REVIEW: Mallavora - What If Better Never Comes?
- Mia Gailey
- Mar 26
- 3 min read
There’s a tension running through What If Better Never Comes? that never quite resolves — and that’s exactly the point.
MALLAVORA’s debut doesn’t follow the usual arc of arrival. There’s no sense of a band trying to prove themselves in obvious, commercial ways, no over-polished bid for mass appeal. Instead, this is a record that leans fully into discomfort — structurally, emotionally, and sonically — and trusts the listener to stay with it. The result is something that feels less like a statement piece and more like an exposed nerve, constantly shifting, constantly resisting resolution.
Prologue opens the record with an eerie, slow-burning atmosphere that feels deliberately incomplete, like a door left slightly ajar. It doesn’t so much introduce the album as it unsettles it, bleeding seamlessly into Smile. As one of the album’s lead singles, Smile still lands with impact, but within the full context it takes on a sharper edge. Its jagged riffs and sudden vocal shifts feel more volatile here, less like a standalone burst of energy and more like part of a wider emotional spiral. That sense of instability carries into Waste, which pushes even further into unease. There’s a suffocating quality to its pacing, as if the track is folding in on itself, refusing the listener any easy release.
Lilith & Esther (feat. BANSHEE) emerges as one of the album’s most striking moments. It’s not just the feature that elevates it, but the clarity of its vision. Drawing from Jewish and Middle Eastern influences, the track expands MALLAVORA’s sonic identity while grounding it more deeply in heritage and storytelling. Jessica Douek’s performance here is particularly compelling — moving from controlled, almost reverent delivery into something far more feral. There’s a theatrical edge to it, but it never feels performative; it feels necessary, like an emotional language that can’t be expressed any other way.
The middle stretch of the record is where its weight really settles. Hopeless and Break feel intentionally dense, both musically and emotionally. They resist the kind of cathartic release that heavy music often leans on, instead circling their own tension. It’s an effective choice, even if it makes for a more demanding listen. Birth of a Sun offers a brief moment of lift, a flicker of something lighter, but it never fully blooms. That sense of almost-relief makes the transition into Sick hit harder — a track that feels like one of the album’s most direct confrontations with its central themes. There’s anger here, but it’s focused and deliberate, aimed outward as much as inward.
Walking The Edge Of The Knife thrives on imbalance. It constantly feels like it’s about to tip over, pulling back at the last second and keeping the listener suspended in that tension. It’s one of the album’s most dynamically engaging tracks, using restraint as much as release to maintain its grip. Empty follows with a more subdued emotional palette, but it doesn’t feel like a break. Instead, it captures a quieter kind of exhaustion — the kind that lingers rather than explodes.
By the time Make The World Wait arrives, there’s a subtle shift in perspective. It feels more reflective, almost observational, as though the album is taking a step back to assess everything it’s just put the listener through. That distance is short-lived. Host reintroduces a creeping sense of unease, building slowly and deliberately toward the final track. The title track, What If Better Never Comes? closes the album in a way that feels entirely in keeping with everything that precedes it. It’s expansive and emotionally open, but it refuses to offer resolution. There’s no neat conclusion, no clear sense of closure — just the lingering weight of the question itself.
What ultimately makes this record land is its intent. Guitarist Larry Sobieraj’s experience with chronic illness is embedded deeply within the instrumentation, giving the music a physical sense of strain and weight. That feeling is then translated through Jessica Douek’s vocal performance, which moves fluidly between vulnerability and aggression. Together, they create something that feels less like performance and more like dialogue — an ongoing exchange of emotion that doesn’t always seek to be understood.
As a debut, What If Better Never Comes? is strikingly self-assured. It doesn’t chase clarity or validation, and it doesn’t simplify its ideas to make them more accessible. Instead, it sits firmly in complexity, allowing contradictions to exist without resolution.
MALLAVORA haven’t just introduced themselves here — they’ve drawn a line.
Score: 9/10
What If Better Never Comes? will be released on 27th March 2026 via Church Road Records.
Words: Mia Gailey
Photos: Mallavora
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