About ten years ago, a modest EP emerged from a then entirely obscure collective calling itself Throne of Time. A roughly cut stone, somewhere between basement demo and unyielding conviction. Three years later came Emperor of the Universe—a title that betrayed more bravado than commercial insight—and shortly after that, the flame already died out. The fairytale, brief as it was, lingered like an echo in the wings of the Dutch underground.
Because the band’s ranks contained anything but unknowns: Daan Bleumink (Hellevaerder, Duindwaler), René Meijer (ex-Hellevaerder), and Dennis Onsia (Dystopia). Musicians who know how to tear open a musical wound and make it bleed rhythmically at the same time. Bleumink, as the spiritual father of the project, decided that the old songs were far too good to gather dust on a hard drive. So they were re-recorded—together with a few new compositions—this time with the help of Luuk Stemers (Hellevaerder, Infantry) on bass, who provided foundations with a solidity the original recordings never knew.
The result is a 1 hour and 17 minute compilation of everything Throne of Time ever had to offer: the youthful ambition, the erratic melancholy, the warped idealism and that elusive hunger that marks so many early projects before life, logic, or simply time intervenes.
That Storm and Alex of Zwaertgevegt then dove in headfirst should surprise no one. Their dedication to not only archiving but honouring Dutch releases with a physical edition borders on the archaeological— as if they alone still know where to blow away the dust to uncover something of value. Throne of Time thus received a monument after all: not large, not shiny, but honest, tangible, and necessary.
But how does this ambitious project actually sound? The answer lies somewhere between icy mountain faces and twilight pine forests: the North of the continent has clearly been studied with care. The Norwegian influences are not slathered on thickly, but drift like a cold draft through the entire record. Think of Mayhem’s angular minimalism, Darkthrone’s rusty, blackened fraywork, and even a faint whiff of Emperor—like someone tried to bury a keyboard part in the distance but still gave the foundation a subtle sheen.
I never heard the original demos, so I can’t give a direct comparison to the source material. What is audible, however, is that Daan didn’t merely dust off old ideas; he re-imagined them with care, reverence and a certain stubborn devotion. These new versions feel like reconstructions of an old manuscript: the spirit of the original retained, but the lines sharper, the inks deeper, the hand steadier.
The result is a release that settles effortlessly into Dutch black-metal history, like a forgotten chapter that finally got to be printed. It’s not a record that rewrites the genre, but it does complete a missing strip of the puzzle—an artefact that belongs on the shelf of anyone who carries the Dutch underground in their warm, dark heart.
And haste is required: there are only eighty copies. Anyone who waits too long will have to make do with second-hand copies or stories from others—and that would be a shame for a project that has finally received the physical form it deserved all these years.
80/100
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