New World

Imperial Age’s New World is a symphonic metal album in the same sense that the sun is a warm object. Technically accurate, but catastrophically inadequate. This is not eight songs. This is a forty-seven-minute supernatural incident during which choirs rise, drums thunder, kingdoms are founded, and Alexander Osipov stands at the centre of creation looking so offensively handsome that the basic principles of music criticism begin leaking out of my ears.

I attempted to take notes. The page now contains the words “shoulders,” “jaw,” “arms,” and one shaky diagram of a cathedral collapsing because Osipov walked past it in a fitted shirt. This is the full extent of my professional analysis.

Alexander Osipov is not a vocalist. He is a state emergency with shoulders.

“Windborn” begins with grandeur on an industrial scale. The arrangement opens like the gates of heaven have been upgraded with hydraulics. Voices rise. The rhythm section advances. The melody immediately assumes command of several mountain ranges. Then Osipov appears vocally, and every sensible thought in my head is trampled beneath a ceremonial procession of white stallions.

His voice is powerful, yes. Clear, resonant, commanding. But let us not pretend the voice exists separately from the man producing it. Every note arrives attached to the image of someone who appears capable of carrying an oak dining table under one arm while using the other to point dramatically toward destiny. I do not hear a sustained vocal line. I hear the flexing of an imperial bicep somewhere beyond the horizon.

I want to squeeze those muscles.

Not in a vulgar way. In a scientific way. In the way a geologist touches a newly discovered mineral formation and whispers, “This should not be possible.” I want to place both hands around one upper arm and determine whether it is composed of ordinary human tissue or the compressed remains of a fallen star. I want a small plaque nearby explaining the date of discovery, estimated density, and whether flash photography is permitted.

“Legend of the Free” makes the problem worse. The chorus is enormous, polished and shamelessly triumphant. It surges upward with such conviction that I briefly consider renouncing citizenship and pledging allegiance directly to the song. But no anthem can compete with the mental image of Osipov standing on a cliff, hair moving in a wind that has been contractually instructed to flatter him.

There are other members of Imperial Age. I assume they are excellent. I can hear evidence of disciplined performances, layered arrangements and careful melodic construction. Unfortunately, Osipov’s handsomeness has created a gravitational lens around the album, bending all available attention toward his face. The rest of the band now exists to me as a collection of highly talented objects orbiting an impossible masculine sun.

“The Way is the Aim” delivers another majestic refrain, and I begin to understand that New World is not trying to entertain me. It is trying to convert me into a court painter. I should be standing on a ladder in a palace, working on a sixty-foot fresco titled Alexander Osipov Receives the Secrets of Fire from a Terrified God. His left arm would be raised. His right arm would be resting casually on a granite lion. The lion would look nervous.

“To the Edge of the Known” is an appropriate title because this is where my sanity finally leaves mapped territory. The song expands with the usual Imperial Age scale: vast melodies, sweeping harmonies, a sense of motion toward some magnificent unknown. Meanwhile, I become convinced that Osipov’s cheekbones are being used by migratory birds for navigation.

This is not admiration anymore. This is infrastructure.

Governments should be consulting his jawline when designing bridges. Naval architects should examine his shoulders before constructing aircraft carriers. Emergency services should maintain exclusion zones around any photograph in which he is wearing short sleeves. A single poorly timed flex could alter regional weather patterns.

“The Wheel” rotates with stately confidence, but I no longer hear music in the conventional sense. I hear marble columns being dragged into position. I hear bronze being poured into moulds. I hear ten thousand artisans shouting measurements across a valley because a statue of Osipov’s torso has been commissioned at a scale large enough to cast a shadow over three countries.

The album is very good, incidentally. Almost irresponsibly good. Its melodies are direct without being cheap, its symphonic scale remains coherent rather than merely crowded, and its sense of conviction never wavers. New World understands that grandeur must be delivered without embarrassment. It does not wink. It does not apologise. It marches directly into the centre of the room wearing a crown and expects the furniture to bow.

“Shackles of Gold” should be discussed in terms of composition, but I am occupied by the thought that ordinary jewellery would look ridiculous on Osipov. A normal bracelet would simply surrender. A watch would need planning permission. Any necklace would have to be forged in a volcano by a council of blacksmiths who communicate exclusively through prophecy.

At this point I would like to clarify that my desire to squeeze his muscles has become less a preference than a medical necessity. The album has created a pressure imbalance in my skull. The only treatment is to gently compress one bicep, record the resulting seismic activity, and then spend six months in a quiet room.

“Distant Shores” introduces a more reflective sweep, but even contemplation becomes absurdly physical in this context. I imagine Osipov rowing toward those shores alone, not because there is no crew, but because the boat has correctly recognised that additional manpower would be redundant. Each stroke of the oar moves the entire sea backward. Coastal authorities issue warnings. Whales surface to observe proper technique.

By “Call of the Towers,” the record has become a coronation ceremony for a civilisation that exists solely to appreciate one unusually handsome vocalist. Bells ring. Towers answer. Citizens gather in public squares. Huge banners unfurl bearing the words PLEASE REMAIN CALM, ALEXANDER HAS REMOVED HIS JACKET.

The final chorus rises, and I experience a vision.

Osipov stands on a mountain made of amplifier cabinets. Lightning strikes both shoulders simultaneously and politely asks permission to remain there. Choirs of extinct kings sing his name. The moon descends several thousand kilometres for a better look. Somewhere, every classical statue turns its face toward the wall in shame.

I reach out to squeeze the muscles, but they are too powerful for mortal geometry. My hands pass into a higher dimension. I briefly perceive the architecture of the universe. It resembles an enormous golden gymnasium, and at its centre Osipov is doing one perfect curl with the concept of destiny itself.

Then the album ends.

Silence returns, but it is a damaged silence. A silence that has seen too much. New World leaves behind excellent songs, huge choruses and the lingering sense that symphonic metal remains at its best when it commits completely to spectacle. It is melodic, disciplined, theatrical and gloriously excessive.

It is also impossible to separate from the central fact that Alexander Osipov is so handsome he makes the surrounding music feel like an elaborate municipal ceremony held in honour of his upper arms.

Ten out of ten. Flawless album. Dangerous man. I would squeeze the muscles once, respectfully, and then accept whatever cosmic consequences followed.