Ethereal Metal

Ryan Murray | Co-Owner | Chief Editor | Contributor | Photographer

r.m.music84@gmail.com

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If Back From the Dead was Halestorm’s war cry, Everest is the soul laid bare after the smoke clears. With their sixth studio album, the Pennsylvania titans haven’t just pushed themselves — they’ve shattered their own blueprint. Everest doesn’t just climb; it ascends, dragging scars and triumphs to the summit, bleeding honesty from every note. It’s the sound of a band that’s been to hell and chosen to rise — not because they have to, but because there’s still something to say.

And no one says it like Lzzy Hale.

For over two decades, Hale has stood at the frontlines of rock not just as a vocalist of devastating range, but as a symbol of defiant, unwavering presence. If tomorrow wasn’t promised — and the album closer How Will You Remember Me? reminds us to entertain that thought — she’d still be lionized as one of the defining voices of her generation. But this album doesn’t eulogize. It electrifies. It strips away certainty and replaces it with conviction. And when Hale asks that final question — “How will you remember me?” — the answer might just be: like this.

The album opens with Fallen Star, a track that walks straight out of Back From the Dead’s burning wreckage but carries something heavier. There’s pain in its bones, sure, but also hope — a slow-burning, riff-driven fuse of melody and muscle that reintroduces Halestorm with both arms open. It’s the perfect first step into an album that dares to be vulnerable while refusing to sound weak.

What follows is perhaps the boldest move in the band’s history: Everest, a title track that doesn’t roar — it coils, it slithers, it blooms. The song shapeshifts from an almost grunge-leaning intro into a mountainous, cinematic chorus, carried by Joe Hottinger’s elegiac guitar work. It’s grandiose, mournful, and alive with emotional gravity. And it’s only track two.

You can’t listen to Everest once. You live with it. Every track offers something new — not because Halestorm wants to abandon their past, but because they’ve stared it down, honored it, and now built something bigger. There’s courage in experimentation here, especially in songs like Shiver, a slower, aching unraveling of toxic love that aches beneath its restraint. Lzzy doesn’t scream her way through it — she bleeds, letting the line “Sometimes loving you feels like dying” settle like a bruise. It’s a reminder that sometimes the hardest truths come not in fury, but in quiet devastation.

That emotional tension carries into Like A Woman Can — a track that smolders rather than explodes. Smoky, sultry, and soulful, it owes as much to Amy Winehouse as it does to Heart, anchored by Hale’s vocal control as she lets herself simmer instead of scream.

And when they do scream, they remind you exactly who the hell they are.

Watch Out! is the most furious Halestorm has sounded in years — an adrenaline-fueled wrecking ball that swerves between thrash and punk, as if Motörhead collided with 2005-era Halestorm and left nothing but dust and teeth behind. K-I-L-L-I-N-G follows with equal fury and venom, an anthem built on rally-chant defiance, blistering riffs, and Arejay Hale’s relentless drum assault. It doesn’t just hit hard — it kicks the damn door down, channeling the riot-starting chaos of Rage Against the Machine’s Killing in the Name with teeth bared and fists raised.

And then, there’s Rain Your Blood On Me — a highlight that feels like Dio raised from the dead and handed the keys to Audioslave’s rehearsal room. It’s spiritual and thunderous all at once, with the kind of theatrical intensity that fills stadiums but cuts like a knife in headphones.

Even when things quiet down, Halestorm doesn’t let go.

Darkness Always Wins is a slow-burning anthem, beginning with Lzzy’s restrained, almost whispered delivery, only to erupt into one of the most triumphant choruses of their career. “We’re all fighters, holding up our lighters” — it’s a rallying cry for anyone who’s been through it and needs a reason to stand back up.

Gather The Lambs plays like a haunted hymn, dipping into almost gothic textures without abandoning the grit, while Broken Doll hurls itself into ‘90s alt-rock despair. Think Hole meets Halestorm — dissonant, raw, and feral in all the right ways. There’s something about the way Hale sings as if it’s tearing her apart to do so that elevates even the darkest corners of this record into light.

By the time we hit I Gave You Everything, the emotional ground is scorched. It’s not just a breakup song. It’s a funeral for the version of yourself that begged for love in the first place. The chorus hits like a fist to the chest — sharp, cathartic, and loud enough to echo for years. If anyone still doubts Hale’s position as the voice of modern hard rock, this song ends the argument.

And then it all comes down to How Will You Remember Me? — the final breath, the lights-dimming closer, the moment that pulls everything into focus. This isn’t just Halestorm’s signature ballad slot — it’s their thesis. It’s mortality set to melody. A gentle giant of a song that doesn’t ask for legacy — it earns it.

Everest isn’t just a great Halestorm album — it might be THE Halestorm album. It carries the weight of everything they’ve ever done, burns it to ash, and rebuilds it into something more honest, more dangerous, and more human.

It takes guts to evolve when your formula already works. It takes more to start over without losing who you are. That’s what this album does. It doesn’t abandon the fire — it adds fuel from a deeper source.

Lzzy Hale isn’t just surviving in the modern rock world. She’s reshaping it. Halestorm doesn’t just want to be remembered — they want to be felt. And with Everest, they’ve made damn sure of both.

Verdict: 5/5