Art never emerges from a vacuum. Every note I write, every riff I shape, carries traces of something larger than myself—echoes of books I have read, music I have loved, questions I have wrestled with, and silences I have endured. Inspiration is not a sudden lightning strike; it is more like sediment slowly settling, layer upon layer, until a form takes shape.
For Darkwave, these layers have always come from places that are both intimate and distant: the weight of philosophy, the shadow of mortality, the lingering voice of hope, and the restless search for meaning that defines our fragile existence. What I compose is not created in isolation, but emerges as a dialogue with these voices, transformed into something uniquely my own.
Some years ago, I wrote a series of reflections on the inspirations behind my music. They explore the threads—literary, musical, spiritual, personal—that weave themselves into the sound and vision of Darkwave. If you wish to go deeper into these stories, you can find them here:
Not long ago I came across a meme that said: “I listen to dead people.” It was meant to be darkly humorous—pointing out that many of the musicians we admire are no longer alive. But the more I thought about it, the less funny it seemed.
Because it’s true.
So many of the voices and hands that shaped my musical world are now silent: Jon Lord, Lemmy, Warrel Dane… and recently, Ozzy Osbourne too. Realizing this makes me painfully aware that I’ve already lived more than half of my life.
And yet, there’s another side to it. Their music is still here. What they created continues to resonate, to inspire, to move me. It has somehow survived them. That thought carries a strange comfort: if I try to fill my life with meaning, if I keep creating, giving, and shaping something of value, then maybe my work can also outlive me.
When I face the darkness and the silence, this becomes a fragile kind of hope—that my life was not meaningless, that I left something behind. It may not be much, but it is something.
And this thought ties directly into what I’m exploring with my next album: the question of whether there is an ultimate purpose to this fragile, fleeting human existence.
The Emptyspiral.net podcast, hosted by the fan site dedicated to Lacuna Coil, is a unique platform for fans of the band, featuring news, discussions, and special interviews. Recently, I had the incredible opportunity to appear as a guest on the show’s 167th episode, where I shared what it means to me to be a fan of such an amazing band.
During the discussion, I talked about how I first discovered Lacuna Coil’s music and the profound impact their art has had on me. Their musical world has not only been a source of inspiration but has also fostered a sense of belonging to a community, something that Emptyspiral.net continues to strengthen.
I’m deeply grateful that I also had the chance to talk about my own musical journey. I introduced my solo project, Darkwave, which creates instrumental progressive thrash metal. We explored the history of Darkwave, from its beginnings to my most recent album, “Thanatology“, which was released in 2024 in a special remastered CD format. Towards the end of the conversation, I also gave a brief teaser about my upcoming material, which will feature vocals for the first time.
In the final part of the podcast, all four of us shared our thoughts on the title track of the 2022 Lacuna Coil release entitled Comalies XX, which led to some fascinating insights.
This interview was a truly special experience for me, offering the chance to express what Lacuna Coil’s music means to me. Having the opportunity to discuss Darkwave at the same time was a tremendous honor, and I’m incredibly thankful to Matt, David, and Mike, the podcast hosts, for making it possible.
(4) All Is Lost but Hope: The Literature That Inspires Me
It might sound unusual, but I often find an intimate and direct connection between certain texts and my musical ideas. In fact, more often than not, literature and music intertwine in my mind in ways that are difficult to separate. I’ve always been a bookworm, and every novel, poem, or even song lyric I’ve read has shaped the way I perceive not just art but life itself. These inspirations span an incredibly wide spectrum, covering vastly different genres and themes. Yet, if I had to distill their essence into a single line, I’d borrow the words of Virgin Black, pioneers of gothic metal: “All is lost but hope.”
Nova vis ad diem novum nascitur Penitus veneficium versatum revincitur
(Lacuna Coil: Veneficium)
This duality of loss and hope has always captivated me. I occasionally experiment with writing poetry (Hungarian speakers can find a few older ones here), and I’ve found it much easier to express these emotions through words than through music. That said, sometimes I doubt these poems will ever become lyrics for my compositions, even though some were originally intended for that purpose. Beyond differences in rhythm and structure, there’s also the simple fact that I don’t want to lose the nuances of the Hungarian language in translation. Still, those who read them might catch glimpses of my thoughts – fragments of sadness, with occasional sparks of resilience.
Perhaps this balance between melancholy and defiance is what drew me so deeply into Lacuna Coil’s music over the years. Their ability to merge tragedy and struggle with grandeur and catharsis resonated with me profoundly. Even after countless listens, Veneficium still hits me with the same force, to the point where I felt compelled to have its Ancient Latin intro tattooed on my arm.
It’s no coincidence that books with an underlying sense of sadness or tragedy have always inspired me the most. Yet, the stories I cherish never dwell in suffering for its own sake – they always offer a sense of transcendence, a way forward. When people ask about my favorite books, I struggle to narrow it down, as my literary influences are as diverse as my musical ones. Among my most beloved authors are literary giants like Erich Maria Remarque (Three Comrades, Arch of Triumph) and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (Night Flight, Wind, Sand and Stars), but also lesser-known and unfairly overlooked writers like Marguerite Radclyffe Hall (The Well of Loneliness). My fascination with melancholic atmospheres is also reflected in my admiration for early horror pioneers – Bram Stoker (Dracula), Mary Shelley (Frankenstein), and Edgar Allan Poe (The Fall of the House of Usher, The Cask of Amontillado).
Beyond these, I’m continually captivated by G.K. Chesterton (Heretics), whose paradoxical brilliance never ceases to amaze me, and the dreamlike, otherworldly storytelling of Jorge Luis Borges (The Aleph, Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius) and Gustav Meyrink (The Golem, The Angel of the West Window). J.R.R. Tolkien (The Lord of the Rings) transports me to a world of mythic grandeur, while Jack Kerouac (On the Road) invites me on an endless journey of discovery.
At first glance, these authors may seem to have little in common. Their backgrounds, themes, and philosophies are wildly different, but I’ve never found it difficult to connect with vastly different perspectives – whether in literature or in life. I’ve always sought unity with others through emotions and shared human experiences rather than ideological or theoretical arguments. To me, emotions always take precedence. While I hold a strong worldview of my own, I find genuine connection far more important than rigid intellectual divides.
And this is where music enters the picture again. As much as I resonate with books and poetry (and even write them myself), I still see music as the ultimate form of emotional expression – one that transcends the limitations of language entirely.
Without veering into the depths of linguistic philosophy, this is simply who I am.
It was 1987 when I first encountered the music of King Diamond. Back then, heavy metal was far from welcome in my country – rock and metal weren’t exactly favored under the communist regime. But once a month, there was a rare treasure: a radio broadcast dedicated to full albums from legendary metal artists. One day, I tuned in and found myself immersed in Fatal Portrait (1986), King Diamond’s first solo release.
That moment rewired my entire perception of music. The album was dark, complex, and haunting – yet strangely beautiful and deeply moving. King’s eerie, otherworldly falsetto wove itself around the tight, imaginative guitar work of Andy LaRocque and Michael Denner, creating something truly unique. I was hooked. I recorded Fatal Portrait onto a cassette and played it obsessively, listening so many times that I must have driven everyone around me insane. Soon, I wasn’t just listening – I was learning the riffs, determined to decode the magic behind the music.
As my fascination with King Diamond deepened, I began researching his earlier work. In 1987, Metal Hammer was only available in its Austrian edition, since the Hungarian version wouldn’t launch until 1989. But even through limited sources, I discovered that before his solo career, King Diamond had fronted a band called Mercyful Fate, where Michael Denner had played alongside another guitar wizard: Hank Shermann.
Not long after, a friend handed me a copy of Melissa (1983), Mercyful Fate’s debut album. That was a turning point. Songs like Evil, Curse of the Pharaohs, Satan’s Fall, and Melissa weren’t just songs – they were intricate, multi-layered compositions that felt more like symphonic masterpieces than traditional rock tracks. Satan’s Fall, with its 11-minute runtime, was the pinnacle of their complexity, packed with unexpected tempo changes and shifting harmonies that kept me on edge.
Their second album, Don’t Break the Oath (1984), took a slightly different but equally captivating approach. Tracks like The Oath and Nightmare were just as intricate but had an even more hypnotic, almost supernatural quality. The chemistry between Shermann and Denner was unparalleled – the way they layered harmonies and structured their compositions felt like pure sorcery.
After Mercyful Fate’s original lineup dissolved in 1985, Fatal Portrait felt like the natural successor to Don’t Break the Oath. Although Hank Shermann was no longer involved, Andy LaRocque stepped in, continuing the tradition of mind-bending guitar work. Even now, I consider Fatal Portrait more of a spiritual sequel to Don’t Break the Oath than anything Mercyful Fate released in the ‘90s.
Looking back, I can say without hesitation that the Shermann-Denner duo shaped the way I approach songwriting. Their ability to weave unconventional song structures, sudden tempo shifts, and eerie harmonies into their music was revolutionary. I fell in love with that kind of progressivity in metal – the kind that keeps you guessing, that refuses to conform to predictability. Even today, I find myself in awe of the sinister groove in A Dangerous Meeting or the chilling harmonies of Black Funeral. These elements carried over into Fatal Portrait as well, in tracks like Lurking in the Dark, The Candle, and Haunted.
I never had the chance to witness Shermann and Denner performing live together – though Mercyful Fate is now touring with Hank Shermann and Mike Wead on guitars. But their legacy is etched into my musical DNA. Their influence goes beyond admiration – it has shaped my own vision of what “ideal music” should be.
(2) The Architect of Metal: How Tony Iommi Shaped My Musical World
The story of Tony Iommi is nothing short of legendary – a young man who lost several fingertips in an accident, only to rise as one of the greatest guitarists of all time, inventing the heaviest riffs the world had ever heard. Alongside Django Reinhardt, he proved that talent knows no limits. But what’s always fascinated me isn’t just how he overcame his injury – it’s the sheer musical vision he brought to life.
I’ve never really engaged in the endless debate over whether Ozzy, Dio, or someone else was the “true” Black Sabbath singer. For me, Black Sabbath was Tony Iommi. Right up until the band’s final day in 2018, he was the heart and soul of their sound. Maybe he first down-tuned his guitar and crafted those slow, crushing riffs just to ease the pain in his damaged fingertips – but in doing so, he rewrote the history of rock music.
I was around ten years old when I first heard Black Sabbath on the radio. Back then, under the Communist regime, catching a rock or metal song on public broadcasting was like finding a hidden treasure. And when the opening riff of Electric Funeral came through the speakers, it was nothing short of a revelation. That sound – raw, doomy, and suffocating – hit me like nothing else before. It was dark and melancholic, yet brutally heavy. But more than anything, it made me think. That’s something I value in any form of art.
I wanted to hear that riff over and over again – until my increasingly irritated mother stormed into my room and shut off the tape recorder in frustration. But by then, it was too late: the seed had been planted. Soon after, I got my hands on Volume 4 (I don’t even remember who gave it to me, but I’ll be forever grateful), and a little later, sometime around ‘83 or ‘84, I recorded the first four songs from Born Again off the radio. That was it – I was completely lost in the world of Black Sabbath.
Now, I have to be honest: Iommi’s solos never fully resonated with me. They were always excellent, no doubt about it, but not exactly my taste. His riffs and songwriting, however, are a different story. The dark, monumental, almost cinematic atmosphere of his music is something I still can’t get enough of, even 40 years later. His riffs are like massive, ancient cathedrals of sound – colossal, intricate, and awe-inspiring. Take When Death Calls from Headless Cross (1989): it’s the perfect example of his ability to blend crushing heaviness with an almost orchestral grandeur. But there’s also incredible beauty hidden in the darkness of his music. Listen to Dying for Love from Cross Purposes (1994), and you’ll hear what I mean.
I only had the privilege of seeing Tony Iommi live twice – once in 1998 and then again in 2018, on Black Sabbath’s farewell tour. But his influence on me goes far beyond those concerts. His image – the ever-elegant English gentleman wielding his signature Gibson SG – left a lasting impression on how I listen to and write music. I even bought a Gibson SG at one point, almost certainly because of him. (Ironically, I never fully warmed up to the guitar and eventually sold it – but my admiration for Iommi has never wavered.)
Next time, I’ll dive into another legendary guitar duo: Shermann and Denner.
(1) From Hammond to Heaven: The Enduring Genius of Jon Lord
Whenever the topic of music comes up, Jon Lord is the first name that bursts out of me – probably with a slightly ridiculous but undeniably fiery enthusiasm. It might seem odd that a prog/thrash metal guitarist considers the keyboardist of a classic rock band his greatest musical inspiration, but let me share a few thoughts and stories that might shed some light on this (seemingly) unexpected connection.
First and foremost, the late Jon Douglas Lord (June 9, 1941 – July 16, 2012) – founder, keyboardist, composer, and mastermind behind Deep Purple – was far more than just a rock organist. I’ve always seen him as a true musical visionary, a bridge-builder between “old” and “new,” between tradition and modernity. If you listen to Anthem from The Book of Taliesyn (1968), you’ll catch an early glimpse of his genius – a genius that reached its full grandeur with Deep Purple’s groundbreaking collaboration with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra in Concerto for Group and Orchestra (1969).
At the time, blending classical instrumentation with rock music was considered either artistic heresy or outright blasphemy. But Jon Lord was one of the fearless revolutionaries who pushed rock toward new heights of complexity and sophistication, proving that it could stand alongside the so-called “high arts.” His relentless pursuit of synthesis between guitar-driven rock and symphonic arrangements wasn’t just an experiment – it was a defining step in the genre’s evolution.
His creative spirit extended far beyond rock and orchestral fusions. After a sixteen-year break in his solo career – and following the loss of his parents – he returned with deeply introspective, beautifully melancholic albums. Pictured Within (1997) is perhaps the most breathtaking of these – a masterful blend of classical and modern influences, but with a different orchestral approach than what he had previously explored in Concerto, Gemini Suite, Sarabande, or Windows.
Like many others, my journey into rock music began with Deep Purple’s biggest hits. At first, I wasn’t fully aware of Jon Lord’s immense role in shaping the fusion of classical and modern music. I learned to play guitar by obsessively studying and replicating Deep Purple riffs, and the deeper I went, the more fascinated I became with the band’s musical legacy.
I was around 17 or 18 when I first saw the film of Concerto for Group and Orchestra in my hometown cinema – and it completely shattered my perception of music. That was the moment I realized that the rigid divide between classical and modern music is nothing but an illusion. For me, both are just different expressions of the same artistic truth. Jon Lord was the one who taught me never to draw sharp, artificial lines between these worlds – he showed that they could flow together seamlessly, creating something transcendent.
I was lucky enough to see him live four times. The first was in Budapest in 1998 with Deep Purple, and the second, in 2002, was something truly unforgettable. It was in London, on the tour where he officially stepped down from the band. For most of the night, Don Airey played keyboards – but then, the lights dimmed. A murmur spread through the Hammersmith Apollo as we realized what was happening. And then, there he was. Jon Lord himself stood behind his old Hammond organ, launching into the iconic intro of Perfect Strangers. The energy in that room was electric. It remains one of the most powerful concert experiences of my life.
Later, I was fortunate enough to see him perform his solo work twice in Budapest. I never got to witness Pictured Within live with Sam Brown, something I deeply regret, but I cherish the moments I did have before we lost him in 2012.
Jon Lord’s influence on my musical taste – and, by extension, on my entire outlook on music and life – is immeasurable. His fearless creativity, his ability to weave worlds together, and his sheer musical soul continue to inspire me every single day.
Next time, I’ll write about another titan of rock: Tony Iommi, the legendary master of heavy riffs.
