‘Broken house, rotted souls, Stolen pictures hanging on the walls, Cold wind blows and the snow still falls, Sacrifice, I can hear it call’ (Running Cross)

What do the following have in common: the symphonic melodicism of Dödsrit, the blues-tinged doom of Cathedral, and the surging hardcore of Poison Ruïn?  At first glance, not all that much, except that each spring vividly to mind as possible influences during Bridge Of Sacrifice.  It is a heady, volatile mix.  Yet one that Powerplant handles with such instinctual assurance that it feels entirely natural.

And there, perhaps, lies both the potential strength and weakness of the one-person musical project.  Bands benefit from the virtues and disciplines of collective song writing.  For good or ill, no such restraints exist for the solo artist.  In the case of Theo Zhykharyev’s Powerplant, it is very much a good thing.

Powerplant has been a going concern since 2018 and Bridge Of Sacrifice is album number three.  Born as a solitary, lo-fi synth punk project, it has since evolved into a full band for live shows, but the recording process is still very much an individual concern.  Indeed, the off-kilter synth aesthetic remains at the heart of the sound, although it is now interplaying with a rather more flamboyant palette.

Driving black metal riffage segues into passages of darkly atmospheric neo-folk, before erupting into a dramatic post-punk fervour.  This relentless shapeshifting is more than matched by the vocals.  These flirt with deathly growls, sombre semi-spoken word, and stridently melodic explosions as they evoke a bleakly medieval imagery to explore the importance of home amid the isolation of a fracturing society.

The album’s success lies in the fact that there are no half-measures.  Each idea is delivered with equal sincerity, each influence conjured up with the same theatrical vigour.  The result is one that walks the line between invention and absurdity with impressive confidence.  As the crooned climax to Florida sweeps into the gothically drawled, cello laced The Fork, and then from the savagely blackened garage of Hall Of Wolves to the haunting Gregorian chants and skeletal keys of Arborglyph, you have little idea of what is coming next.  The surprise rarely disappoints.