn’t into seeing anyone else after that just witnessed.

Besides, I was also getting really hungry: with no non-meat related protein options on offer at the kebab shop next to the laundrette, an earlier portion of chips had only temporarily held off the need for food.

When I did next bump into Ian—who’d been busy with load-out and talking to numerous people—my comments about how special the gig had been, while truly heartfelt, were quickly followed by questions about plans to eat. Hunger does that to me.

Given the band’s gear still needed to be taken back to the house, it was decided heading there and ordering in was the best plan, and if anyone didn’t have a fair appetite already they soon did as all pitched in to get the gear from the van’s not-that-close-parking-spot all the way up the road and stairs in the still relentless rain.

I grudgingly admit there are some benefits to the modern world, such as the one that allowed everyone to order whatever the Hell they wanted to eat. The table in the kitchen was huge and there then followed what can only be described as akin to a giant family Christmas, with Ian sat at the head of the table holding court as a jolly and generous omnipresent Santa-type figure; the rest of us happily held and basking in his magnanimous glow as an open-wood-fire crackled magnificently somewhere out of view; though this likeness to Christmas does fall down horribly on the points of everyone getting on and whatever they wanted to eat.

Festivities moved into the massive front room, where those in the band continued to reminisce and those not felt fortunate to be listening, but with having to be out by noon the next day we soon all hit our relative sacks, rain still hammering on the windows.

The Cold Bleak Light of the Following Day

The next day saw a frenzy of activity as everyone rushed to get the band gear out by checkout, only to discover once it was done that there was a lot longer to vacate than thought. Packed, the band left anyway; but with time to kill until the return train and it still raining it worked well for JS and me.

All the band equipment and merch removed, the house felt eerily empty; with a while to go before needing to call a taxi, there was plenty of time to reflect on the weekend.

Just a few stairs from the street up to the Air B&B, the sun finally decided to show itself while waiting for the taxi to the train station:

On Saturday, amongst all the pre gig comings and goings at the house, I’d asked Ian how things were at the festival, to which he’d replied, ‘Busy, mate; very busy.’

Ian, like many people—especially of a gothic/doom persuasion—doesn’t like crowds. My Silent Wake has never been about numbers. Instead it’s always been about that artistic urge that—very fortunately for the rest of us—compels the artist to express publicly their innermost thoughts, concerns and emotions, despite whatever anxieties the thought of doing so might ignite.

The idea of an artist being so nervous pre gig they’re sick every time is a oft found joke—take Den Dennis of Bad News—but I know it to be a harsh reality for many musicians. Yet still they put themselves through it time and time again to get up and play, not for the size of the crowd, ‘adoring fans’ or money, but just to be heard and appreciated by those who truly get it.

It was with these thoughts in mind that I got in the back of the taxi.

Off the bat the driver put me in mind of a stereotypical London cab driver: able to create the paradox of cheerily engaging in conversation like a best mate while simultaneously implying an undercurrent of gangland threat that refusal to engage will see one chucked out at the next kerb.

Initially we chatted about Plymouth in general, but then he asked why we’d come down specifically; I was tempted to answer the nosey fucker, ‘setting up county lines’, but instead told the truth about coming down to see a mate’s band. He, of course, asked more and more until he’d received a fairly decent rundown of My Silent Wake’s history and achievements.

His response was, “Well, I guess if you’ve been doing it for twenty years and still haven’t got anywhere it would be time to knock it on the head!”

I wanted to scream; I wanted to pull out my eyebrows one by one while yelling into the abyss; I wanted to pull the headrest off his seat and beat him with it, while shouting stupid-stupid-stupid-ignorance-is-bliss-stupid; I wanted to weep, wail; I wanted a giant hole to open up in the road—not that far fetched in this day and age—to swallow the taxi whole so no one had to suffer such asinine crassness ever again . . .

Nothing could’ve bought home more just how important and appreciated the likes of Ian are by the people who know; few of us true, but the few that are true.

The Review

MMV – MMXXV is a double album spanning the work of My Silent Wake in reverse chronology that isn’t a best of or anthology, but something far more compelling: founding and only consistent member Ian Arkley just wanting to honestly note a landmark point in the band’s history.

An extensive booklet contains notes for each of the massive twenty-two tracks, the likes of you’d never find in anything industry contrived, thanks to the word just used above: honest. Ian gives information about what is essentially his band in the way he wants to; the end result being something deeply personal, in much part thanks to Ian’s eye for detail—key to the phenomenal depth of quality always constant in the music of My Silent Wake—also being found in the level of information given.

Hearing Ian’s choice of tracks in the presented order and being able to read about why they were chosen, plus details surrounding their conception and recording, will see long-time fans of the band still finding plenty to feast on; while any newcomers will have a comprehensive introduction to one of the best doom bands the scene has ever known.

MMV – MMXXV Track Listing:

Disc One

1. Hunting Season MMXXV
2. A Bleak Fateful Night
3. With Equanimity
4. Lavender Garden
5. The Liar and The Fool
6. Berceuse
7. Killing Flaw
8. Ghosts of Parlous Lives
9. Volta
10. Of Fury

Disc Two

1. Solitudo
2. Tower Walk
3. Third Season
4. Strange Attractors
5. Light and Shadows
6. Et Lux Perpetua
7. Bleak Endless Winter
8. Wilderness of Thorns
9. Lost (Live)
10. Into Silence
11. Shadow of Sorrow
12. Your Cold Embrace

The music of My Silent Wake always engages fully; how exactly will vary from being engrossed by its complexity, digesting the passion and sincerity found in the lyrics or—and somewhat conversely—being carried off on the sound in some abstract direction.

Previous reviews of albums have seen them take me entirely one way or the other: to quote 2020’s for Damnum Per Saeculorum:

“Mist from expended post lust breath reaches for stars to celebrate. An attempt to prevent more sorrowful loss: invite the new love to ascend the ranks of Vampiredom. Ancient rites of sacrifice and seduction; solemn, yet somehow . . . alluring, sexy. Alas! Again! To those of Faith, the lure of Eternal Heaven can, through fear of sin and Equal Damnation, well outweigh love here on Earth for its duration.

And so, with great regret and heart-wrenching dilemma, she says no . . . It doesn’t get easier, the weight unmissable, underpinning the fragility of life when valued. Time moves on; so must he in desperate hope of cleansing from this ongoing drenching in despair. Only now, a New World beckons; a greater sea to be travelled. But with it comes deeper depths for melancholy to reach with so much time aboard to mull over . . .”

Whereas with Lost in Memories, Lost in Grief in 2024 it was both the quality of music and lyrical passion:

“If bands were alcoholic beverages My Silent Wake’s latest outing Lost in Memories, Lost in Grief would be a fine vintage of red: subtle, yet full bodied with a woody/smoky aftertaste, the grapes having been specifically picked from a glorious vineyard somewhere in the Tuscany region. Lost in Memories, Lost in Grief doesn’t need to explode on the taste buds like a can of sugar-laden cola desperate to impress, but instead is happy to rest on them a while evolving with confidence and patience, gradually opening up each new deep layer of flavour.

. . .

Singing with sublime conviction has literally been the trademark of Ian across My Silent Wake’s existence, yet nothing prior touches what is reached here: a mountainous pinnacle of true raw emotion to set hairs on end and hearts on fire; an infectious captivating energy that as the linchpin of the song’s spiritual soul compels all involved to equally feel and likewise express the deeply personal sentiment. Those on the listening end only get to feel it, but wow do they feel it!”

I was writing in particular about ‘Lavender Garden’; the track that in the words of Ian is “based upon my mother who suffered with Alzheimer’s but passed away in 2022 from heart failure, well before she lost who she was completely to that awful disease. It is what I imagined she was experiencing in her mind. I know she thought she was young, and she loved her garden and the birds and especially loved the scent of lavender. In the end it is the place we wish she could forever be, in eternal bliss.”

MMV – MMXXV with twenty-two tracks selected from various albums might therefore be described as a rollercoaster ride due to the potential personality change between each track, except that suggests something laden with fast cheap surprises and this is most certainly the antithesis of that; this is a journey on the back of a flying mammoth that elegantly glides above glorious snow-covered mountain tops, before swooping down to sweep across restful oceans that glisten as though a million diamonds rest upon their surface, from there gliding into foliage vibrant deep valleys buzzing with life, but craggy with rocks and dark storms on the horizon as reminder of that condition’s precious fragility.

‘Hunting Season MMXXV’ (previously unreleased) alone—with its haunting cathedral-ness that continues to rise in exquisite twists and turns before towering monumental; one moment dark brooding cloud, the next utterly angelic blue sky—provides plenty enough to write about, in the process reminding how thoroughly daunting reviewing My Silent Wake has always been; for the number of words needed to truly capture each and every aspect taking place here is certainly worthy of a chapter and thus the whole album would indeed make for a book.

Perhaps the most humble aspect of this release is that despite being curated by Ian it’s often hardly about him at all; tracks also frequently showcase where the band has stepped away from the doom genre.

As fine examples Disc One’s ‘Berceuse’ is an epic romp across cliff tops overlooking serene seas that the credits for read: written by Simon Bibby; Simon – piano / synth / percussion / vox; Ian – ebow; Alana Bibby – vox; Choir – Simon, Alana, Korah Bibby, Ian, Sarah Hendy, David MacLean, Joanne MacLean, Jon Hendy, Mike Hilton and Ben Ramsdale.

Whereas Disc Two’s ‘Strange Attractors’ is a piano-only track that compellingly sits somewhere between haunting and enchanting without ever being either that was written and performed solely by band member of the time Kate Hamilton.

MMV – MMXXV is richer for it, its depth and layers seemingly endless; it possesses a finesse that should see it found in the collection of any half decent music connoisseur, never mind just doom-metal aficionados. And it’s here that perhaps the greatest example exists: when going to bandcamp to get the embed codes used above I found MMV – MMXXV available for the incredibly low price of £15 for the double CD or a mere £7 for the digital version!

More Final Gig Vids:

Thanks for reading 🙂

N. P. Ryan

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N. P. Ryan

Author ~ Poet ~ Music Lover