NYC-based trio Imperial Triumphant summon a roiling fusion of jazz, black metal, and electronic textures, with an extra-heavy emphasis on atmospheric compositions and avant-garde performance. Japanese collective Sigh merge avant-garde metal with traditional instruments like the Shakuhachi and Taishogoto, incorporating symphonic and extreme metal elements with performance-based weirdness. Together they'll deliver an evening of extremes, blending nightmare musical virtuosity and voidic theatrics.

Amidst the towering obelisks of the metropolis, where steel and glass loom like sentinels, Imperial Triumphant carved their name into the golden husk of decay. Goldstar is their newest invocation of grandeur and ruin, where the breath of New York City seeps through every gilded note. From the stygian depths of its subway catacombs to the celestial glow of its Art Deco spires, the masked triumvirate channels the machine's final gasps into a labyrinthine symphony. Adorned in the glimmering masks of the unknown, Ezrin, Blanco, and Grohowski conjure the echoes of fractured storytelling, melding the ghost of old-world opulence with the serrated edge of sonic extremity. Their gospel is one of contradictions: modernity and antiquity, chaos and control, reverence and annihilation.
Baptized in the fires of relentless touring, Imperial Trumphant tempered Goldstar in the crucible of constraint, birthing an album where excess and discipline intertwine. Beneath the city's cold neon stare, spectral voices are summoned—Haake's whispered omens, Lombardo's percussive prophecy—all drawn into their alchemical vortex. The album lurches from the arcane rites of Gnawa to the fevered pulse of Brazilian Maracatu, collapsing time and genre like a crumbling cathedral; yet amidst its decadent sprawl, Goldstar extends an outstretched hand, a twisted beacon offering momentary passage into their grand illusion—an edifice of brass and blackened steel, ascending toward the sun, knowing it will one day fall.

From the depths of Tokyo's 1990 underworld, where neon shadows writhed against the steel bones of the city, Sigh emerged—an entity birthed in fire and unfazed by time. Sharpened by death and upheaval, their first cries were smothered in tragedy as the hand that lifted them—Euronymous of Deathlike Silence Productions—was struck down before their debut could see light. Yet Sigh did not fade; through labyrinthine corridors, they wove madness into melody, chaos into composition, each offering a passage deeper into their own arcane domain. They traversed the catacombs of labels, summoning infernal operas, surrealist nightmares, and orchestral conflagrations, always teetering on the precipice of lunacy yet never consumed by it.

With their latest album Shiki, Sigh gazed inward, drawing forth an album steeped in the specters of tradition, where the breath of the Shakuhachi and the wail of the Hichiriki entwined with distorted incantations. An exhumation rather than nostalgia: roots unearthed beneath the weight of three decades. Through pandemics and shifting tides, the band stands resolute, its ranks bolstered by new blood, yet always led by Mirai Kawashima's unrelenting vision and a spectral force of avant-garde extremity still clawing toward the void.