Out of Toronto, the trio METZ have for over a decade practised a noise rock of rare physical intensity, heir to Big Black and the great hours of Sub Pop. Renowned for the sonic violence of their concerts, the Canadians take a significant turn with Up on Gravity Hill: that of a music which, without renouncing power, opens onto space, atmosphere, a form of contemplative gravity.
The critics (an 81 average across seven reviews) welcome this evolution favourably. The press hail a band that, rather than eternally repeating its formula, choose to let it breathe, to introduce broader textures, slower tempos, a tension that settles as much as it explodes.
Musically, Up on Gravity Hill keeps the abrasive guitars and screamed vocals that make the band’s identity, but now wraps them in droning layers, reverberations, a subtler sense of dynamics. The production lets the dissonance flourish in space. It is a record that rises slowly rather than striking at once.
This slowing has a cost: the visceral urgency that was METZ’s hallmark is at times diluted, and the listener in search of the frontal blast of the early days may judge the whole less immediate, more cerebral. The rise into maturity is paid for with a share of raw fury.
Verdict: 8/10. An ambitious, controlled record proving that noise rock can age without freezing — even at the cost of some of its original savagery.
