Silenoz on obsession, sacrifice, and why Grand Serpent Rising refused to be rushed.
Eight years is a long time to disappear into the void.
Long enough for bands to fade. Long enough for myths to rot. But when Dimmu Borgir come back, they don’t crawl out — they rise like something that’s been sharpening its teeth in the dark.
On the other end of the line, Silenoz sounds calm. Too calm for a man sitting on a record built from years of cutting, discarding, and refusing to settle.
“We’d rather have quality over quantity.”
Simple line. Brutal reality.
Because Grand Serpent Rising isn’t a collection of songs — it’s what survived. Weeks, months, entire pieces of music thrown away if they didn’t serve the whole. No ego. No mercy.
“You can’t force things,” he says. “They just go further away.”
That’s the spine of this record. Not orchestration. Not riffs. Restraint.
There’s talk of a more guitar-driven sound this time, but Silenoz doesn’t buy into narratives. Dimmu Borgir don’t chase direction — they let it reveal itself. When it hits, it hits. When it needs space, they cut it back to the bone.
Even the return to Norwegian lyrics wasn’t planned. It was necessity. English wasn’t carrying the weight — so they went deeper. And suddenly, it clicked.
Atmosphere locked in. No translation required.
This isn’t reinvention. It’s refinement. A band that knows exactly what it is — and more importantly, what it isn’t.
Eight years later, that patience shows.
Because when this thing lands, it won’t feel overdue.
It’ll feel like it was always meant to happen this way.
This is the gospel.
I bite crowd surfers.
Killer.
