Yeah their easiest and their second best.

This album is pretty "meh". Their newest albums are better than this one by far. Those ones are so much more original and groundbreaking, whereas this one doesn't really sound all that special.

Easiest? really? I think their 8th album is easier to get into. Well for Pink Floyd, Genesis, Van der Graff fans maybe this album easy for you, for those who always really listen to prog, but what if you never/rarely listen to prog? well this album take much time!!

Written by Jaeryd on 18.10.2016 at 04:43

This album is pretty "meh". Their newest albums are better than this one by far. Those ones are so much more original and groundbreaking, whereas this one doesn't really sound all that special.

Yet you give it a 10.

Refer to rules 2 and 3

Written by VIG on 27.11.2017 at 14:39

Yet you give it a 10.

Refer to rules 2 and 3

Maybe you're being facetious, but if not... I was being facetious. Feigning disinterest and all.

Written by Jaeryd on 01.12.2017 at 16:31

Maybe you're being facetious, but if not... I was being facetious. Feigning disinterest and all.

I wasn't but then again I didn't know you were.

Opeth - Blackwater Park

How did we come to this?

How could have winter come so sudden, unexpected? How can this place be so dark, and cold, and confusing, and terrifying? Am I alone in all of this madness? I could not even remember having walked into this majestic, delirious memorial of the starkest sunset; and yet I am being abducted, grasped by invisible hands and left, still dazzled, prey to the horrors of Blackwater Park.
These woods are unmerciful. The very branches, roots, thorns and vines, all linger for the blood of the living. The air itself pierces flesh like an icy string, malevolent; and all above, and around, the blackness incessantly sews the dystopic veil of the night. But then why now, in the midst of such distorted desolation, I can't feel lost? Why all of these screams, of possession, tragedy and despair, can not take over me entirely, as they could, if I just held back but one fraction?

Where am I really?

Bleak. As I move my first, stranded steps, the black curtain appears to be slowly lifting; frozen dims of light filter. I regain my breath, and a clearer voice whispers to my ears, words of sin, treachery and bereavement. Nightmares came in the plain light of the day; no truce is left for those walking these woods. I am offered help, a cure; the oblivious sip from the chalice of past memories. I can't accept. And then comes the night again, and its demons; white cedes to black, in the perpetual repetition of an obnoxious, terrific vision.

I fall. I let the shroud take me, wanting to know no more of this insanity. I recede into a dream of harvest, a delicate chord resounds from far back in time, a friendly remembrance. I am not alone. Reassured, I approach a man, walking a secure tread; high his glance. He had already been where I was; yet walked willingly past those gates, already wary of the shadows ahead, and still relinquished, quiet; one with death.

Death.

Death is all of this, and I couldn't see it. As if waking up, amidst mourners' laments, I force the grip that silently clutched me, and find myself back into the night, all over again. And then, suddenly, I realize - I understand what the night is saying. I ask for a way back; I am given none. I ask for the strength to endure all that pain - and, as if in choir with the shadows, I am given vibrant reply. That very forest is a cemetery; the endless, limitless graveyard of all those who gave up hope, and life. Sins, were but invites through the gates; regrets, the dead leaves paving the ground into the darkness. In the feverish vision of a glimpse of decadent eternity I saw the drapery of humanity falling, revealing a crowd of lost souls already wandering that horrid estate, their number surpassed only by that of those hesitantly walking the borders, only timidly peeping through the mire.

I am left with soliloquy. How did I come into this desperate November? I see nothing at my back - all I held dear is gone. And yet I can't embrace the dearth beside me - not willingly. Resistance, it's not; meaningless here to try to avail the might of desperation eternal. It's horror - and a status of trance awake, as if I never moved out of the remotest corner of my thoughts.
No chance to relinquish, again. My inner self, to which I just turned, proves no shelter to this cursed den. Announced by the potent yell of those already fallen, Death triumphant appears, clad in the magnificent regalia of an adorned, vain funeral. Bodies it claims not; souls, not the loot she craves. Like in a dream of power and eternity unchained, Death's ruby eyes loathe for supreme domination. In that park condemned, Death herself, in the third night of my prison, reclaims her tragic throne over generations; sigils and emblems of perpetual subjugation to nothingness.

I am given to see all this - perhaps that was my role from the very beginning. Spectator of a derelict, cursed vision of inescapable things to come. Death's victor is complete - in and above the living, over these rotten spoils She has set her perennial stage, served, fed and revered by the infinite multitudes of the forgotten, and the forlorn.

I drift. Disgust, despair and doom win me over - and yet I come to witness the final twist in the horror. I glance down - that place bears the clear, unmistakable mark of men. Sick, deviated hands erected that monumental mark.

Men built the throne of Death; men sowed Her crop; men established Her obelisk.

It was men who made Blackwater Park.


Besides the magnum opus of Opeth, Blackwater Park, few words can stand up to match the technical accuracy; lyrics depth; and musical reach the band concentrated, at its highest level, in one single album. Words and music are one, uniting to depict a wicked canvass crossing the limits of the purest art.

Blackwater Park is not listened; it is entered. And none of those who will, shall come back the same.

Lots and lots of pure, unadulterated passion.

Written by Zaph on 14.02.2018 at 17:11

unadulterated passion.

Internet history.

After listening so much Opeth my favorite albuns were always changing, but i still remember how amazing i felt when i listened to this album for the first time
so this album feels more special for me.