My Review: Nibiru - HYPÓSTATIS

 Alex Dematteis

Musicshockworld

Salford

1st March 2026

Nibiru - HYPÓSTATIS

“Mors ultima linea rerum est.” – Horace

A cypress tree, an ancient and credible symbol of death and mourning, slips into the furrows of a noise heavy with impulses, like a pathology that, biblically and stubbornly, lives on inertia, to sublimate those who do not let their thoughts of extreme truths fade away. Separations, obstacles, flashes and abdominal impulses make the past ferocious, and survival, both human and artistic, can be deposited through a definitive burial. The melody becomes hypnosis, reluctant to any complacency, and wedges itself into the glare of multiple explosions, with shards of stone reducing dreams to ashes.

Ardat, a heart-rending soul protected by the gods of cognitive exploration, knows the desert and inhabits it through a moral range, radioactive, heedless of any softness, and sows the most ancient love, the one that creates bridges, reflections, ebbs, hermetic genuflections towards pleasure, abandoning it to generate a new liturgy, aided by memories to be transformed to give the gauze a burdensome but inevitable task.  

The Turin artist seems like a sour and scruffy elf, far removed from any chemical attraction to pleasure, beauty and comfort, but we have known him for a long time and defend him, becoming treacherous water as we welcome him, as in this new triumph in the human underworld entitled HYPÓSTATIS, a meeting point between hell and the absence of joy, here a sorrowful but satisfied couple, in an exercise in patience that educates and fortifies.

Compositions that make you waver, offer awareness and hinder any need for silly, fast and irrelevant music.  

The lyrics reveal eloquence, surrounded by amplified sacred perversions, like an inescapable prodrome capable of transforming oxygen into a distant memory. In the past, Nibiru have delved into the depths of every indisposition, as well as into the depths of the sea, with a precise desire to annihilate every dull moment: when intelligence is sharp, it immediately rids itself of its enemies. An ancient, imposing album that makes the term 'ambient' a necessary sacrifice to contemplate, with splashes of sheet metal generating chaos and continuous exploration. However, during and at the end of the listening experience, one is certain of a whole, of a ritual that collects objects, fragments, theories and analyses and throws them into a single gaseous slime, rising towards nebulous mental contractions. 

The tension is metaphysical, without hesitation, a constant danger, a nuisance in assimilation that elevates rather than destroys, an orgiastic mass of discord and confused stars, scattered, reduced to bearing witness to Ardat's desperate sweat.

A concept that once again confirms the need to strip away the roots of total love for Aleister Crowley, poet, occultist, creator and sublime exponent of the Thelema philosophy, used here to create multiple links. 

The mastery of natural forces, so fundamental to Giuliano Kremmerz, is also called into question, with the inner transmutation that brings man into contact with the gods. The action, so desired and made real by the hermeticist of Portici, finds in these musical creations a concrete possibility of being avalanche and steel, pressing on the concept of assimilation and contiguity.

Ardat takes the tree of life and transforms it into a conscious flow, a stage for a connection between earth and sky to reach the knowledge that, starting from the roots of birth, arrives at death with the conjunction between prosperity and the final legacy. 

A writing archive, a message that does not obscure fragility, a continuous and bleeding chorus that, compared to the past, shows a visual breath more inclined towards the assimilation of concepts than towards abundant exposition. This aspect reveals an unprecedented attention to bringing the extremes of life into contact, a posthumous judgement that precedes total abandonment.

The theatre of affliction here seeks sensory collaborators, saliva and sand, with a very high telluric performativity, trained to look like a cloak of broken crosses and withered roses in contact. 

The torment and agony rely on sharp mantras, on the lacerations of machines, synths, piano, guitar and bass, with drumming present in a single episode but which fully conveys the urgency to concentrate, filter and explore the boundaries of truth.  

Light, matter, spirit and darkness (primary elements of gnosis) find here a fertile and sublime foundation to be the body and spark of the deepest thought, an initiatory and exploratory form that allows no respite, since HYPÓSTATIS is breathless without pause, a procession with tomes, a precious vestige that stirs the trembling of the legs and leads to the inner comet.

Listening to this work is like a factory producing resources, toxins, shavings, candlesticks, dust, braking, a violent retaliation of pleasure, to conquer purity through sacrifice generated by the abundant and shrill contortion of sound planes, watts, the almost absolute lack of harmonies and melodies, for a bloody but necessary conflict.

Life and death cannot be managed except by abandoning one's self, in a generous propensity towards the other which, in this album, is not human contact but rather the crossing of spiritual, empirical and doctrinal channels, with new symbols to adopt. 

Ardat's voice (formerly a dripping altar in search of entrails) is here a hoarse, enraged, gravitational scratch, a bulldozer and a welder using the electrode as an expendable pawn, a sinful beehive with a bloody cloak, joining with the literal plane, truly coming from an ancient sacredness uninterested in the present. The combination of voice and words is only a pretext to make the artistic association the room in which to warm up the meanings, awaiting the sound system, as a complement and oxidising marriage.

In its early stages, music was a wandering wave, a probe, a canoe, a witch, a cry, an exploration of hypotheticals, a non-existent place in search of presences, an opposition to everyday life, a nascent vocabulary to attract the favours of magnetic spirits. Nothing to do with the apotheosis of simplistic perversions, simplified and emptied of any connection to their roots. Nibiru does not address anyone, it wraps itself in its own core and restores the ancient dictates of this art, now debased and emptied.

In an increasingly flat world, deluded by technology and a complete lack of thought, the artist Ardat takes the time machine and disappears from the sight of fools, using suffering as his sole means of expression, without any desire to attract followers to the black walls of existence. No, there is no catharsis here, but a continuous filling of mental and physical labyrinths with information, anecdotes, privileged expressive tasks, without the presumption of well-being and the benevolent smile of circumstance of those who find themselves imprisoned by this reasonable levitating madness.

The fleeting season of existence here knows the commitment to look into the alleys, the lakes, the slums, the courts of judgement, the mirrors that preserve mediocrity and irreverent instincts: the Nibiru bite with geriatric indifference, uninterested in consensus, while inflicting the punishment of mantric consciousness upon themselves. Not songs, not displays of skill, but mercury and absinthe, tombstones and candelabra, history and chemistry, compressed air and bullets, tsunamis and exhausted calm, sacrifice and magnets, mouthwash and sodium hypochlorite, vespers and epileptic songs, not to perform a repertoire, but for a live contamination of every propulsion.

The Celestial Kingdom is represented, in the forced imprisonment of a soul that recognises no masters other than obedience to cognitive daily life. Sekhmet's womb is the pericardium of this work, the diviner who seals the search and understands the density of liquids, blood clots, the exasperation of fear of the future, of the foetal development of all the resulting circuits. A sharp TNT, a shrill concatenation, a boiling of plasma to cleanse the sense of innocence and throw it into the hands of predators.

There is no definition for the music presented here: there are no genres, no words adequate to anticipate the corridors of stupid definitions, let alone parameters of comparison, because Nibiru also flee from themselves, they do not dwell on clarifying the useless interpretative deception, as it is a live experience, without constraints, without rules, in a rude and sweetly unbearable vomit for most people. Perfection does not include adherence to anything other than one's own nature, and in these grooves, one can perceive its breadth and determination and, with great effort (on the part of those who understand music as a simple and easy gift), even its meaning.

Noise, sludge, ritual are just crumbs in advance, a wonderful game, a sacrifice for the expendable band. They are not musical genres to be exhibited, but the outpost of a multicultural dialectic in search of contacts, different, deformed, rigid and convex forms: HYPÓSTATIS is Friedrich Nietzsche on holiday from the light, Kenneth Grant and Karl Germer in the garden of esotericism as they publish the organisation of a thought that kisses theology, Jung and the anthropological need for a brain to be sanded down and much more, enough to make it a discomfort from which to remove our negligence, a straitjacket to give freedom back its rightful meaning...

Boulder after boulder

Azoth

The abyss ignites souls with a crackle, lyrical voices deceiving harmony and lightness, a prelude that hides the impending scourge, until the grave cry of a child. Time to enjoy this opening door, because then everything atrophies and the glacial advance of musical nihilism finds its space, combining with the vacuous prosperity of light, between descending universes and the omnipresence of pain, in a fury barely restrained, while the idea of insemination by blood looms large. A continuous welding between distortions and psychotic mantras, in a feedback that thickens and becomes a swarm in capture. An apocalyptic Genesis, aristocratic in its non-colour, not linked to ephemeral religiosity, but to the obedience of a contemplative divine, with time that strips and engulfs the flesh, in which everything is food. Wearisome, pressing, annoying and pleasantly uncomfortable for most, the opening track reveals instead the beauty of the concrete, of acid contemplation, of the apotheosis of evil, represented here by a murderous mist.

Binah

Swamp, sluggish limbs, invocation, pills of sound with metastasis, a time capsule without headlights in the universe: we find ourselves in the darkness of the unconscious, in a game of monsters and slow-motion nightmares, a dramatic and contagious fluorescence, a mass in the amphitheatre of punished orgasms, with the theatrical diabolical enunciation of Ardat, here baritone and irreverent, robotic without gasping, while drums like crosses settle in the circles of a sacred and abundant synth. It is surrender, it is full moon, it is contortion, life of love in gentle death...

Idolum

Ardat recites the shadows, in a decadent perspective, with the notes of a piano that seems abandoned at the foot of a precipice. Smudged, vibrant notes that play at bringing the recitative to life after searching through the scars, finding refuge in a cave that empties the music and ignites the bloody symbols, like chains that tattoo the breaths. The seemingly most accessible point of the album actually becomes the fulcrum of a creativity that here measures the embarrassment of having to react to what has torn apart the beats.

Sekhmet

A slingshot welcomes vibrations and murmurs, shadows punish by creating horror, terror, spilling sounds, in a sieve that is a series of oxymorons on patrol. Nothingness finds its specific weight through the turbulence of machines producing electric cables, and slowness laughs mockingly. Of an obscene and majestic beauty, this artistic expression elevates the concept, establishing contact between the gaze of others and one's own fallacy, and the need to become a god who, lost, leads his flock towards the abyss...

Shalicu

A barrage of tamed rays gives this exploration the role of material executor of a series of murders, from that of the body to that of the mind, passing through memories, in an evil wave that does not need the abundance of rhythm. A flight of identity, a message that probes convictions and uses sound waves, crashes, shootings, in a tension where a single bombastic note is enough to generate paralysis. A relentless procession, it presses time and stimulates spasms illuminated by a chain of nerves, with the voice like bare sandpaper, skinning shreds of flesh, grating dreams, killing them too. Cadaverous, Mephistophelean, lustful, the vocal cords process and become the tongue of the serpent in the time of quotation...

Obeah

Here it is, the death of the abyss, its sweetness, its French gestures crossing a theory that suddenly finds itself in the hands of a sequence of minimalist chords, recited by a female voice that creates a hiatus between gravity and lightness, the last bastard deception to pursue, almost a gift for those who have travelled, resisted and experienced this enchanting Gethsemane in which once again the representation of deception has been seen. After all, this masterpiece was born from a series of deaths and needed fictitious art to sublimate itself, guaranteeing itself the eternal throne...

https://open.spotify.com/album/2szeebqDDzHM3YZQs4j1Kn?si=qOc1dGBeSwCvgCMl_xRcyw