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Katatonia has long made a home in the shadows—peering through twilight with eyes that neither fear the dark nor fully surrender to it. For over three decades, they’ve stood as a lighthouse for the emotionally frayed, a band whose melodic despair doesn’t just wallow in sadness but gives it poetic architecture. Their 13th studio album, Nightmares as Extensions of the Waking State, arrives at a moment of subtle but profound transition: a changing of the guard, a reaffirmation of purpose, and a quiet evolution in the language of melancholy. It is not a revolution. It is not supposed to be. But it is, in its own way, a milestone—both a reflection of who Katatonia has become and a signal flare for the path ahead.
The major change this time isn’t in mood or aesthetic. It’s in personnel. With founding guitarist Anders Nyström now officially absent from the band (his songwriting contributions having faded in recent albums already), Katatonia turns to Nico Elgstrand and Sebastian Svalland to take the reins alongside core members Jonas Renkse, Daniel Moilanen, and Niklas Sandin. For a band so sonically defined by nuance, that shift could have felt tectonic. But Katatonia, ever subtle, lets the transition unfold like dusk becoming night—quietly, assuredly, and with a beauty that reveals itself the longer you sit still with it.
Musically, Nightmares as Extensions of the Waking State fits squarely in the lineage of Sky Void of Stars and City Burials, but it carries more weight. Literally. The guitars have teeth again—less shoegaze shimmer, more bloodied bite. It’s not a return to Dead End Kings levels of density, nor does it chase the brute force of their death-doom roots, but it does carve out a sharper edge. Riffs emerge with more conviction, progressions feel more anchored, and dynamic contrasts—while still vital—seem less about floatiness and more about emotional impact. It’s still the sound of wandering through fog, but now the fog cuts.
That sharpened edge makes itself known early, but it’s Lilac that truly embodies the album’s magnetic push and pull. Arguably the record’s finest moment, it’s a masterclass in tension: heavy yet restrained, brooding yet catchy, brittle yet determined. There’s something strange and wonderful in its chorus—a kind of disorienting swing that shouldn’t work but absolutely does. The track’s second half recedes into a quieter passage, offering one of those classic Katatonia respites where breath and grief share the same space. For longtime fans who have chased the highs of Dead Letters or Old Heart Falls, this is that song—the one that’ll stay with you, maybe even haunt you.
Katatonia’s records often hinge on one or two such standouts—songs that pierce through the twilight haze like moonlight breaking cloud—and for some listeners, that can make the rest of the album feel like a long, gorgeous sigh. That’s not entirely untrue here. But to say Nightmares falters beyond its peaks would be to misunderstand its architecture. This isn’t a collection of singles; it’s a drift. A trance. A landscape. And like any dream or nightmare, it demands a different kind of attention—not dissecting it moment to moment, but surrendering to its slow pull.
There are, of course, moments that surface more clearly than others. Opener Thrice is one such moment, balancing immediate guitar weight with ominous atmosphere and Renkse’s crystalline sorrow. Its closing stretch leans gothic, bordering on dramatic, yet never overblown. There’s also the aching fragility of Efter Solen, delivered entirely in Swedish, which leans into minimalist electronica to striking effect. It’s rare that Katatonia sings in their native tongue, and the choice gives the track a kind of private, almost confessional intensity. The electronic textures here are tasteful—never dominating, but ghosting through the song’s DNA like faint signals from some distant, unseen place. It’s a farewell to the past, wrapped in poetic melancholy and quiet hope.
One of the album’s quieter triumphs comes in Wind of No Change, a piece that, despite its pessimistic title, floats somewhere between ancient ritual and modern despair. Monastic vocals hover over a gritty tempo, and the chorus slips in with what can only be described as grim wit—like a half-smile in a bleak painting. Elsewhere, The Liquid Eye surprises with its addictive chorus hook, while The Light Which I Bleed shimmers with odd keyboard quirks that bring a touch of unease to the otherwise elegiac proceedings. These aren’t massive departures, but they show Katatonia still knows how to twist the knife at just the right angle, or when to let the blade sit cold against the skin.
As always, Renkse remains the ghost at the center of it all. His voice, barely aging, carries the same weary grace it always has—a man singing not from a mountaintop but from the edge of the bed at 3 a.m. The lyrics continue to flirt with the metaphysical, the psychological, and the deeply personal. There are themes here of stagnation, regret, and transition—but also of subtle rebirth. Temporal may be the clearest case of this: balancing verses of quiet torment with a chorus that rises—not in bombast, but in determination. The song feels like it’s clinging to something precious in the dark. And in a way, that’s the essence of this record: Katatonia doesn’t scream into the void—they whisper into it, hoping someone is still listening.
Production-wise, the album feels clean, wide, and intimate—an impressive balance. Adam Noble’s mix leaves plenty of room for the silences between sounds to breathe. The drums hit hard without being overwhelming. Guitars have a satisfying thrum, neither too dry nor over-processed. And when synths appear, they do so with spectral subtlety. But perhaps the most important production decision was not over-polishing the emotion. These songs still feel played, not programmed—organic, despite the polish.
If there’s a fault here, it’s in the album’s overall consistency—ironic, perhaps, but relevant. Katatonia albums, especially in their later years, have often struggled with internal pacing. Nightmares doesn’t avoid this entirely. The midsection drifts more than it drives, and while that may be part of the dreamlike ethos, it can blur the listener’s memory of what exactly just happened. Tracks like Departure Trails and Warden are beautifully constructed, but they don’t linger as long in the psyche. They serve the mood more than they demand attention, which is both a strength and a risk, but one that I feel plays out beautifully. This is a record that excels in mood—so long as you accept that some songs may slip past like dreams forgotten on waking.
But to dismiss Nightmares as Extensions of the Waking State for not producing a front-to-back knockout would be to ignore its real accomplishment. Katatonia, now decades into a storied and influential career, has managed to grow without growing cold. Their sonic language may not be radically different from what we heard on Sky Void of Stars, but their emotional fluency has deepened. And that matters. Especially now.
This album, quiet as it may seem, is important. Not just because of lineup shifts or production notes, but because it shows a band refusing to fossilize. Too many legacy acts settle into habit, endlessly recreating their own legend. Katatonia, while always recognizable, remains alert. Nightmares doesn’t scream for reinvention—it doesn’t have to. It just is—patient, poised, and sure of itself. It knows exactly who it’s speaking to, and more importantly, why.
The final track, In the Event of, draws a subtle curtain over the album—not with theatricality, but with an echo of something unfinished. It’s not a climax. It’s a continuation. You don’t walk away from Nightmares with catharsis. You walk away with a feeling. That something just passed through you. That something is still there.
And maybe that’s Katatonia’s greatest power. They don’t just make albums. They make hauntings. You carry them around long after the last note fades. You hear them again in quiet rooms, on cold mornings, in moments where everything stills. You feel them in the ache that has no name. Nightmares as Extensions of the Waking State may not be their loudest record, nor their boldest—but it is one of their most assured. A record of transitions, shadows, and the quiet determination to continue, even when the light is dim and the road unclear.
In the end, Katatonia doesn’t chase the dream—they become it. Nightmares as Extensions of the Waking State is a solemn triumph: deeply textured, emotionally resounding, and proof that the band is still whispering in the dark with a clarity and purpose others only wish for.
VERDICT: 4.5/5.0
Ethereal Metal 
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