There are few records in death metal history that carry the weight, presence, and enduring intensity of Covenant. By the time Morbid Angel released this third offering, they weren’t just participating in the genre—they were defining it. Covenant is the sound of a band completely in command of their identity, refining their core elements while stretching into uncharted territory. The result is an album that is as otherworldly as it is surgically precise.
From the opening blast of “Rapture,” it’s evident this isn’t a band resting on their legacy. Trey Azagthoth’s guitar work is as other-dimensional as ever, but what sets Covenant apart is how deliberate everything feels. The riffs are malevolent yet hypnotic, often looping with an almost trance-inducing rhythm before spiraling out into one of Trey’s signature chaotic leads. There’s an intelligence behind the madness; it’s not just speed for speed’s sake, but an effort to sculpt something truly arcane. His solos in particular evoke visions of some Lovecraftian rite—erratic, spiritual, and bathed in a cosmic sense of dread. Whether it's the slithering lines of “The Lion’s Den” or the feral bursts in “Angel of Disease,” his playing transcends mere technicality.
Pete Sandoval, often hailed as one of the genre’s greatest drummers, earns that title tenfold here. His performance is nothing short of punishing, yet what stands out is his sense of dynamics. The drums don’t just pummel—they shape the songs. Take “World of Shit,” for example: there’s a tension created by his restraint, allowing brief silences and fills to explode with renewed force. On faster tracks like “Pain Divine,” Sandoval is a cyclone of double kicks and blast beats, but he never loses the plot. Every rhythm, no matter how frenzied, serves the song. It’s a masterclass in how to weaponize precision.
David Vincent, meanwhile, delivers one of the most distinctive vocal performances in death metal. His growls are authoritative without being swallowed by guttural excess. There’s clarity in his delivery that cuts through the mix like a sermon delivered from the depths of the abyss. Lyrically, Covenant delves deep into the band’s thematic obsessions—occultism, ritual, cosmic mythology—but Vincent imbues these ideas with a theatrical venom that elevates them beyond mere shock value. His bass playing, too, is notably tight and impactful, anchoring the swirling chaos with grim resolve.
It’s also impossible to ignore the production on Covenant, courtesy of Flemming Rasmussen. Known for his work with Metallica, Rasmussen brings an icy clarity and heft to the album that makes every element pop. The guitars slice, the drums thunder, and the vocals loom with ritualistic menace. Yet there’s a subtle atmosphere woven throughout—a kind of sepulchral fog that makes the record feel timeless, even sacred.
While the album flows remarkably well, “Nar Mattaru” might be the only moment that feels like a detour. It’s an ominous soundscape that sets the stage for “God of Emptiness,” but repeated listens can render it more transitional than essential. That said, “God of Emptiness” is a fitting closer, a monolithic track that blends doom-laden pacing with Vincent’s commanding spoken-word delivery. It doesn’t end the album so much as it entombs it.
Morbid Angel’s Covenant is the convergence point of ferocity and finesse, ritual and rebellion. It’s where old-school death metal meets high-concept vision, and where each member’s individual brilliance is channeled into something greater than the sum of its parts. In a genre often characterized by chaos, Covenant stands as a rare example of chaos controlled—and wielded like a weapon.
