Opeth
– Watershed
With Watershed, Opeth threw the doors wide open and let the ghosts roam free. This is where their progressive instincts stop flirting and finally move in, right as their death metal roots grip the floorboards one last time. It’s not a tug-of-war—it’s a strange, uneasy marriage. And like any great dysfunctional union, it’s full of friction, weird tenderness, and the occasional scream from the attic.
Best of…
Mikael Åkerfeldt leads like a man split in two. One half is a jazz-obsessed, vintage gear collector who dreams in Mellotron and obscure time signatures. The other half is a growling beast who still remembers the damp caves of My Arms, Your Hearse. Watershed doesn’t choose between them—it lets them wrestle. The beauty is in the push and pull: folk guitar that tiptoes into blast beats, clean croons that collapse into monstrous howls.
Opeth fans argue about this one. Too soft, some say. Too weird. Not brutal enough. But that’s the point. This is the sound of a band standing at the edge of one identity and squinting toward another. And instead of leaping cleanly, they just hang there, suspended in a strange and gorgeous in-between. It’s a farewell party with ghosts, jazz licks, and Swedish melancholy baked into every corner.
Choice Tracks
Heir Apparent
This one kicks down the door. No acoustic warm-up, no gentle easing in. Just double kicks, growls from the underworld, and riffs like falling buildings. It’s a parting love letter to the band’s heavier instincts, and it absolutely rips.
Burden
This is where Opeth shows you the vintage vinyl collection. Åkerfeldt croons like a 70s prog frontman, and the song rides a slow, melancholy groove that sounds closer to Camel than Cannibal Corpse. The detuned ending? Pure weird genius.
Coil
It opens the album like a whispered invitation. Duet vocals with Nathalie Lorichs add an unexpected fragility. It’s short, haunting, and oddly pretty. Feels like the last sunlight before the storm rolls in.
The Lotus Eater
Here’s the identity crisis in full bloom. Whispered verses slam into brutal growls, then swerve into funky keyboard freak-outs. Somehow, it all works. It shouldn’t, but it does. It’s Opeth’s Bohemian Rhapsody—if Queen loved blast beats.
Hessian Peel
A slow, shape-shifting epic that builds like a bad dream. The clean intro feels like a folk song humming to itself in the dark, and then it turns inside out. Riffs crash in, death vocals roar, and then it recedes again. It’s 11 minutes of beautiful whiplash.
Watershed isn’t tidy. It’s messy, dramatic, and full of left turns. But that’s what makes it fascinating. It doesn’t just mark the end of an era—it shows you what the next one might sound like, even if it doesn’t know exactly how to get there yet.