Nine Album Review: A Post-Rock Giant Pretending It’s “Just Instrumental”

The Nine album doesn’t try to impress you—then it traps you in grooves, synth haze, and blunt-force crescendos until you stop pretending you’re “fine.”

This record doesn’t knock. It leans on the door until it opens.

Some albums feel like a band showing off. The Nine album feels like a band tightening a vise—slowly, calmly, and with zero interest in whether you call it “beautiful” or “too much.”

It’s the ninth full-length from this long-running instrumental trio, and it plays like they know exactly what their strengths are: massive soundscapes, sudden altitude changes, and that particular talent for making repetition feel like a threat. I went in expecting the usual slow-burn-to-explosion routine. What surprised me is how deliberately the songs seem to mess with your sense of time—like each track is a room with no windows.

“Nine” isn’t a victory lap—it's the band refusing to shrink

Here’s what I think is actually happening: the band isn’t expanding for the sake of grandeur. They’re expanding because they’re chasing a specific kind of hypnosis—the kind where you stop tracking “verses” and start tracking pressure.

The album title, Nine, is almost annoyingly plain. But after a full listen, that bluntness makes sense. This record doesn’t feel like a concept; it feels like a statement of continuity—as if the band is saying, “We’re still here, we still build these towers, and we’re not going to decorate them for you.”

I’ll admit, on my first pass I thought the record might be too polished—too controlled, almost overly confident. On second listen, that control started to feel like the whole point: the restraint is what makes the heavy parts hit like they do.

“Borehole” opens like a drill bit that doesn’t ask permission

The opener, “Borehole,” is exactly as grim as the name suggests. It starts with a probing groove that sinks in and stays there, not because it’s flashy, but because it’s stubborn. The riff doesn’t so much evolve as it tightens its grip. By the time the track is in full motion, you’re not humming a melody—you’re stuck in a loop that feels engineered to occupy your brain for the entire runtime.

And that’s the tell right away: the band isn’t “back,” like this is some triumphant return. They sound more like they’re back with a point to prove—not to the listener, but to themselves. The opening track doesn’t court you. It conditions you.

Arguable take: if you want an opener that gives you a clean thesis statement, “Borehole” refuses. It’s not a welcome mat—it’s a hallway that keeps getting narrower.

“Empath” is the record’s blunt object—and it works because it commits

Then comes “Empath,” and it’s the moment where the album stops being insinuating and starts being physical. The track locks into a groove that’s just… strong. Not complicated. Not precious. Just forceful.

Guitarist Mike Sullivan, bassist Dave Turncrantz, and drummer Brian Cook play like they’re channeling something that’s more instinct than arrangement. The impact comes from the way they commit to the pocket—they don’t rush the payoff, but they also don’t apologize for how direct the heaviness is.

Here’s a mild gripe, though: “Empath” is so efficient at what it does that part of me kept waiting for one more left turn—some brief fracture, a weirder texture, a moment of risk. It doesn’t really do that. Instead, it wins through sheer discipline. Depending on your mood, that’s either satisfying or slightly infuriating.

Arguable take: “Empath” is heavier than it is dramatic, and that’s why it lands—it’s not trying to sound tragic, it’s trying to sound inevitable.

“Eluvial” lets the electronics lead—and suddenly we’re in neon rain

“Eluvial” pivots fast. The electronic influence—something that’s clearly wired into this band’s DNA—moves from background flavor to front-seat driver. The early moments feel like a cinematic setup, the kind of scene-setting that could slip into a sci-fi score without anyone blinking. I kept thinking of neon-lit emptiness, not because the track copies anything specific, but because it nails that feeling: beautiful, cold, and slightly inhuman.

And then the track collides with a wall of sound that’s less “drop” and more “impact event.” It’s one of those moments where the band reminds you they can turn atmosphere into weight without changing instruments—just by changing intent.

If you want the album’s clearest example of “soft” and “crushing” occupying the same body, “Eluvial” is it.

Arguable take: “Eluvial” is the album’s real centerpiece—not because it’s the biggest, but because it’s where the band admits the machines are part of the emotion, not decoration.

“E2” and “Meridian” turn dread into architecture

After that, “E2” kicks off with a foreboding electronic throb—less “intro,” more warning light. It leads into something just as ominous and mind-altering, like the track is tuning the room you’re standing in. This is the band doing what they do best: building tension without acting like tension is a special effect.

And then “Meridian” hits with emotional weight that doesn’t feel performative. It builds and builds and builds, stacking intensity with patience, until the ending arrives with this grand sense of release—except it’s not a cheerful release. It’s more like the moment you stop resisting.

I’m not totally sure whether “Meridian” is meant to feel uplifting or simply conclusive. I’ve heard it both ways depending on my day, which might be the point: the song isn’t telling you what to feel, it’s making space for whatever you brought in.

Arguable take: “Meridian” is the album’s most “human” track, and it gets there by refusing lyrical cues—no voice, no guidance, just the slow truth of the build.

“Arletta” is the breath you’re allowed to take—so you can get hit again

From there, “Arletta” shifts the temperature. It’s gentler, mellower, and honestly kind of necessary. The pacing change doesn’t feel like a detour; it feels like the band deliberately letting your shoulders drop.

And it’s not soft in a flimsy way. It’s soft in a confident way—like they know they don’t have to slam you every minute to keep you listening. The track comes off as quite beautiful without begging for that label. It just does its job: it creates space.

At first I dismissed “Arletta” as an interlude—pretty, but minor. Later, it started to feel like one of the album’s smarter moves, because it makes the final stretch feel even more violent by comparison.

Arguable take: the mellow moment is more essential than the heavy ones here, because it proves the band isn’t confusing volume with meaning.

“Seventh Seal” closes like a ritual—primal groove, zero mercy

The closer, “Seventh Seal,” is a different beast altogether. It’s eclectic in the sense that it doesn’t behave like the earlier tracks, but it still feels cohesive—same world, different weather.

When Brian Cook’s pummeling drums announce that driving, primal groove, the song turns into a physical ride. It doesn’t feel like a “final track” in a tidy, wrap-it-up way. It feels like the band deciding the album should end with sonic annihilation, and then following through.

This is right up there with the heaviest material they’ve ever put on a record—not just because it’s loud, but because it’s relentless. The ending doesn’t resolve so much as it cuts the cord, which is exactly why it leaves you wanting more.

Arguable take: “Seventh Seal” is almost obnoxiously effective—like the band could’ve dialed it back 10% and been “tasteful,” but they chose impact over taste.

The real trick: “Nine” feels hypnotic without acting mysterious

By the end, the Nine album comes off as the band’s most hypnotic and consuming release yet—not because it’s their most experimental, but because it’s so sure of its pacing. There’s a difference between “captivating” and “controlling.” This record leans toward controlling, and I mean that as a compliment.

It takes you on a journey, sure—but not a whimsical one. It’s the kind of journey where you look up and realize you’ve been listening longer than you thought, and your brain has stopped asking for lyrics.

If there’s any weakness, it’s that the band sometimes makes “cohesion” feel like a locked door. I wouldn’t have hated one more truly messy moment—something that breaks character. But maybe that’s me asking this particular beast to be a different animal.

Release note (because it matters where this thing lives)

Nine is out now via Sargent House. That fits: it’s a record that sounds like it belongs to a world where heavy music isn’t a genre, it’s an environment.

Arguable take: the label detail matters because this album isn’t trying to cross over—it’s trying to deepen its own lane until it becomes a trench.

Conclusion

Nine doesn’t “wow” you with novelty. It wins by making repetition feel like momentum and by treating heaviness as a form of clarity, not chaos.

Our verdict: People who like instrumental music that acts like a slow-moving machine—precise, moody, and occasionally crushing—will get exactly what they came for (and probably pretend they didn’t). If you need vocals to tell you what to feel, or you want your heavy music to be messy and spontaneous, this album will feel like being politely ignored in a very loud room.

FAQ

• Is the Nine album more electronic than earlier material?
  The electronics feel more foregrounded at key moments (especially around “Eluvial” and the start of “E2”), like mood-setting engines instead of background texture.
• What’s the heaviest track on the record?
  “Seventh Seal” closes with the most primal, punishing momentum—heavy not just in tone, but in how it refuses to let up.
• Does the album ever slow down emotionally?
  “Arletta” is the clear breath-catcher—mellow, spacious, and strategically placed so the rest hits harder.
• Is this album approachable for someone new to the band?
  It can be, if you’re okay with instrumentals that don’t spoon-feed structure. “Empath” is probably the most direct entry point.
• What’s the album’s standout moment?
  The turn in “Eluvial,” where the sleek electronic atmosphere slams into a massive wall of sound, is the point where the record stops hinting and starts declaring.

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