VÍGLJÓS: TOME I: APIDÆ / TOME II: IGNIS SACER
Vígljós are a unique black metal band from Basel, in Switzerland. If you don't know about them yet, you should. The two LPs they have released so far are both absolutely flawless and entirely ace.
There’s no way to escape the theatricality of Black Metal - not that you’d want to. If you’re into it as a genre, it’s a big part of its appeal. Ever since its fetid birthing in the early 80s via Venom and Bathory, a strong aesthetic presence and elaborate image is as intrinsic to it as the shrieks, squawks, blast-beats and Satan Himself.
Whether you recall the autistic, edgy teenage behaviour of Mayhem and Burzum or the corpse-painted horror staples of Darkthrone, Gorgoroth, Immortal and Tsjuder, Norway in the 1990s defined a specific visual style that accompanied the raging music - and continues to do so today, a good thirty years later.
There is, however, an ambitious contingent of Black Metal bands, that are presenting themselves in a more unique way, often retaining the masked visage, but swapping out the leather and spikes for costumery that more accurately befits their lyrical themes.
Not everyone is a Blaspheming Satanic Warrior From Hell after all, dear.
For instance, Ukraine’s 1914, Germany’s Kannonfieber and America’s Minenwerfer all utilise the First World War as their muse. Blackbraid’s Native American roots, Grima’s Groot-Skull terror, Departure Chandelier’s Napoleonic bombast and even Botany’s erm… botany… are all diversions away from the predictable, that I enthusiastically applaud.
And that list just covers a few. More and more often, the blueprint for Black Metal’s thematic archetype is being screwed up and thrown on the floor. Although easily dismissed as gimmickry by the cynics, I think the bands I mention above are broadening the interpretation of what Black Metal means in 2025. It’s evolved in the last 35 years and was never designed to stay in the same place; metal is art, and art moves on - just ask Fenriz.
But none of those bands - not one of them - present an image and theme as unique and original as Switzerland’s Vígljós.
And I am overwhelmed by their glorious visage.
Regular readers will know that I love my Black Metal. All shades and shapes appeal to me, but I especially like mine raw, lo-fi and hissy. This entire year has been spent down a rabbit-hole dedicated to it. It’s fair to say that I’m obsessed.
I’ve always been fairly rampant where the genre’s concerned, but I’ve really gone deep over the last year or so, unearthing new-but-long-out-of-print treasures on an almost daily basis.
It’s costing a fortune.
One such expedition uncovered something really special. Vígljós. My ears instantly snapped towards their hooky-as-fuck, fizzing brand of fairly traditional-sounding-at-heart raw BM. I literally did a double-take in the midst of a random playlist I was using as aural wallpaper at the time.
Immediately, I dug down to find out more. It’s hard to find out much, but what snippets I did manage to scrape up were utterly compelling.
Vígljós translates to mean “a light just bright enough to kill a man”. Or “having enough daylight for fighting”. Old Norse. Perfect. Even if it is one of the hardest band-names for me and my exhausted, aged synapses to remember.
One thing that really excites me about Vígljós is that they extract the vibe and awe of nature that is so intrinsic to Black Metal and make it their own. Famous for its snowscapes, frost and forests, the genre rarely digs deeper into the detail.
Vígljós’ sense of storytelling is less concerned with the span of the horizon and more with the minutiae of what happens within it. This has the effect on the listener of absorbing them into the landscape more profoundly.
To live within it, rather than view it from afar.
It’s really quite incredible.
Ultimately, though, the band themselves are self-aware enough to embrace the ridiculous nature of their chosen imagery. When asked about it in a (great) interview for Kronus Mortus News (link at the end of this piece), their response was:
“Regarding the comfort of our basket masks, they’re pretty much the worst; no vision, no ability to drink or spit. The most stupid idea we ever had.”
Vígljós
The momentary dropping of that particular veil exposes, to me, the wry self-effacing humour at play behind the wickerwork, which somehow makes their anonymity even more engrossing.
They have released two albums so far. One last year and one that only just been released now, in 2025. I have become immediately swept up with both of them, inspiring me to write this piece. I want you to know about them and to be as excited as I am.
Sometimes it still happens. We can still be moved by music to the point of evangelism.
I love it when that happens.
TOME I: APIDÆ
Dusktone Records, 2024.
Apparently, it all began with “The Beekeepers and the Birdnester”. A medieval pen and ink drawing by Pieter Bruegel, on display in the Staatliche Museen in Berlin. You might also recognise it from the sleeve of White II, by dronemeisters, Sunn O))):
“(The drawing had) everything that we felt was contained within our music: the horror, the craze, mystery, and beauty of (Bruegel’s) work was a perfect match.”
Vígljós
And I can see what they mean. It’s a seductive image, seeming to tell a deeper story than is apparent at first glance. And the outfits are cool as fuck. It’s not much of a leap at all to imagine how powerfully the art influenced these artists.
That flash of inspiration put something in place that Vígljós are only now beginning to reap the benefits of. It inspired an image and a theme that would ensure the band stood out in one of the most over-crowded markets in music - with something unique to them and their self-imposed niche.
Although medieval bee-keeping is a theme (bizarrely) also explored by Belgian duo Tenebris - who even adopt the same garb as Vígljós - their historically accurate acoustic music feels more gimmicky and LARP-y than the Vígljós experience. I could only find one three song EP online, but there may be more available.
Astonishing as it is that two bands decide at the same time to pay homage to old school apiculture, I still consider it a unique look and feel, especially when listening to Apidæ.
Elsewhere on them-thar interwebs, the band have been referred to as “Green” Metal because of their fascination with the natural world. I can’t argue with that either. It’s cool.
Apidæ is basically impossible to find on vinyl now, just a year after it came out and, with apparently no plans to reissue it, sadly, your only option these days is CD or digital.
I downloaded it and it’s the soundtrack to my dog walks through rural Norfolk’s fields and woodland. It fits those environments so well, in fact, that I even ordered myself a cape and cowl for the winter in order to embrace the ambience more appropriately.
I can’t wait for it to arrive…
Rays Of Light In Liquid Gold is a short, solo Mellotron instrumental introduction. The only accompaniment is the atmospheric buzz of the bees that we are going to be focusing on throughout this journey.
I can’t think of another album where a scenario has been so well established from the get-go. It perfectly encapsulates a time and place and, by the time its ninety seconds have elapsed, you’re there, in the long grass, on the edge of a forest, approaching the hives.
Your new reality (for the next 40-odd minutes) of sublimely furious raw but touchingly sentimental old school Black Metal firmly set.
At least, the aural tropes of it are Black. As discussed previously, the specific shade of Vígljós’ output is somewhat debatable.
For now, though, let’s pass from the bees to the snap of silence that precedes Sweet Stings’ crashing Darkthrone-style riffage. A blast that cracks your mind into focus and sends you on your way, into the swarm.
Imagine, if you will, that we are now amidst the hives themselves; furious clouds of Apis Mellifera darkening the sky all around us, crawling across our wicker masks and blinding our vision; curious, suspicious, protective.
Just like those bees, there are musical hooks all over the place. As we drop from blast-beats to a more mid-paced motif for the epilogue, shimmies across the cowbells entrance our eardrums and add texture, progression, legibility and direction to the composition.
I’d love to have access to the lyrics, but without them, there is an undeniably positive outcome; you interpret the squawks, barks and yelps yourself, purely based on the enigmatic title of the track and the broad ambition of the situation at hand.
You conjure it in your own imagination.
Sweet Stings is a powerful way to kick off the album proper. There is so much going that I never tire of its ever-evolving sensibilities.
Next up is The Apiarist. There’s a non-video-video, for your enjoyment:
It’s a mid-paced brooder/bruiser that lacks the immediate impact of its predecessor but hangs in your memory for longer, because of its nagging, rolling, nauseous grind and textural breaks. The band packs a lot into its sub-four minute run-time, making it feel like a mini-epic piece of musical storytelling.
In my mind’s eye, the Apiarist in question is considering the pros and the cons of thieving the nectar from the hives. She has a conscience. She respects the bees and their important work. She understands that she and the swarm are on an equal footing in life, balanced between her nurture and the their nature. Interdependent. Maybe the honey is their sacrifice for the time she has invested in helping to get them there.
Flouncy, perhaps, but it’s where my imagination wanders. That dancing lead-line towards the end encourages a lightness and optimism in my thought process that is somehow revitalising.
The next track, Swarming, is home to the most crushing riff on the album. I can see the Apiarist finessing and maintaining the hives, the bees swarming in defense of the intrusion, angry, hostile and objecting to the disturbance.
It’s heavy, driving and incessant. The swarm takes on a shape that fills the horizon, an army of Apiarists grimly marching through it, carrying their still smoking torches and specialist apiary tools, slowly and determinedly back to safety.
Like a solemn walk from a bear den; the dense and sinister darkness of the swarm blocking the sun in their cavernous wake like the still-warm corpse of a fresh-slayed grizzly.
Dance of the Bumblebee is my track of the LP. It’s a jaunty and addictive earworm. Almost as though the bees, now at home in their refined and repaired hives, have more space and energy to move and twist through the air. A regained purpose, joyfully restocking their depleted parlours of gold.
This dance is addictive in no small way because of its momentum and the style of the playing. Even the drums are peppy, with their off-beat high-hats and tinkling cymbal bell two-stepping. It’s a compelling instrumental march through wheat-fields and poppies.
Dance of The Bumblebee’s fade out leads into the more abrasive Raiding The Hive. It’s screaming and adrenalised, sound-tracking the thievery of the honey itself, through that same angry swarm.
It grinds beautifully from start to end. It’s not a short song, but again, it never feels an arduous listening experience. The guitars are layered in a slightly gazey way in places, between percussive and purposeful marches. It ends with a cacophony of bees swarming from ear to ear, following desperately, at a loss, behind the honey-hauling Apiarists.
Vígljós (the next track) is a perfect mix between old school tremolo guitars and abrasive chord-driven descents that send shivers down my spine every time I listen to it. There’s a discordant punk/hardcore tinge to the guitars that brings a new colour to the Apidæ palette, and L’s desperate howls just add to that atmosphere. Melody upon melody is built into every bar of this near-nine-minute perfect cornerstone of Apidæ.
It’s an incredible track and one that the band clearly thought a lot of themselves, because they dedicated a (proper) video to it:
I just fucking love that almost grungy riff that kicks in half way through.
Masterful.
The most unexpectedly touching, sentimental and beautiful piece is reserved for last.
After the bloody battles of Vígljós that herald the close of summer, To Die In A Flowerbed concludes the beautiful journey we and the bees have been on. I’m genuinely dewy-eyed; the sensitivity and respect that the music creates for these toughest and most hardworking of tiny creatures - and the importance of our co-existence with them - comes across in every note.
The thought of their exhausted corpses coming to a final rest beneath the fading petals above them is too sad to comprehend.
It’s a gorgeous instrumental lament; chiefly built upon the Mellotron, but strings are in the background too and some kind of gourd/wind droning instrument is present too. I challenge you to embed yourself in the album’s narrative and not be touched profoundly as the song concludes and silence gently rises in its stead.
I absolutely adore it.
Apidæ is incredible.
TOME II: IGNIS SACER
Les Acteurs de L’Ombre Productions, 2025.
Ignis Sacer is Latin for “Holy Fire”, better known as “Saint Anthony’s Fire”. It refers to long-term Ergot poisoning.
Long story short, the Ergot (Claviceps) fungus grows on Rye principally, but other crops and grasses too. Ingesting too much of it results in “Holy Fire”, which can lead to gangrene, hallucinations, seizures, nausea, black-outs and the “burning” of bodily extremities due to their poor circulatory positioning.
Ultimately, if you’re really unlucky, it can result in death.
It’s scary shit and is easily missed, due to the ‘shroom’s great camouflaging abilities on the host plants. The fungus has caused life-threatening havoc across the world in humans and livestock since the middle ages.
It’s all in the alkaloids, according to Wikipedia.
Regardless, it’s been used medicinally in small doses since those earliest days, for everything from instigating abortions, recreational ‘fun’ and as an active ingredient in anti-depressants.
The story of this innocently devastating mold is compelling and arcane - and forms the thematic basis for the songs on Tome II: Ignis Sacer:
“The story of humanity and Claviceps is one of creativity and pain. It reaches back to medieval times and possibly beyond. Various kinds of early psychedelic artists deliberately poisoned themselves with the Claviceps fungus to expand their minds and alter their reality… as well as (acknowledging) the terror and depravity it brought upon us.”
Vígljós.
Having completed the tome in dedication to the lifecycle of the honey bee, the band are turning their attention this time to a sinister fungus that has profoundly affected us throughout history.
The flow of the songs seems to recite the lifecycle of the fungus and case-histories of its (over) usage. From the beautifully medieval intro track, Sowing, that powerfully echoes Daudi Baldrs-era Burzum, through an LP’s worth of evolution, via “The Rot”, “Delusions of Grandeur” and, ultimately, “Fallow - A New Cycle Begins”, we’re transported back to an age of mysticism, uncertainty, blissful ignorance, witchcraft and peasantry.
It is the perfect sister-piece to Apidæ. Related, but not treading the same ground. And equally unique and engaging.
Ignis Sacer is a more intricate production than 2024’a Apidæ, with a deeper dive into more detailed instrumentation. The Mellotron, which is used again, but more pronounced, both in the background and as a solo instrument - leads to the songs sounding more ‘bedded in’ and denser than before. At the same time it reinforces an atmospherically historical flavour to proceedings that guides your mind to where the songwriting wants to take you.
The Vígljós sound is still raw as fuck, it’s just evolved to be a little thicker and richer than their previous album.
The aforementioned introductory piece, Sowing, introduces a time, place and vision immediately. Just like Rays Of Light In Liquid Gold did on Apidæ before. The song’s only instrument is layered Mellotron, which really recalls Burzum’s first ‘Prison LP’ forays into Dungeon Synth.
It’s a sound I have particular affection for. The deceptively simple melodic lines and their evolution across the track’s two and a half minute lifetime manage to trigger emotions and a sense of nostalgic yearning that few instrumental intros can compete with. They normally bore me; they’ve become a trope on Black Metal LPs that, nine times out of ten, are more of a skippable indulgence than an integral part of the album’s storytelling.
A Seed Of Aberration crashes in afterwards with desperate vocal wails - the single element of the band’s sound that may be divisive to listeners. They are more whoops than shrieks, and a key sound unique to this band.
I was unsure at first, but once you accept them they offer a compelling differentiator between Vígljós and any other bands that I’m aware of. It’s a nuance, but a good one.
The song’s riffage is a punked-up Darkthrone-esque dash to the finish line, complete with tremolo-picked highs and growling and rhythmic lows. Whammied chords give the song’s bridge a sweeping and unsettling psychedelic motif which introduces the hallucinatory power of the fungus that the track is (presumably) referencing.
I say ‘presumably’, because as with Apidæ, no lyrics are available for Ignis Sacer and, although L appears to sing in English, his vocals are so distorted and camouflaged, it’s impossible to translate without printed words.
Special recognition must go to J’s drums, which continue the complexities and flourishes of Apidæ, a willingness to “tinker’ that is otherwise rarely seen in Black Metal. On the previous LP, shimmies on the cymbal bells were enlightening and here too, similar intricacies upon the cow-bell bring a playful and off-beat slant to some of his patterns. Especially apparent when you’re listening on headphones.
The Rot follows at a more slovenly pace. A bluesy - even sliding - riff suggests a come-down and sadness to the track, reflecting The Rot itself.
The music continues at a mid-tempo, opening up, closing down and dropping out, adding texture behind the vocal wails and shrieks. It’s a good song, but, for me, the weakest on the album. Such is the strength of the rest of it.
The Rot ends on a short Mellotron drone before blasting into Claviceps.
Which is a masterful take on a potentially tired formula. Yes - Darkthrone is there - not just in the tremolo strumming and grunting chord patterns, but when the song breaks into the huge riff-monster that is dwelling beneath its waves, about half way through, your heart is lifted and your eyes are deadened in a way that only our boys from Kolbotn can (usually) instigate.
As the song spirals to a close, the crescendo climbs and then, in a flash - is gone - replaced immediately with the opening riff from Dellusions (sic) of Grandeur.
To me, this is the real reflection of the band’s dedication to Darkthrone, because it’s not referencing the fabled Unholy Trinity; far more compellingly, it’s leaning into the Arctic Thunder-era of Darkthrone’s output.
For my money, this is a way more interesting and original period to be inspired by. It’s when the band had got the pure Black Metal, NWOBHM and Crust out of the way and began drilling down into a blackened sludge, literally unlike anyone else. I return far more regularly to their last five or six albums than any of the others these days.
Vígljós take that jumping-off point and add their own musicality and blended inspirations on top of it, creating something wholly new and completely engaging. It never feels like they’re ripping off their inspiration. It feels like they’re motivated by it.
As Aorrta’s Mellotron rises and falls, fattening up the spidery elements of the tremolos, the composition escalates and grows into a barrage of riffs and screams, epitomising the title of the song and the misbegotten confidence experienced when under the influence of hallucinogens.
Dellusions of Grandeur is a long song; seven and half minutes; but it never gets boring, repetitive or skippable. It just grows and grows to its over-saturated climax. Barring the intro and outro, all the songs on Ignis Sacer come in somewhere between between six and eight minutes long; room to breathe, grow and evolve, which they all do, to varying degrees. It’s a progressive element to the writing that, far from being boring, offers a compelling space for ideas to move around in.
Decadence and Degeneration has a Black ‘n’ Roll swing to it that makes it addictive and ensures that it stands out from the rest of the LP.
In fact, every song on Ignis Sacer is unique enough to rest on its own laurels, with enough harmonic signatures, rhythmic cornerstones and vocal melodies to distinguish it from the others.
The music really DOES tell a story that sweeps you along. There’s a genuine sense of progression and evolution throughout the span of the album; a sense of musical narrative that is undeniable. As an entire eight-track piece, it’s been superbly composed, controlled and directed by the writers and the players.
It is remarkable - in the truest sense - and an element of the LP’s presentation that goes above and beyond just being a collection of songs. The track sequencing really counts for something, enhancing the sense that this is an album you listen through in a single sitting.
Ignis Sacer not been constructed for a streaming generation’s use-once-and-destroy attitude. It’s been made as an epic whole that will stay with you; if not forever, for the foreseeable future.
Which is exemplified by penultimate track, Harvest. An almost joyous waltz, which again feels appropriate to the song’s theme; I imagine communal festivities, ritual and relief. The music underpins the sense of a calm, closing summer and the inevitable embrace of a forthcoming inhospitable winter.
It’s interesting how the timescales of both Ignis and Apidæ play out simultaneously in my imagination; both year long sagas, drawing to a close as winter draws in.
The final track of the album is Fallow - A New Cycle Begins. And, just like Sowing, where we began, it is a solo Mellotron endeavour. It segues to silence perfectly.
But where Sowing had a real sense of birth/rebirth in its structure and compositional attitude, the shorter Fallow is funerary, despite its title suggesting things starting anew.
Fallow’s hollow keys are permitted to dissipate into distortion and Tome II is over.
In many ways, Ignis Sacer is every bit as compulsive, intriguing and addictive as the debut; the songs are strong and really well (raw) produced and sequenced. I am currently struggling to think of another Black Metal release from 2025 that could beat it in any end-of-year poll.
It’s genuinely brilliant: innovative, evolved, fascinating and musically engrossing. I instantly return to play it again, because I just can’t resist another go round. I’ve racked up more circuits with these two LPs than anything else this year.
Rather like heroin, Vígljós are eminently moreish.
So to conclude, you’re really missing out on something special if you’re broadly into Black Metal and haven’t come across Vígljós yet.
I urge you to seek them out. Put your headphones on and take a walk with them. Let them burrow into your ears and take you away into their ancient universe of the weird.
Or wind up the gramophone and let the vinyl spin, of course.
In either case, the band’s abundant atmosphere and well-considered storytelling, coupled with their visionary approach to writing and reinterpreting their influences, will leave you in awe of their creativity. Be aware; you will need another fix of their hallucinogenic honey, immediately.
You have my personal sweet guarantee of satisfaction.
Ave, Apiarists!