This record doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It doesn’t care. In the Dawn of November kicks the door open slow, with the weight of years behind it—the kind of record that feels like a reckoning, not a release.
Goya aren’t here to impress you. They never have been. They came crawling out of the desert over a decade ago with blood in their mouth and riffs like wrecking balls, and somehow, after all this time, they’ve only grown heavier. Not heavier in the overproduced, post-everything sense—but in feel. In spirit. In that low, throbbing ache you get when a band digs deep enough into a riff that it starts dragging your guts with it.
The last time we heard from them was Harvester of Bongloads, a monster in its own right, full of humor and acid-fried existentialism. This new one? Not funny. Not ironic. In the Dawn of November feels like being crushed by the weight of memory—funeral-dirge heavy, but cosmic, not claustrophobic. The sound is still rooted in the basement—sleepy-eyed doom, sunburnt sludge—but the vision is bigger now. More patient. More doomed.
Jack Endino produced the record, but don’t expect a slick sound. He just let the band do what they do — raw and heavy. The guitars are thick and dirty. The drums sound hollow, like they were played in a cave. The bass is heavy and slow, pulling everything down.
This is doom without pretending. No one here is copying Sabbath or trying to look old-school. You hear the influences, but Goya is about something different — the feeling of desert isolation. That slow creeping dread when you stare at the horizon and it feels like it’s staring back.
The album moves slow, like watching something break apart. No drama, no tricks. They aren’t trying to convince you. They are just putting it out there. The weight is real, whether you hear it or not.
They never lost what they do. They just kept quiet for a while, dug deeper, waited. Now they are back with something heavy and quiet. It doesn’t yell or wave a flag. It just stands there, solid and still. Like a stone no one remembers in the middle of nowhere, humming quietly.
This isn’t music to play and forget. You live with it. It sticks under your skin. Goya isn’t here to entertain — they’re here to remind you that some music still carries weight.
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Released by Blues Funeral Recordings on June 13th, 2025
