Pentagram, Lightning in a Bottle, 2025

The Groundhogs, Sir Lord Baltimore, Blue Cheer, MC5, New York Dolls, Vanilla Fudge, Montrose… Bands that laid the foundation for hard rock, proto-punk, and proto-heavy metal in the U.S., yet were sidelined in their own country while America went crazy over the British onslaught of Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, and Led Zeppelin. Amid this obsession with English rock, many bands were born and grew in the shadows of garages. Among them, one deserves a special place on any list: Pentagram, the dark project of Bobby Liebling.

Pentagram was not just another band. Liebling drank from the rawness of Blue Cheer, but what he and his group began to forge in 1971 was something much denser and more funereal. If Blue Cheer represented psychedelic thunder and Sabbath the sound of darkness, Pentagram took that darkness to another level, crafting a sound so macabre that their own country chose to ignore them. They didn’t fit the hysteria surrounding British rock, nor the emerging arena hard rock of Aerosmith and Kiss.

As a result, Pentagram became an underground phenomenon, a cursed band that only a few dared to follow. Their music, with very few contemporaries, would become the cornerstone of doom metal, stoner rock, and even an unrecognized influence on grunge. In the ‘80s, while Black Flag and Saint Vitus expanded the underground scene, Pentagram remained in the shadows—without recognition, without a steady record deal.

For a brief moment, the industry took notice. Representatives from Kiss and Blue Öyster Cult approached them, intrigued by the band’s sheer power. But upon witnessing Liebling’s volatility—drowning in addiction, internal conflicts, and self-destruction—they quickly backed away. Rumor has it that both bands bought riffs from Pentagram and used them in their own songs. Thus, Pentagram was left in limbo for decades, with demo tapes and bootlegs circulating like a dark and coveted secret.

Bobby Liebling’s story is an endless cycle of rise and fall. Lineup changes, health issues, legal troubles, overdoses—everything has worked against him. Yet one thing remains undeniable: when he manages to focus on music, Pentagram is an unstoppable force. The rise of doom metal, grunge, and stoner rock has created a context where their sound is no longer an anomaly; it is now a cult pillar, an inexhaustible source of inspiration for entire generations.

Today, in an almost unexpected twist, Liebling and Pentagram have once again clawed their way out of the grave with a new album: Lightning in a Bottle. A record that captures the essence of a band that was never tamed, never gave in to the mainstream, and never left the shadows. Unlike many of their contemporaries—Black Sabbath has officially bowed out, and most of their peers have vanished—Pentagram continues creating new music, refusing to become just a relic of the past.

From the first guitar strike, Live Again sets the tone. Its ominous pacing recalls Black Sabbath but with a cadence that flirts with Danzig’s horror blues. Tony Reed, a Seattle-based musician and producer, injects fresh energy into the band, weaving abrasive riffs around Liebling’s raspy, delirious voice, which at times eerily evokes Gene Simmons at his most sinister.

Then comes In the Panic Room, a track where Reed shines with guitars that seem to spiral downward, reminiscent of Tony Iommi but never falling into imitation. The song feels like an eerie ritual, where each riff slashes through the darkness while Liebling’s unmistakable voice plunges us into a terrifying tale of madness.

But I Spoke to Death is the true high point. There’s no room for subtlety here—the central riff is a heavy sentence, a direct hit. Bass and drums lock into a crushing precision, providing a devastating foundation for Liebling to exorcise his demons. If Ozzy Osbourne turned a limited vocal range into an iconic tool, Liebling achieves something similar, his dramatic vocal delivery at times recalling the late Rob Tyner of MC5.

With Dull Pain, Pentagram breaks further boundaries. Here, there’s a primitive grunge vibe, as if a Soundgarden or Melvins track had been conceived in 1972. It’s an anomaly that fits perfectly, proving that Pentagram’s sound not only inspired doom pioneers but casts its shadow far beyond, into other genres.

Then comes Lady Heroin, a brutal piece both in sound and meaning. Here, Liebling strips away all masks, narrating his battle with addiction without metaphors. His voice—raw and ghostly—slithers through riffs that oscillate between melancholy and destruction, in a tradition that stretches from Black Sabbath to the bleakest Alice in Chains.

I'll Certainly See You in Hell continues in this decadent vein but with a touch of Mudhoney—another grunge band that, like Pentagram, revered Blue Cheer as a cornerstone. Then, Thundercrest delivers the album’s heaviest moment. No compromises here—this is pure, uncompromising heavy metal, a sonic slap in the face reminding us what a privilege it is to still hear this band in 2025.

The album’s closer, Solve the Puzzle, is unexpected. A riff that, oddly enough, evokes the raw energy of Appetite for Destruction-era Guns N’ Roses, but through Pentagram’s dark filter. It’s the kind of twist that only a band with nearly six decades of history could pull off without sounding forced.

Is Lightning in a Bottle an instant masterpiece? No. And that’s what makes it extraordinary. It’s an album that grows with each listen, a testament to the fact that Pentagram never sold out, never softened, and never stopped being dangerous. If this were their final album, they’d go out with their heads held high. But knowing Bobby Liebling’s history, I wouldn’t bet on it.