
Although the recordings of this debut tape by Nijmegen-based Nacior Udun were reportedly completed back in 2022, the name had remained entirely off my radar until recently. Only now, with an official release via the German label Manifest of Hate — in collaboration with Utrecht’s Levertraan — does the darkness surrounding this enigmatic project begin to lift ever so slightly.
Behind Nacior Udun stands a figure who goes by the name Lethargor — a menacing pseudonym that perfectly fits the obscure, almost intangible aura of the music. After some digging, Lethargor appears to be none other than Ridder Jan, best known as the drummer for the delightfully deranged Rattenburcht. At least, that’s what scattered fragments of information suggest — nothing has been explicitly confirmed. The cryptic descriptions and shadowy credits make the investigation more difficult, but that’s also part of the charm in this particular corner of the underground: the elusive, the unpolished, the deliberately obscure.
Because let’s be honest: the life of a reviewer may not be all glitz and glamour, but it’s precisely these kinds of dark, half-forgotten tapes that make the blood rush again. It feels like unearthing a lost relic from a grave no one visits anymore. A project like Nacior Udunfeels less like a music release and more like a transmission from another dimension — abrasive, ominous, and above all, uncompromising.
What Nacior Udun delivers here is nothing less than a sonic annihilation: nearly 57 minutes of unrelenting Black Metal, deeply rooted in the spirit of the 1990s. The influence of the Finnish school is unmistakable — not just in production and atmosphere, but most notably in the vocal approach. Rather than the standard shrieks or reverb-drenched screams, Lethargoremploys a whispered, almost demonically muttered technique that strongly recalls the esoteric incantations of Beherit at their most unhinged. It feels less like vocals being performed, and more like curses being summoned from another realm.
The structure of the tape further reinforces the sense of ritual. The work is divided evenly across two sides, each consisting of four ‘chapters’ that form a greater whole. Side A bears the name “The Satanic Principles of Suffering” — a title as pompous as it is threatening — and is broken into four parts, marked with Roman numerals I through IV. Side B continues the narrative with “The Return of Chaos”, again split into four numbered segments. This division doesn’t feel random or purely aesthetic, but rather like a deliberate, ceremonial structure — as if we’re witnessing two complementary phases of an occult liturgy.
Each side feels like a distinct ceremony — a descent and an ascent — in which the listener is submerged into a swirling current of dissonance, blast beats, and damnation-soaked atmosphere. This is not background music. Nacior Udun demands your full attention — and exacts a price.
80/100
Nacior Udun:
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