On “Fathomless,” the opening song on I by Finnish doom trio Osmic, the stars are still waiting for someone to name them. Singer and bassist Paavo Nelimarkka takes his time getting to that detail. He gives the band the first fifty seconds, long enough for the opening riff to come around several times and for a listener to learn where the next accent falls. By the time he describes a world of undisturbed water, anyone keeping time with the record has a small advantage over its narrator. We already know something moves down there.
Osmic recorded this debut in a lineup completed by guitarist Niko Partanen and drummer Hannu Sivusuo. The trio from Jyväskylä self-released I on November 6, 2026, through Bandcamp and YouTube. Partanen wrote the music for “Fathomless,” and Nelimarkka’s words give it a creation story with an unusually practical detail. The bones of a slain dragon supply the material for the earth. That leaves an awkward question for anyone planning to live there. What claim do the waters have on the land? The refrain gives them every chance of taking it back.
Around four and a half minutes into “Fathomless,” Nelimarkka leaves a long stretch to the instruments. The pleasure of waiting for him here is different from the pleasure of counting along at the start. The riff is familiar by now, but the pace keeps shifting under it, and each turn gives the ear something to follow. By the time Nelimarkka returns to the refrain, Osmic have put the listener in the peculiar position of looking forward to the world drowning.
On “Heretic” the riff comes around more quickly, and Nelimarkka is already singing before twenty seconds are up. The song feels almost impatient after the long lead-in to “Fathomless.” It suits the sisters in Partanen’s lyric, who have the fate of the gods to weave. Partanen wrote the music as well as the words here, and the writing is strongest while those hands are busy. When Fate and Destiny turn up a few lines apart, both words ask us to contemplate a power the sisters have already made visible. I’d have liked to stay with them long enough to see what happens to a god when one of them pulls a thread.
Nelimarkka, who wrote “Cycles,” finds a better use for repetition. He calls up the beings buried under the hills to bring down the kingdoms above them. By the last verse the mountains have settled and forests are growing. The endings of the three songs feel like kin. On “Cycles,” just before the six-minute mark, the band settle on a chord that keeps ringing. Gradually it gets harder to pick out that chord as the whole sound dwindles and disappears. You could walk through those woods now and never know what was sleeping underfoot.
