Released on November 26, 2021, Hypocrisy’s Worship arrived after nearly a decade of silence — a stretch long enough for some fans to wonder if the band’s extraterrestrial death metal gospel had finally burned out.
Peter Tägtgren had been busy with PAIN, side projects, and production work, but the mothership remained dormant. When Worship finally descended, it felt less like a comeback and more like the return of a familiar signal pulsing through the static: steady, eerie, unmistakably Hypocrisy.
This record isn’t a reinvention. It doesn’t try to modernize the band’s identity or bend toward current metal trends. Instead, Worship feels like a steady hand guiding an old flame — a distillation of everything Hypocrisy has always been: atmospheric, aggressive, melodic, paranoid, and strangely emotional. It’s an album built on the muscle memory of three decades, but sharpened with the wisdom and precision of seasoned musicians who know exactly what they want to say.
Where earlier Hypocrisy albums experimented in mood and direction, Worship leans into refinement. The band doesn’t push into new territories as much as they perfect old ones, sculpting their signature blend of cosmic melancholy and death metal power into a tight, cohesive whole. There is confidence here, a sense of grounding. It sounds like a band at peace with its own identity — and playing with renewed fire because of it.
A Slow Descent into the Unknown
The title track “Worship” opens the record like the slow unveiling of a monolith. Ominous atmospherics swirl through cold guitar lines before the main riff crashes in, carrying that familiar Tägtgren combination of weight and eerie melody. The song feels like a beacon — not flashy, but commanding, a reminder that Hypocrisy’s sound thrives on mood as much as muscle. Tägtgren’s voice cuts through with a weathered sharpness, aggressive yet tinged with a subtle sense of dread.
From there, “Chemical Whore” shifts into darker, more grounded territory. It’s mid-tempo, heavy, and emotionally direct, tackling addiction with a bluntness that hits harder than any cosmic metaphor. The chorus is massive — one of the band’s best in years — rising on melodic lines that never soften the blow but intensify it. The song has the weight of lived experience, a heaviness that’s emotional as much as sonic.
“Greedy Bastards” brings back the tension. Rather than rely on speed, Hypocrisy lets the atmosphere do the talking. The riffs grind, the vocals seethe, and the rhythm section moves like machinery struggling in a failing world. It’s restrained but potent, the kind of track that grows larger the more you sit with it. Tägtgren sounds exhausted and furious, and both emotions suit the material perfectly.
Cosmic Horror Meets Human Fear
The album’s middle stretch reveals just how fully Hypocrisy understands the emotional power of atmosphere. This isn’t a collection of heavy songs tossed together — it’s a cold narrative arc that weaves between outer space paranoia and inner turmoil.
“Dead World” continues that descent into apocalyptic melancholy. The riffs feel like gears grinding in an abandoned ship, and the chorus swells with bleak grandeur. Tägtgren’s vocals hit that sweet spot between harsh and mournful, giving the track a tragic weight. It’s not just end-of-the-world imagery — it’s resignation, a sense of inevitability.
Then comes “We’re the Walking Dead,” arguably the emotional center of the album. It’s slow, brooding, and atmospheric, built around a sorrowful melodic line that lingers like smoke in an empty room. Tägtgren’s delivery is surprisingly vulnerable, allowing the gloom to settle in naturally. The track never rushes, never explodes — it just lives in its despair, and that restraint makes it one of the album’s most striking moments.
“Brotherhood of the Serpent” snaps the record back into aggression. Fast, sharp, and pulsing with extraterrestrial paranoia, it’s the track that most resembles Hypocrisy’s early fury. The riffs are tightly coiled, the drumming relentless, and the vocals fired off like warnings from a collapsing transmission. This is where the storyline of alien conspiracies and ancient cosmic threats surges back to the forefront, giving the album a jolt of adrenaline.
The Searing Core: Hypocrisy at Full Power
The final segment of Worship is where the album solidifies its identity. Every element Hypocrisy is known for — icy melody, crushing riffing, sci-fi dread, emotional intensity — converges into a series of tracks that sound like the band’s DNA crystallized.
“Children of the Gray” feels like classic Tägtgren through and through. The riffs slice through the air with chilling precision, while the chorus ascends into a mournful, cinematic melody. There’s something beautifully desolate about it — a song that feels both massive and intimate, cold yet strangely comforting. It’s one of those moments where Hypocrisy’s melodic instincts shine just as brightly as their heaviness.
“Another Day” carries a different emotional weight. There’s anger here, yes, but more importantly, there’s disappointment. The track feels like a reflection on stagnation and personal disillusionment, wrapped in harsh vocals and a steady, crushing groove. It’s a sleeper highlight — not flashy, but deeply affecting.
“Gods of the Underground” brings the album back into speed-driven aggression. The drumming hits with relentless force, the guitars churn with mechanical brutality, and Tägtgren’s snarling vocal performance gives the track a feral energy. It’s one of the heaviest songs on the album and a reminder that Hypocrisy can still deliver high-tempo punishment when they choose to.
And then the curtain falls with “Doomed.” Slow, bleak, and atmospheric, it feels like the credits rolling on a cosmic disaster film. The riffs lumber forward with apocalyptic inevitability, while the melodies echo with distant sorrow. Tägtgren sounds weary, not defeated — delivering a final statement that lingers long after the music fades. It’s the perfect ending: heavy, cold, and haunting.
A Band Fearless in the Face of the Infinite
What gives Worship its lasting strength isn’t its technical skill or polished production — it’s its sincerity. Hypocrisy has always used cosmic horror as a lens for human vulnerability, and that theme pulses through every track. Tägtgren’s fascination with extraterrestrial lore isn’t superficial. It’s his way of exploring fear, insignificance, and the tension between curiosity and dread.
Even after decades, Hypocrisy still sounds committed, still invested in the cosmic narrative they’ve built. There’s no fatigue here, no sense of duty. Worship feels like it needed to exist — like it was simmering in Tägtgren’s mind for years, waiting for the right moment to surface.
The album doesn’t chase innovation. It seeks clarity. And in achieving that, it becomes one of the band’s most cohesive and emotionally resonant works of the modern era.
Final Verdict: 8.5 / 10
Worship isn’t Hypocrisy reinventing the wheel. It’s Hypocrisy perfecting their craft — focusing their voice into a cold, powerful, atmospheric statement. Heavy, sorrowful, paranoid, and strangely beautiful, it captures everything that makes the band unique.
It’s a transmission from the void, steady and chilling, reminding us that Hypocrisy still burns with alien fire.
