Výheň by Zvar

Výheň isn't just an album; it’s the echo of a workshop, a chronicle etched in sweat and steel. We wanted to tell a story, one you can feel in your bones and hear in the grit of your teeth. It follows an apprentice, stepping onto the shop floor with hands soft as paper, learning the language of the line, the count of the crane. Every riff, every chant, every clang is a step in that journey, from tentative first lifts to the moment his own name gets hammered into the metal. You can smell the hot flux and grease in these tracks, the sting of clapping in odd meters, the rasp of throats carrying across a humming floor. It’s Korpiklaani’s raw energy strapped to Gojira’s locomotive chug, with Wardruna’s ritual weight thudding under drop-tuned guitars.

We recorded this on lunch breaks, swapping verses with the workers, chips still cooling around our feet. That’s why it breathes. You’ll hear fujara and koncovka threading over baritone growls, cimbalom sheared through overdriven preamps like a planer, contact mics catching the ping of anvils and the clatter of wrenches. The kick drum aligns to the 50 Hz mains, so the whole room thrums with it. This isn’t just about making noise; it’s about making the sound of work itself, phase-locked into the rhythm of the machine. Tempos tied directly to motor RPM, breath catching on unison shouts.

The album starts with 'Čisté dlane,' the innocent awe, the first lessons in counting lifts and finding your pace. Then Lenka, our 'Obsluha,' asks the question that cuts through the hum in 'Žeriav volá': "Kto som, keď stroj mlčí?" It's about finding identity, not in the machine's roar, but in the brief silence between the gears. The middle tracks dive into the doubt that comes with wearing your name on a 'Menovka,' the collective strength found in 'Reťazový spev,' and then the raw vulnerability when the line actually stops in 'Keď stroj mlčí.' That quiet moment is the hinge, the turning point. It's when the crew answers, "Som hlas, čo drží rytmus" – a moment of almost terrifying calm before the storm, where you feel the tension build.

'Tŕnie ticha' explores that prickly silence, the fear of failing when the gears grind, before the climax of 'Ťažisko.' Here, the machine falls utterly silent, and all you hear is the crew's heartbeat, picked up by every mic. "Držím žeriav, reťaz drží mňa" – first whispered, then a thunderous roar as the motors ignite, forging a name, an identity, in a single, massive lift. That peak isn't just a song; it's a release, a moment where tears turn into a victorious shout, a catharsis you’ll want to feel again.

The final tracks, 'Žeravé písmená' and 'Moje meno v oceli,' settle into the quiet pride of a journey completed. The apprentice, now a master in his own heart, looking back at the work done, the self discovered. It’s a full circle, a quiet promise, etched into the ribs. We aimed to build a living pipeline from old Slovak work songs straight to modern metal, showing that heaviness can carry real labor, real voices, and a profound, shared human experience. This isn't just music; it's an heirloom, passed from calloused hand to beating heart. A sound that stays in the jaw and ribs long after the last ring. You’ll want to lift again, to sing again.

We hammer Slovak chants into metal, born of sweat and factory roar. Feel the rhythm, the grind, the honest heart.