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Hails, my fellow black metal fanatics! Sean here from Black Metal Archives, and today, we have the distinct pleasure of offering our first written interview with Roman and Gennady of Ezkaton! We take a deep dive into their 2024 opus, Synaesthesis Monologue, the recording process, and what the future may hold for Ezkaton! As we stated before, this album is a masterclass in blending raw emotion with immersive soundscapes, offering a six-track journey through melancholic depths and ethereal darkness. So we cannot thank Roman and Gennady enough for taking the time to give us an in-depth look into the dark world of Ezkaton, so let’s light the candles, dim the lights, and dissect this beast.

Thank you for calling Synaesthesis Monologue an emotional journey — it really is, and it came from a place that completely reshaped me. The concept wasn’t planned out like a blueprint; it grew out of this seismic shift in how I saw life after the full-scale invasion hit in 2022 and after losing people close to me, like my brother, to the war even before that. Those losses, and the friends and faces that kept disappearing, flipped everything upside down — suddenly, the world wasn’t what I thought it was. The album became my way of grappling with that. The first half — tracks like ‘Veil of Twilight Shroud’ and ‘Lost in Realms’ — I wrote before 2022, and they’ve got this searching, almost ethereal vibe, like I was chasing something intangible. Then the war crashed in, and the second half —  ‘Solace,’ the title track — turned into this heavier, rawer beast, reflecting the chaos and pain I was living through, not just for me but for Ukraine itself.

The title Synaesthesis Monologue captures that exact moment when everything you thought you knew — about life, people, even yourself — starts to blur and morph. It’s like your senses are betraying you: things aren’t what they seem, and you’re left alone to make sense of it. For me, it’s about that solitary struggle to digest a reality that’s been shattered, where no one’s coming to piece it back together for you. The ‘synaesthesis’ part is the collision of feelings — grief, rage, hope — all tangled up, and the ‘monologue’ is you wrestling with it in your own head. This album’s not just music; it’s me trying to hold onto something solid when the ground keeps shifting.

When I sit down to write an album like Synaesthesis Monologue, I don’t map out which track comes first — I just let the music flow, and the songs stay in the order they’re born, like a thought that needs to reach its end. Veil of Twilight Shroud ended up leading the album because it was the first spark, written before the full-scale invasion in 2022, when I was in this introspective, almost otherworldly headspace. It’s haunting, yeah, and that tone came from me digging into this mix of longing and unease — maybe a subconscious sense of what was coming, though I didn’t know it then. 

I didn’t ‘decide’ it should lead; it just did, because that’s how the story started. Its moody, atmospheric vibe — those layered guitars and distant melodies — set the stage for the journey, like stepping into a fog before the storm hits. The shifts in mood across the album, from Veil to later tracks like Crimson Tide, mirror how my own headspace changed, especially after the war flipped everything in 2022. Veil of Twilight Shroud isn’t just a song; it’s where I was when this whole monologue began.

The shift from atmospheric black metal in the first half of Synaesthesis Monologue to the doom metal influences in tracks like ‘Synaesthesis Monologue,’ ‘Solace,’ and ‘Forevermore’ was a big leap, but it felt essential. I’ve always been drawn to doom — Saturnus is a huge influence with their melancholic, melodic sound that just pulls you in deep. That’s what I value most in music: melodies that carry this heavy, emotional weight. For years, I leaned into black metal with Ezkaton because it was my go-to — raw, atmospheric, intense. It worked for tracks written before 2022, when I was exploring something more ethereal.

Then the full-scale invasion hit, and everything changed — my perspective, my emotions, the world around me. Losing people close to me, like my brother before 2022, and the war piling on more grief, I hit a point where black metal couldn’t hold what I was feeling anymore. The anger was there, but it was buried in this slow, crushing sorrow. That’s when I turned to doom. It wasn’t easy — switching genres mid-album felt like stepping off a cliff after being so rooted in black metal. But doom, with its heavy, deliberate riffs and room for raw emotion, was the perfect fit. Doom metal let me stretch out those melodies, channel the melancholy I love in Saturnus, and pour in everything — the war, the losses, the way life just wasn’t the same. Doom gave me a bigger canvas to paint the pain and still find some flicker of hope.

Balancing the atmospheric and depressive elements in our sound is all about crafting a journey that pulls listeners in and holds them there. I handle pretty much everything — guitars, keys, some vocals, composition — so it’s a deeply personal process, like painting with sound. The atmospheric side comes from my love for creating expansive, personal textures — swirling guitars and subtle melodies that feel like they’re carrying you somewhere vast. I aim for that sense of escape, where the music feels bigger than the moment.

The depressive elements, though — those hit harder in tracks like Synaesthesis Monologue or Forevermore — and they’re rooted in raw emotion. I lean into slower, heavier riffs and let the vocals carry this weight that doesn’t shy away from pain. To make it immersive, I don’t force the two to blend perfectly; I let them ebb and flow. For example, I might start with a delicate, haunting intro to set a mood, then drop into a crushing, doom-heavy section that feels like it’s pressing down on you. It’s about contrast — the atmosphere lifts you up, the depression grounds you, and together they create this push-pull that makes you feel every note. That’s what Synaesthesis Monologue is for me: not just songs, but a space where those extremes coexist and draw you in completely.

 Thanks for the compliment — the vocals mean a lot to me. I just dig into whatever I’m feeling that day. It’s a heavy song, all intense and dark, so I don’t plan much — I just let it rip. Before recording, I might walk around, clear my head, or think about something that’s got me worked up. Then I just sing like I mean it, pushing my voice till it feels right. It’s not fancy; I’m just trying to make the emotion hit hard.

I don’t force a plan, I just start playing and see where it takes me. This one came from a quiet, introspective place, probably late at night when I was alone with my thoughts. I wanted to create something that felt like drifting through a dream — not quite solid, but heavy with feeling. I started with a soft, layered guitar line, letting it build slowly, almost like a fog rolling in, and added these delicate, reverb-soaked melodies.

The creative process was pretty organic. I’d sit with my gear — mostly my guitar and some basic recording setup — and just experiment, looping ideas until they felt right. It’s like I was trying to capture a moment of stillness, that fragile space between hope and something darker creeping in. There wasn’t a grand concept at first; it was more about chasing that feeling and letting the track unfold naturally. By the time it was done, I knew it had to open the album — it’s like an invitation to step into the world we built with Synaesthesis Monologue.

‘Crimson Tide’ was one of those tracks that poured out of me with this intense, almost larger-than-life energy, and I’m glad you picked up on its cinematic quality — that’s exactly what I was going for. Musically, I wanted it to feel like a storm rolling in, something unstoppable yet beautiful in its chaos.

Emotionally, I was aiming to evoke this mix of defiance and longing — that feeling of standing against something overwhelming but refusing to break. When I wrote it, I was in a headspace where the world felt heavier, more uncertain, and I needed a track that could carry that weight without flinching. Crimson Tide isn’t about one specific thing; it’s more like a vessel for those big, messy emotions — rage, hope, maybe even a flicker of beauty in the struggle. I wanted listeners to feel swept up in it, like they’re part of something epic yet deeply human. For me, crafting it was about finding that balance: making it grand enough to feel cinematic but raw enough to hit you right in the chest.

The title track, Synaesthesis Monologue, is absolutely the heart of the album — it’s where everything I was feeling and wrestling with came together in one place. To me, this song is about confronting a world that’s suddenly not what you thought it was, where your senses and emotions get tangled up, and you’re left sorting through it all on your own. I wanted it to feel like an inner dialogue, raw and unfiltered, which is why it’s got this heavy, introspective weight but also moments of fragile beauty. It’s not just a song; it’s like a snapshot of trying to find meaning when everything’s shifting under you.

The creative process for it was intense. Since it’s from the second half of the album, written after 2022, I was deep in a doom metal mindset, leaning into slow, deliberate riffs that hit like a heartbeat. I started with a single guitar line — this mournful, melodic thread — and built from there, layering in vocals that felt more exposed than anything I’d done before. I wasn’t just singing; I was letting my voice carry everything I couldn’t say out loud. The track came together piece by piece, almost like I was sculpting it in real time, adding these atmospheric touches — faint echoes, subtle harmonies — to give it that immersive, almost dreamlike quality. I didn’t set out to make it the emotional core; it just became that as I poured myself into it, trying to capture that solitary struggle and still leave room for a spark of resilience. For me, Synaesthesis Monologue is the album in its purest form — a conversation with myself that I hope resonates with anyone who hears it.

‘Solace’ is a special track on Synaesthesis Monologue, and I’m glad you caught its quiet, reflective vibe — it’s meant to stand out as a moment of stillness amid the album’s heavier intensity. I did want it to feel like a breather for the listener, a chance to pause and soak in something softer, but it’s also so much more than that. For me, Solace carries a deep sense of searching — it’s about finding a flicker of calm or clarity when everything else feels overwhelming, when the world seemed to shift under my feet.

The creative process for this track was unique, especially because of the long, melodic grand piano part, which was written by my old classmate Yuliya Stolyarets. Yuliya’s contribution brought this haunting, almost fragile beauty to the song — her piano lines weave through it like a thread, carrying this delicate, emotional weight that I couldn’t have achieved alone. I didn’t want to overcrowd it; every note had to feel intentional, leaving space for the listener to feel the quiet. Solace is about those moments when you’re alone with your thoughts, trying to make sense of a reality that’s not what it used to be, and Yuliya’s piano made that idea sing. It’s a breather, sure, but it’s also a reminder that even in the heaviest times, there’s something worth holding onto.

‘Forevermore’ is the heaviest track on Synaesthesis Monologue for me, both musically and emotionally, and I always knew it had to close the album — it’s like the final breath of everything I poured into this record. When I was writing it, I was deep in this raw, aching place, and the song became a direct channel for my grief over my brother, who died in the war against Russia. The lyrics are unfiltered; they’re about that sorrow, the kind that sits in your bones and doesn’t let go. I didn’t set out to make it the finale at first, but as I wrote, it felt like the natural end — a somber, resolute chord that ties the whole journey together, especially after the intensity of tracks like ‘Crimson Tide’ and the quiet reflection of ‘Solace.’

The creative process was slow and deliberate, like carving something out of stone. I wanted the guitars to linger, almost mournful, and the vocals — my own, which I’d only started recording for this album — had to be raw, like I was speaking directly to him. There’s this sparse, melodic line that weaves through, giving it a touch of hope, but it’s understated, because grief isn’t something you just resolve. I hope listeners take away a sense of shared humanity from it — that feeling of carrying loss but still finding a way to keep going. It’s not about closure; it’s about acknowledging the pain and letting it exist. For me, Forevermore is my brother’s presence in the music, and I hope it resonates with anyone who’s ever had to say goodbye too soon.

11. Ezkaton’s lyrical themes often touch on downfall, misery, and history. How do these themes tie into Synaesthesis Monologue, and what inspired the lyrical direction?

Ezkaton’s lyrics have always gravitated toward darker themes — downfall, misery, history — because they’re a way to wrestle with the weight of existence, and Synaesthesis Monologue takes that to a deeply personal level. Downfall comes through in the sense of things unraveling — not just personally, but for everyone caught in the chaos of that time. History, though, is less about specific events and more about this haunting presence of what’s been lost and what we carry forward — it’s like the past is always whispering in the background, shaping how we face the present.

The lyrical direction was inspired by this need to process a reality that didn’t make sense anymore. After the full-scale invasion, I felt like everything I thought I knew — about life, about stability — was upended, and I had to face that alone. That’s what Synaesthesis Monologue is about: a solitary dialogue with those feelings. I didn’t set out to write about history or misery explicitly; it just came from staring into what was happening and letting it spill out. I hope listeners feel that tension — the fall, the pain, but also the stubborn pulse of keeping going, like history itself refusing to be erased.

The raw, unpolished sound of Synaesthesis Monologue is something I leaned into because it just felt right for the emotions I was pouring out — I’m glad you think it adds to the impact. When I started recording and mixing, I was working with skills I’ve been building since 2018, when I first dove into shaping Ezkaton’s sound. Back then, I was glued to YouTube, watching hundreds of hours of tutorials on everything from mic placement to EQ settings, trying to figure out how to make my ideas come alive. I’m completely self-taught, so it’s been a long, messy road, and honestly, the sound on this album isn’t where I dream of taking it someday — there’s still so much I want to learn to get that polished edge. But for now, this rawness is where I’m at, and it ended up fitting the album’s heart.

My creative process has grown a lot from Sheen and Misery to Synaesthesis Monologue. Back then, I was just experimenting, throwing together dark, atmospheric sounds with a lot of raw energy but not much focus. Now, with Synaesthesis Monologue, I’m more intentional — I let the music flow naturally but pay closer attention to balancing melody and emotion, especially with the heavier, slower sound I leaned into. It feels more like telling a story than just making noise, and I’m trying to dig deeper into what the music says.

I joined Ezkaton in 2019 because Roman and I go way back — we played together in Colotyphus, so when he asked me to do vocals, it felt like a no-brainer. I was already into the kind of dark, heavy music Ezkaton was making, and I liked the idea of jumping in to add my voice to it. He’d send me tracks, tell me the mood he was going for and I’d just sing what felt right. Roman gives me room to do my thing, but he’s clear about what the song needs, so I try to match that energy, keeping the vocals raw and real to fit the album’s heavy, emotional feel.

The depressive black-doom metal label for Ezkaton makes sense when you listen to Synaesthesis Monologue — it captures the vibe pretty well, but I don’t think it’s the whole story or where I’ll stay forever. That mix of bleak, introspective blackness and slow, crushing doom fits the ‘depressive’ tag, especially with lyrics about loss and a world turned upside down. It’s like the music is carrying both a scream and a sigh, which I think nails what people hear in that label.

That said, I don’t feel boxed in by it. Synaesthesis Monologue is where I’m at now, but music’s always been about chasing what’s inside me, not sticking to a genre. I’m already wondering what the next album might sound like — maybe it’ll keep some of that doom heaviness, or maybe I’ll veer off into something completely different, like brighter melodies or a new style altogether. I see Ezkaton as more fluid, transcending those boundaries when the time feels right. For now, depressive black-doom metal is a solid frame, but it’s not the endgame — it’s just one chapter of what I want to say through music.

The Ukrainian black metal scene has this incredible depth — it’s raw, soulful, and carries a weight that’s hard to pin down, and being part of that legacy with Ezkaton feels both humbling and motivating. I think Ezkaton fits into it by adding our own voice, blending the atmospheric, melancholic edge of black metal with the heavier, more introspective doom influences that come out in Synaesthesis Monologue. As for influences, Drudkh is the one that’s left the biggest mark on me, no question. Their ability to weave history, emotion, and atmosphere into something that feels both timeless and deeply Ukrainian — like in albums such as Autumn Aurora or their 2025 release Shadow Play — has always blown me away. They showed me how music can carry a whole culture’s weight without preaching. Beyond metal, I’ve been shaped by a lot of Ukrainian bands outside the genre — their names don’t always fit the black metal box, but their spirit of pushing boundaries and staying true to our roots resonates with me. That mix of Drudkh’s intensity and the broader Ukrainian drive to create something real is what I try to channel in Ezkaton. I hope we’re adding a thread to the scene’s legacy, one that honors its past but isn’t afraid to stretch into new territory.

I love offering physical formats like CD’s, Vinyls and high-bias cassettes because it lets fans connect with the album however they want. The posters came about since so many people asked for them. It’s important to me that everyone can experience it their way.

‘Lost in Realms’ has this desolate, wandering quality that I’m really proud of, and it came from a place of wanting to step outside the here-and-now. I wrote it before the full-scale invasion in 2022, when I was in a headspace of exploring something bigger — something almost cosmic yet strangely familiar, like a half-remembered dream. The inspiration was this idea of being untethered, drifting through some vast, shadowy plane where time and place don’t quite hold. I wanted the lyrics to feel universal, not tied to any specific moment, but more about that pull between longing and isolation, with a touch of something ancestral or otherworldly that feels like it’s part of you.

I don’t come at the guitar with any fancy skills or deep technical know-how — I’m pretty average, to be honest, but I pour my heart into every note, and I think that’s what shapes the layered, atmospheric sound of Synaesthesis Monologue. My go-to gear is simple: I use a basic 500$ electric guitar, nothing high-end, paired with a digital amp modeler to get the tones I need. I lean on reverb and delay plugins a lot — they’re my bread and butter for creating that expansive, washy sound.

Technique-wise, it’s less about skill and more about feeling. I’m not shredding or doing complex stuff; I focus on slow, deliberate chords and melodic lines that linger, layering them in the mix to build depth. I’ll record a clean take, then add another with slight variations — maybe a tremolo-picked melody or a droning chord — to create that atmospheric swirl. It’s trial and error, really, guided by what feels right in the moment. I’ve been self-taught since I started messing around with music, watching YouTube tutorials to pick up basics, but I think what listeners connect with is the honesty in it. I’m just trying to translate what’s in my head and heart, and if that comes off as immersive, I’m happy it’s hitting the mark.

If you haven’t heard Synaesthesis Monologue, what are you waiting for, head on over to their bandcamp page right now and start spinning this album! Then come back here and drop a comment below and let’s talk about it.

We cannot thank Roman and Gennady of Ezkaton enough for their time!