Before Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Obrij had already seen the writing on the wall. The signs were there—the revival of Stalin’s cult, the glorification of imperialist nostalgia, the slow erasure of memory.
“Joseph” is not just their first full-length album—coming up 1,5 years after their impactful EP “Empire Of Scum”, it’s a brutal, unfiltered reckoning with one of history’s bloodiest regimes. Eight tracks, each a different chapter in the horrors of Stalin’s reign, a timeline of famine, repression, forced labor, and genocide. It’s history told through metallic hardcore-infused death metal, raw and punishing.
The Weight of History
Obrij, formed in Uzhhorod in 2013, is one of Ukraine’s most relentless metal acts. Their sound draws from the heavyweights of European death metal and hardcore—Bolt Thrower, Asphyx, At The Gates, Merauder, Wolfbrigade. But where their influences reveled in apocalyptic warfare, Obrij’s war is personal. “Joseph” is an album born from necessity, from an urgency to document what should never be forgotten.
The crimes committed under Stalin’s rule didn’t end with his death. They lived on in silence, in the unmarked graves, in the erased histories, in the propaganda still poisoning minds decades later. This album is a direct confrontation, pulling no punches. “Joseph” lays it out chronologically—each song another piece of the machine of repression, grinding down its victims, leaving nothing but bones.
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Yaroslav Grob, the artist behind the album’s cover, has been working with Obrij since their first release. His stark, unflinching style has become integral to the band’s visual identity. “My family experienced repression based on ethnic origin,” he explains. “The graphics I created for this album are almost nothing compared to prisons, labor camps, forced settlements, and execution pits—rather, they serve as a brief yet piercing reflection on history.”
Chronicles of Terror
From the outset, “Joseph” makes its intent clear. “How the Steel Was Tempered” details the Bolsheviks’ rise, the Red Terror, the promises of revolution that ended in chains. The masses were told they had nothing to lose but their shackles—only to find themselves in a system where “wooden soldiers of Urfin Jus” were disposable pawns in the party’s game.
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“The Yellow Prince” shifts focus to one of the Soviet Union’s most heinous crimes—the Holodomor. A calculated famine that wiped out millions, especially in Ukraine, all to crush peasant resistance. The lyrics don’t hold back: “An insane mother eats her child. Horror personified, evil unpunished.” The dead land, stripped of food, left to rot. The weight of a government that starved its own people into submission.
“The Garden of Gethsemane” moves to the persecution of Ukraine’s intellectual elite. If the Holodomor broke the countryside, the Executed Renaissance sought to break the soul. Writers, poets, academics—silenced, executed, erased. “Led by their hearts to their own demise, their talent only drawing death closer,” the song laments. The war against Ukraine was never just physical—it was a war against culture, against identity.
Then comes “Darkness at Noon,” a song that drags Stalin’s Great Purge into focus. Paranoia turned into mass murder. Former revolutionaries, once trusted allies, were suddenly branded as traitors, shot in the back of the head. Stalin’s machine consumed its own. No one was safe. “Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, only to be hunted like Cain.”
“M–Day” is an instrumental piece, an ominous pause before the destruction that follows. “Black Echelons” follows the forced deportations of entire ethnic groups. Those branded as enemies of the state—Tatars, Chechens, Volga Germans—were ripped from their homes, sent to die in the cold. The song is a brutal anthem of displacement: “Far from home, chained in the Siberian snows.”
“Patience” pulls the focus to the aftermath of war. The veterans who returned, broken, maimed, left to rot in obscurity. The Soviet Union celebrated the fallen but abandoned the living. “Better to have died on the front line—the regime has no need for cripples.” The ones who sacrificed everything were discarded like waste.
And then, the closing track, “The Gulag Archipelago.” A name that needs no explanation. The camps, the backbreaking labor, the methodical destruction of human beings. This was Stalin’s real legacy. “To kill, to humiliate, to drain all strength, to crush all dignity.” The song doesn’t end on hope, because there is none. The tyrant is dead, but the prison remains.
A Scene in Wartime
Obrij is not planning live shows anytime soon. Their vocalist is serving in the army, and war is not a time for touring. “At any moment, any band member could be called to join the army,” they say. In Ukraine, musicians don’t just disappear into the studio—they disappear into the trenches.
The local scene is suffering. “Most men over 25 are either fighting, have been killed or injured, or are in hiding, afraid of being sent to war.” This isn’t just a logistical problem. It’s emotional, psychological. “Many musicians are physically unable to engage in creativity, while others are emotionally drained.”
Travel restrictions for men under martial law mean even bands that built a name abroad are stuck. No tours, no festivals. Ukrainian music is trapped within its own borders, waiting for a chance to breathe. “Perhaps this year will bring a temporary freeze in the conflict—a pause in the war that could give Ukrainian society a chance to recover. But long-term peace is not guaranteed. At any moment, Russia could attack again.”
And yet…
there is no surrender!
Obrij will keep writing, keep recording. “Perhaps in the second half of the year, we will have something new to share.” Nothing is certain, but that has never stopped them before.
“Joseph” is not entertainment. It is a document, an accusation, a warning. Obrij does not soften the blows. The crimes of the past live on, replicated, glorified, repeated. Stalin is still on pedestals. His legacy is still whispered in the halls of power.
Here’s the full track by track breakdown of the album:
“The tyrant is dead, but the prison remains. It has raised Stalin’s successors, who now seek to “repeat” the deeds of their idol. The time will come for a new de-Stalinization and another “thaw.” But this time, its waters must wash away the prison of nations, leaving no stone unturned.”
“How the Steel Was Tempered”
After coming to power, the Bolsheviks not only managed to hold onto it, but also to seize most of the former Russian Empire. This is how the steel of the regime was tempered, in the crucible of civil war and Red Terror. The Party promised land to the peasants and factories to the workers, but in the end, they all found themselves burdened with yokes that could not be thrown off for a long time. The participants themselves, no matter how much they imagined themselves as heroes of Nikolai Ostrovsky’s novel, were, in fact, nothing more than wooden soldiers of the collective Urfin Jus—the Bolshevik Party.
When there is nothing to lose but chains,
You can’t scare the hungry with war.
Wooden soldiers of Urfin Jus—
The army of rabble is ready for battle.
With a sparkle in their eyes, ready to kill— Not pitying either someone else’s life or their own. Controlled like wooden soldiers, Ready to die at the leader’s command.
The Cerberus with a thousand jaws broke its chain— The fate of millions lies in the hands of vagabonds.
In hopelessness, where sadness reigns— This is where steel was tempered. Where poverty degrades morality— This is where steel was tempered. To survive, forget empathy and pity— This is how steel was tempered. A cog in the system strengthens the entire vertical— This is how steel was tempered.
The will of the people is compromised— The mood of the masses is in the hands of the screamers. The masses wanted bread, they wanted freedom, But received slavery and the rule of executioners.
To destroy all remnants of the old, To build something new from the ashes… But those who were supposed to show the way Do not sow fields—they sow cemeteries.
“The Yellow Prince”
In carrying out accelerated collectivization, the Party, led by Joseph Stalin, feared possible peasant uprisings, which were especially likely in the territory of modern Ukraine. “No man—no problem.” It remains uncertain whether Stalin ever actually said this phrase, but attempts to solve the problems of collectivization and suppress peasant resistance led to the starvation of millions, causing one of the greatest tragedies in Ukrainian history.
And no matter how hard anyone tries to silence the Holodomor, to erase it from the pages of history, the victims of this tragedy still speak—and will continue to speak—through the memory of generations, through the books of Robert Conquest, Vasyl Barka, and many others.
Dead land— No more children’s laughter can be heard. The village is dying, Covered in mud, blood, and snow. There is no food— The bread takers have seized all that the land had given. Hunger and death— An insane mother eats her child.
Horror personified, evil unpunished, Cursed for centuries are those who starved the village.
Hungry death walks from house to house, Barely living bodies wander aimlessly— The cruel actions of a greedy government Have stolen the people’s right to life.
The Yellow Prince reigns, bringing pain and death!
Only flocks of crows circle Over the famine-ravaged land. What once seemed like paradise Has turned into hell.
Sleepless nights— Darkness hides beneath its wing Those who have lost all humanity, united with evil. The hunt is on, The weak will become prey. Hell on earth— The intoxicating scent of human flesh.
Horror personified, evil unpunished, Cursed for centuries are those who starved the village.
Hungry death walks from house to house, Barely alive bodies wander aimlessly— The cruel actions of a greedy government Have stolen the people’s right to life.
The Yellow Prince reigns, bringing pain and death!
“The Garden of Gethsemane”
After the brief period of Korenizatsiia (“nativization”), this policy was halted, and imperialistic practices of total Russification were reinstated. A number of creative intellectuals were exterminated as a result of this political shift. If the Holodomor was a major blow to the Ukrainian rural population, the Executed Renaissance had a fatal impact on the Ukrainian intelligentsia. Although it is difficult to imagine what the victims of these repressions endured before their deaths, The Garden of Gethsemane, a novel by Ivan Bahrianyi, provides us with a certain picture of it.
Kharkiv, Kharkiv, where is your face? It is not visible behind the smoke of the factories! Has the viscous vernacular lulled you to sleep, Bringing you grief while promising freedom?
Oppressed and persecuted for years, Almost destroyed but not forgotten, The native language, heard from the mother, Had finally broken its chains.
In the smoky human stew, A single draft brings a hint of cool. After a night in the Garden of Gethsemane, Only death can grant you freedom.
Kharkiv, Kharkiv, where is your face? It is not visible behind the blood and dirt. Your call was cut short, your blossom destroyed, Your chest was crushed by the Chekist’s boot.
Led by their hearts to their own demise, Their talent only drawing death closer. Ground to dust by the repressive machine, With a predator’s gaze beneath the executioner’s hood.
In the smoky human stew, A single draft brings a hint of cool. After a night in the Garden of Gethsemane, Only death can grant you freedom.
“Darkness at Noon”
On his path to absolute power, Stalin did not forget about his former henchmen. As it turned out, all of them were supposedly intelligence agents of capitalist countries, plotting a coup d’état, and engaging in other conspiracies. During the Great Terror of 1937–1938, nearly everyone who could potentially pose even the slightest alternative to the leader was repressed and eliminated.
Many former Party leaders, clinging to the hope of salvation, resorted to self-abasement, swearing loyalty to Stalin—only to later, like Koestler’s Rubashov, die from a bullet to the back of the head.
Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, Only to be hunted like Cain. He gave his health and youth to the revolution— Only to meet death, discarded like Judas.
Believed in false ideals— A life ruined. Eternal darkness at noon— Lived like a blind man.
Endless waiting kills, I wring my hands in agony, as there is nothing I can do. Only a bullet will end the suffering.
I deserve punishment, But I long for the torment to end, To feel the gentle touch of death.
IT HAS TO BE THIS WAY!
There is no stopping the machine of repression— It takes only one spark to set it in motion. Those who build the system will be crushed by it, Those who were destroying lives in exchange for an illusion of progress.
Believed in false ideals— A life ruined. Eternal darkness at noon— Lived like a blind man.
Endless waiting kills, I wring my hands in agony, as there is nothing I can do. Only a bullet will end the suffering.
I deserve punishment, But I long for the torment to end, To feel the gentle touch of death.
IT HAS TO BE THIS WAY!
“M-Day”
World War II caught the tyrant by surprise. Despite concentrating absolute power in his hands, he could not control external forces. Everything he had built over the years was suddenly at risk of collapsing like a house of cards under the attack of another monster—Adolf Hitler.
Only decades later can we view those events without the blinders of propaganda, thanks in part to the works of Viktor Suvorov, which led many to rethink their understanding of World War II and the Soviet Union’s role in it.
“Black Echelons”
Through the heroism and self-sacrifice of Soviet soldiers, the aggressor was driven back, but the humiliation of the war’s early months could not be erased. Entire nations were branded as traitors and subjected to genocidal practices. Hundreds of thousands of families were forced to leave their homes, like the heroes of Ervin Umerov, becoming victims of a mad tyrant’s revenge.
Far from home, Chained in the Siberian snows, For the traditions and language Taught by your parents.
Torn from the roots, a nation destroyed, Collective punishment—Sürgün, Ardahar, Malenki Robot.
Families torn apart, The cold of abandoned homes, Dreams shattered By the hands of soulless executioners.
Expelled from the Garden of Eden, A shadow cast over an entire people, All to fulfill a wicked plan— To sever the bond of generations.
“Patience”
Heroism came in different forms. If you returned from the war safe and sound, you were a hero. But if you left a limb on the battlefield, you became useless to everyone. “Stalin’s samovars” were swiftly removed from city streets, hidden from the eyes of virtuous citizens. Bogoyar Island was not a figment of Yuri Nagibin’s imagination—it was the grim reality of the post-war USSR.
Forgotten, doomed To live out their days on an island. Better to have died on the front line— The regime has no need for cripples.
High land, Thousands left behind in the Finnish snows. Winter War— This was only the beginning. A low price— A soldier’s life means nothing. Winter War— A death sentence for the troops.
Goliath marches, Calm and assured in his strength. But war— It is only the beginning. His head, Cold and dusted with snow. A bloody toll Paid for Valaam.
Their sacrifices—forgotten. They themselves—cursed. No medicine can heal their wounds. Waiting for death, Holding bread with their stumps— The proletarian kingdom has no need for cripples.
To voluntarily take up the cross, To give your life for the future of the people, Only to have a condemning finger pointed at you, Receiving prison instead of honor?
Forgotten, doomed To live out their days on an island. Better to have died on the front line— The regime has no need for cripples.
A new war— The fronts stretch like open wounds. Not a single meter Can be surrendered without a fight. What does life matter? United by rage, united by fury, Ready to seal the breach With their own bodies.
Stand to the end— There are no prisoners, only traitors. To die in battle Is a soldier’s honor. To lose your life, A sacrifice to Ares— This is the final payment For Valaam.
Their sacrifices—forgotten. They themselves—cursed. No medicine can heal their wounds. Waiting for death, Holding bread with their stumps— The proletarian kingdom has no need for cripples.
“The Gulag Archipelago”
The Gulag (Main Directorate of Correctional Labour Camps) was one of the largest—if not the largest—networks of concentration camps in human history. Today, in a country that considers itself the successor to the USSR, monuments to Joseph Stalin are still being erected. However, the greatest monument to Stalin was built by the man himself: the camps where countless people were tortured and innumerable lives were shattered. This remains the defining result and symbol of Koba’s rule.
All achievements in science, industrial development, and even victory in the war against Nazi Germany were accomplished not because of the tyrant, but in spite of him.
Cold, constant frost
Penetrates the weakened body.
Thoughts, like icicles,
Clumsily attack the mind.
Soulless creatures Destroy with labor those Who were never afraid to work, As if they were nothing but silent slaves.
To kill, to humiliate, To drain all strength, To crush all dignity, To send to the grave.
Sun, send me at least a ray,
To warm my soul!
It is hard to remain human,
But I must.
To voluntarily take up the cross, To give your life for the future of the people, Only to have a condemning finger pointed at you, Receiving prison instead of honor?
Cold, ominous indifference
Frightens life with the mundanity of death.
Hell, cold as despair,
Grinds everything in its sticky whirlwind.
Soulless creatures Destroy with labor those Who were never afraid to work, As if they were nothing but silent slaves.
To kill, to humiliate, To drain all strength, To crush all dignity, To send to the grave.
Sun, send me at least a ray,
To warm my soul!
It is hard to remain human,
But I must.
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