Album Review: Exuvia – Cage Fight

A fierce second album that sheds old skin and reveals a band growing sharper, more personal, and unafraid to show vulnerability.

A record that shows up like it has something to prove

Some albums feel like a victory lap. Exuvia shows up like a second punch—less “we can do this” and more “we’re not leaving.”

Cage Fight already built a reputation on ugly strength: a terrifying sound, live shows that feel like they’re daring the room to flinch, and even a sly jab at the metal industry with their “Male Backed Metal” merch. But none of that matters if the songs don’t hold up away from the stage lights. Exuvia does. And more importantly, it sounds like the band knows exactly why it needs to exist.

Second album energy: the side project excuse is gone

Here’s the thing with bands made of members from other projects: the first record can always be framed as a detour. A pressure valve. A “let’s do something dumb and heavy for fun” situation.

But a second album changes the math. Exuvia reads like a decision, not a weekend plan. Cage Fight (with members tied to projects like Tesseract and Eths) don’t sound like they’re borrowing time from their “real” careers anymore. The tone is different from the self-titled debut—still violent, still physical, but tighter in purpose. This isn’t just raw momentum. This is a band building a body it intends to tour and record with like a proper beast, not a guest appearance.

I thought this would be “more of the same, just cleaner.” On second listen, it’s obvious that’s not what’s happening. The grime is still there—it’s just arranged with intent.

The sound is still brutal—just better aimed

The self-titled album’s core is still beating underneath Exuvia. The difference is how Cage Fight uses it. The chaos isn’t just “go hard.” It’s “go hard here, for this reason.”

“Deathstalker” — thrash as a blunt instrument

“Deathstalker” moves fast and hits like it doesn’t want you catching up. It’s thrash with the pedal down, a song that lives up to its name in the most literal way. No mystery. No elegance. It’s pursuit music.

And that’s a compliment—because Cage Fight understands that sometimes the smartest artistic decision is to stop trying to be clever and just chase.

“IHYG (I Hate Your Guts)” — groove so thick it feels physical

“IHYG (I Hate Your Guts)” is where the band lets the groove get almost obnoxious. It’s the kind of low-end swagger that makes you picture the riffs pressed into wax. This is the album sneering at you up close—less sprint, more stomp.

If there’s a weak spot, it’s that the groove is so committed that I kept waiting for a sharper left turn that never comes. Not a dealbreaker—more like a moment where the song chooses “lock in” over “surprise me,” and I’m not fully sure I agree with that choice.

“The Hammer Crush” — short, mean, and strategically placed

Then Will Horsman (the newer bassist) gets room to flex on “The Hammer Crush.” Under three minutes, clean structure, zero wasted motion. It feels designed to pummel you and get out before you can build tolerance.

The title screams—literally—matter. Twice, Rachel Aspe barks the name like she’s stamping it into the floor. It’s simple, almost primitive, and that’s why it works: the band uses repetition like a weapon, not a gimmick.

“Pick Your Fighter” — the weird influence that actually shows

“Pick Your Fighter” has a strange origin point: it’s inspired by “Et c’est parti” by French pop artist Nâdiya. That sounds like one of those trivia facts that never translates to the music—except here, it kind of does. Play them back-to-back and you can hear the shape of the influence, not as a quote but as a rhythmic attitude.

It also brings in Julien Truchan (from Benighted) and features a rarer thing in Cage Fight’s world: a James Monteith guitar solo that feels more “dexterous” than this band usually bothers with. Cage Fight generally deals in blunt force, so the solo lands like someone briefly opened a door to a different genre and then slammed it shut again.

A reasonable person could say the guest spot and solo are just bells and whistles. I’d argue they’re there to underline a point: this band can decorate—they just usually choose not to.

Rachel Aspe is the center of gravity, and she knows it

Here’s where Exuvia stops being “a heavy record” and starts being personal.

The star is Rachel—not in the boring “great performance” way, but in the “this album is her confrontation” way. The vocals aren’t just aggressive; they’re targeted. The lyrics don’t feel like genre obligations. They feel like receipts.

What surprised me is how clearly the record is built around her emotional range. I didn’t expect this much vulnerability from a band that usually communicates by throwing furniture.

“Pig” — not subtle, not interested in being nice

“Pig” is a direct call-out against men sending unsolicited messages, and it doesn’t dress the anger up as metaphor. The groove here swaggers more than it chugs, like the band wants the track to strut while it condemns.

And the breakdown is where Rachel’s technique gets nasty in the best way: her low gutturals drop in like an elevator to a basement you didn’t know the building had. It’s not “impressive vocalist” theater—it’s an inspired choice that makes the disgust feel embodied.

If someone thinks the message is too on-the-nose, fine. I’d push back and say that’s the point: the song refuses to be politely “open to interpretation.”

“Exuvia” (title track) — grief without the melodrama costume

The title track “Exuvia” is a deeply personal account tied to her grandmother’s battle with cancer. The most piercing choice is how it ends: with a voice recording of the matriarch—who also helped Rachel write the lyrics.

That’s a risky move. Audio recordings at the end of emotional songs can feel like manipulation if they’re treated like a cheat code. Here, it lands more like a receipt of love—something the band can’t scream away.

I’ll admit, the first time I hit that ending, I didn’t know how to take it. Part of me braced for cringe. Instead, it made the rest of the album feel less like performance and more like a human document.

“Élégie” — the closer that earns its softness

The closing track “Élégie” explores the loss of her grandfather, and it’s described perfectly by its own contradiction: beautiful, yet crushing. This is another moment where Rachel sings rather than screams, and the choice matters. It’s not “look, I can do cleans.” It’s “this subject requires a different weapon.”

If you came here only for blunt-force aggression, this track might irritate you. I think it’s the album’s smartest flex: Cage Fight proving heaviness isn’t only volume—it’s weight.

“Un Bon Souvenir” — the clean vocals that changed my mind

When lead single “Un Bon Souvenir” surfaced, hearing Rachel’s melodic clean vocals for the first time was genuinely surprising. My knee-jerk reaction was skepticism—clean vocals in a band like this can feel like a label-friendly upgrade or a forced “bigger chorus” move.

But in context, it makes sense. Not just because she’s good at it (she is), but because the album’s emotional content demands more than one texture. The cleans don’t soften the band; they sharpen the contrast. And contrast is exactly what makes the heavy parts hit harder.

The title isn’t decoration—it’s the album’s thesis

In the animal kingdom, exuvia is the process of shedding skin—especially hardened exoskeletons like crustaceans and arachnids when they grow. That idea fits Cage Fight too perfectly to be accidental.

This record keeps what made the band fearsome, but it also clearly molts: new vocal approaches, more intentional pacing, braver subject matter, and songs that don’t rely solely on violence to be memorable.

A decade from now, I suspect Exuvia will still hit because it isn’t just “heavy for heavy’s sake.” It’s heavy with a reason, and that reason is uncomfortable in a way most bands avoid.

Album cover

Release note (kept simple, because it matters)

Exuvia is out now via Spinefarm Records.

Conclusion: the band didn’t evolve—they shed something

Cage Fight didn’t “mature” in the polite sense. They shed the parts of themselves that felt like a side-project adrenaline rush and kept the parts that actually bite. The riffs still swing like weapons, but the album’s real impact comes from Rachel turning lived experience into structure—into hooks, breakdowns, and silence where silence belongs.

Our verdict: People who like heavy music that means it—and don’t panic when a vocalist dares to sing about something real—will latch onto this. If you only want riffs as background noise for lifting, you might get annoyed when Cage Fight Exuvia asks you to feel anything besides “go.”

FAQ

• Is Cage Fight Exuvia more melodic than the debut?
  Yes, but not in a “radio polish” way—more like the band finally lets melody carry grief and memory when screaming would cheapen it.
• Which track hits hardest on first listen?
  “Deathstalker” for speed and blunt aggression; it wastes no time pretending it’s anything else.
• What’s the point of the pop influence on “Pick Your Fighter”?
  It changes the song’s rhythmic attitude. It’s not a joke reference—it’s a way to make the track bounce while still hitting like a brick.
• Do the guest vocals and guitar solo feel out of place?
  No, but they do feel like the band briefly showing what they could do more often, then choosing restraint.
• Is this album all confrontation, or are there softer moments?
  The closer “Élégie” and the clean-vocal moments prove the album’s heaviness comes from weight, not constant volume.

If you want the vibe on your wall instead of in your headphones, you can grab a favorite album-cover poster at https://www.architeg-prints.com/ — it’s a nice way to keep that “shed your skin” energy around without blasting breakdowns at breakfast.