Fire Arrow Records

Some Glaive All forges metal with iron and incense—modern weight fused to medieval fire. They call it Plague Metal: alt/niche metal that teaches a little history while it makes the walls breathe. The band wields both present and past—seven‑strings and drop‑tuned heft beside hurdy‑gurdy, shawm, bodhrán, and frame drums—then threads it all through dual vocals that burn with chemistry. Frontman Callister Sampson (Cardiff, Wales) leads with a blade‑bright tenor that can rasp or ring; bassist/medieval‑instrumentalist/co‑vocalist Zara Amos (Mousehole, Cornwall) answers with a darker ember—chants, laments, war‑cries that feel pulled from a chapel set on fire. With guitarist Kasper Walraven (Rotterdam, Netherlands) carving riffs that grind and bloom, Some Glaive All turns history into heat and myth into motion.

The Origin
The band began as a dare: could you make songs that go as hard as Deftones but carry the ritual power of medieval folk? The answer came in the first rehearsals—Zara’s hurdy‑gurdy drone locked to Kasper’s down‑tuned chug, Callister’s melody riding above like a standard in wind. They raided libraries and luthiers, learning modes and meters older than the venues they were playing. Corvus Corax gave them permission to be brazen with ancient timbres; Subway to Sally showed how folk can be a blade if you swing it right. From there they built a grammar: verses that feel like torchlit corridors, pre‑choruses where the drums go martial and the crowd’s breath syncs, choruses that open like a portcullis rising.

The Sound
Expect a collision engineered for impact—drop‑tuned guitars in a Deftones‑grade haze/hammer dynamic; bass that can either glue to the kick or snarl in counterpoint; tom‑led cadences and hand‑percussion flourishes that summon procession and battle; drones and reeds that turn the air ritual‑thick. Vocally, Callister and Zara don’t trade lines so much as cast spells together—his modern cut shaping hooks, her archaic color deepening the shadow. Melodic choices lean modal (Dorian/Phrygian flavors) without slipping into pastiche; breakdowns arrive like gates slamming; bridges often pivot to a medieval dance figure before detonating back into modern mass. The production rule is simple: let the old instruments be heard as themselves and the new ones carry the weight.

Notable Releases
Shadows of the Plague is the thesis—drone‑fed intro, a verse that walks the fever streets, then a chorus that lifts like a church roof struck by thunder. It frames a 14th‑century calamity with 21st‑century catharsis: Zara’s chant under Callister’s soaring top line, Kasper’s riff dropping a full step on the reentry to make the floor fall away.
Love, then Run is a warning set to a waltz‑turned‑war‑march. Lute and clean guitar share the opening figure before the kick swings it into three‑limbed momentum. Lyrically it nods to courtly love’s double edge—oaths as chains, devotion as danger—until the breakdown saws the chain clean.
Moan for Joan pays tribute and questions in equal measure—Joan of Arc as signal flare and caution. Pipe and drum cadence opens, the verse rides a low, conspiratorial hum, then the chorus erupts into a call‑and‑response between Callister’s vow and Zara’s counter‑prayer. The final minute is a field‑chant turned crowd‑chant; live, it becomes a single throat.

Themes and Writing
History is not costume here—it’s context and canvas. Lyrics mine primary sources and folk memory to talk about the present: contagion as rumor and fear; faith as fuel and fire; love as pact and peril; power as mask and cudgel. Each song carries a lesson tucked into the leather: dates, places, practices, and phrases that reward those who listen twice. But the writing never forgets the body—every stanza is built to move feet as well as minds.

Influences and Lineage
Deftones lend the pressure system—soft focus to sudden crush, romance inside ruin. Subway to Sally is the proof that story and stomp can be the same thing. Corvus Corax provides the unapologetic medieval arsenal and the courage to be loud with drones and reeds. Some Glaive All isn’t imitating; they’re extending the lineage—plugging ancient current into modern amplifiers and letting it arc.

Live and Next
On stage, the show plays like a rite. Torches in the lights, banners like pages torn from an illuminated manuscript, drum signals that cue the crowd as much as the band. There’s a signature “fever hush” before the last chorus—guitars mute, hurdy‑gurdy alone under Zara’s low line—then everything returns in a synchronized slam. Expect festival sets that feel like thunderstorms and club nights that feel like sieges. Next releases expand the map: a cycle on siege lore and a companion EP of “field lessons” that pair each track’s historical footnote with a stripped ritual version. The mission stays fixed—teach a little, burn a lot, leave the room changed.

What to Play First
Shadows of the Plague: cathedral‑sized chorus over plague‑street verses; ritual meets roar.
Love, then Run: courtly waltz to war‑march pivot; hook with teeth.
Moan for Joan: chant‑driven, duet‑ignited; the live chant you’ll still be humming outside.