REVOE interview
You spent over a decade building yourselves as KARRAKAN, only to abandon that name after Revolution Of Essence. That’s not a small decision. At what point did you realize the old identity had become too narrow?
When we started KARRAKAN back in 2014, we were young. We just wanted to play loud, angry rock music and learn the craft by gaining experience in the studio and on stage. The name itself was chosen almost by accident. We were filling out an application for a music contest, realized we needed a band name, and simply picked *Karakan*, which means "cockroach" in Polish. It was such a spontaneous decision.
That approach reflected who we were at the time. We just wanted to play music and didn't think much beyond that.
As the years passed, however, we gradually discovered our own musical identity. Our songwriting became more thoughtful, more progressive, and, above all, more meaningful. That was the key word for us: **meaning**. We wanted to create music that would still feel relevant and honest ten or even twenty years from now.
The name KARRAKAN no longer represented who we had become. It simply wasn't aligned with our vision anymore. REVOE is an acronym for *Revolution Of Essence*, which, in the simplest terms, means a deep internal transformation.
We waited until 2026 to make the change public. Looking back, we probably could have done it earlier—my own perfectionism made me wait for what I believed was the right moment. But today I'm happy we finally released our music under a name that truly reflects our philosophy. It feels completely authentic to who we are as musicians.
The name REVOE comes directly from Revolution Of Essence. That implies inward transformation rather than external change. Was this record written as a concept, or did the concept reveal itself afterward?
This definitely isn't a concept album. Some of the songs are almost ten years old and have been part of our setlist since the very beginning. Others were written much later, and a few are completely new. In a way, *Revolution Of Essence* is closer to a "best of" our first decade as a band than to a traditional concept album.
What *is* conceptual, however, is the identity of REVOE itself.
Over the years we spent a lot of time asking ourselves why we wanted to write music in the first place. I believe music exists to inspire, to touch the soul, and sometimes even to help people heal their deepest wounds. When you're going through a difficult period in life, music can give you the strength to keep moving forward. Choosing to face those challenges and overcome them is, to me, a true revolution of essence—a transformation that comes from within rather than from the outside.
That's why the name REVOE, an acronym for *Revolution Of Essence*, became so important to us. The album itself isn't built around a single storyline, but everything we create is connected to that philosophy. Our future albums may tell completely different stories, yet they'll still grow from the same idea.
To be honest, there is one thing that worries me. The meaning behind REVOE is probably much clearer to us than it is to someone discovering the band for the first time. The acronym doesn't immediately suggest anything, and today people have thousands of artists competing for their attention. Most listeners simply don't have the time to explore every band's philosophy.
On the other hand, that's exactly what I wanted to create. If someone decides to look deeper, they'll find there really is something beneath the surface—something worth discussing.
How much of this “new identity” is actual artistic evolution, and how much is a symbolic break from your own past?
That's a really interesting question. I hadn't thought about it before. My first instinct was to say it's a 50-50, but the more I think about it, the less I agree with my own first answer.
The reason we wanted to change the band's name was simple: our vision matured. As we grew as musicians and songwriters, it became obvious that we needed a name that reflected what our music had become.
At the same time, KARRAKAN is still a part of who I am.
Back then, my writing was driven by anger—anger at the world, at what I considered ugly or wrong, and at many things that society accepted as normal. That anger wasn't fake. It reflected who I was at the time, and in many ways it still exists because the world still gives us reasons to feel that way.
What changed is my understanding of it.
I realized that if you spend your life fighting negativity, sooner or later you become negative yourself. That's not the kind of person I want to be. We all have a dark side, and I don't believe you can simply get rid of it. It's part of who you are. What you can do is teach it to work with you instead of against you.
So, it was 100% artistic evolution.
There was no old identity to abandon. The old identity didn't die—it simply grew. REVOE isn't a rejection of KARRAKAN. It's what KARRAKAN became.
Your sound pulls from wildly different worlds - Dream Theater, Tool, Metallica, Iron Maiden, Queen, even jazz and Celtic folk. At what point does influence become excess? How do you know when a composition is genuinely layered rather than simply overcrowded?
I don't think there's a precise moment when influence becomes excess. The obvious answer would be: the moment you stop being inspired and start copying. But in reality, it's not always that simple. Sometimes you only realize you've copied something after the song is already finished.
What matters to me isn't the surface of the music I'm inspired by—it's the thinking behind it.
If I listen to a band like Dream Theater, I don't want to imitate their riffs or arrangements. I'm interested in understanding *why* they work. What compositional ideas are they using? How are they creating tension? Once I understand those principles, I can apply the same way of thinking while writing something completely my own.
When I start writing with a clear intention—when I know what the song is supposed to express—there comes a point where the song begins to live its own life. From that moment on, I can't simply write whatever I think is cool. I have to write what is right for the song. Sometimes that means rejecting ideas I personally like because they don't serve the composition.
I don't believe in waiting for inspiration to magically appear. You don't wait for the universe to let you write music—you study, you practice, and you learn the craft. Then your intuition has something to work with.
Of course, music also has an emotional and even spiritual side. That's why I compose in the first place. But intuition alone isn't enough. If you don't keep feeding it with knowledge, experience, and new skills, sooner or later it runs out of ideas. A strong foundation doesn't limit creativity—it gives creativity somewhere to grow.
How do you know when a composition is genuinely layered rather than simply overcrowded?
I think it comes down to three things: **experience, people, and time.**
When I started writing music, I wanted to fit every good idea into a single song. More riffs, more drum patterns, more twists—I thought that was what made music interesting. Looking back, I can clearly hear that those songs were simply overcrowded.
I was trying to be **impressive rather than expressive**, and in the end I achieved neither.
Today I approach songwriting very differently. I always keep one question in mind: *What is this song trying to say?* At some point every composition begins to live its own life, and once that happens, my job is no longer to impress people with ideas. My job is to do what is best for the song.
The second factor is people.
I'm not a drummer, for example, so I often write drum parts that are technically awkward or simply unnatural to play. When my drummer—or any other musician in the band—takes those ideas and reshapes them into something that feels more natural, I welcome it.
The third factor is time.
I let songs rest. I write them, rehearse them, record them, and then come back to them with fresh ears. Distance makes it much easier to hear whether something adds to the music or simply gets in the way.
In the end, though, everything comes back to one principle: the song has to live its own life.
There are times when I want to include something because it's technically difficult or because I'm proud of having written it. But if I hear that it doesn't serve the composition, I remove it. I don't care whether a part is easy or difficult to play. If a simple riff expresses the idea better than a complex one, then the simple riff wins.
The inclusion of saxophone is unusual in metal unless it’s there to make a statement. In REVOE, what role does it play - texture, disruption, or another melodic weapon?
The saxophone definitely isn't the main instrument in REVOE, and my brother—the saxophone player—sometimes complains that he'd like to play a lot more. But that's simply the nature of our music. In progressive metal, the foundation is built on riffs, the rhythm section, and the overall composition.
The saxophone comes later, once that foundation already exists.
That's exactly where its strength lies. Instead of carrying the song, it expands it. It can introduce unexpected melodies, take the harmony in a new direction, or add completely different colours to the music. Sometimes it even creates the impression of a much larger orchestral arrangement, despite being only a single instrument.
My brother also plays keyboards, flutes, and a collection of unusual instruments that often find their way into our music. During live performances of *Robak Zdobywca Part I*, for example, he creates atmospheric drones and tribal textures that completely transform the mood of the piece. Those instruments don't compete with the guitars—they deepen the world the music creates.
That's really their purpose in REVOE.
Our songs aren't written around saxophone parts. They begin with the core of the composition, and only later do we ask ourselves what additional colours the music needs. The saxophone is one of those colours.
Of course, that doesn't mean it will always stay that way. Maybe one day my brother will bring in a composition built around the saxophone—or some other unusual instrument—and we'll discover a completely new side of REVOE. I'd be very happy if that happened.
Progressive metal often prides itself on complexity, but complexity alone rarely leaves scars. What’s more important to you: intellect or emotional impact?
To be honest, I don't completely agree with the premise. Progressive metal often *appears* to be about complexity, but I think the goal is 100% emotional impact.
When you listen to bands like Dream Theater or Tool, the music certainly sounds complex, but if you look beneath the surface, many of the compositional ideas are actually quite simple. What makes them extraordinary is how they're arranged, how they build tension, and how every element serves what the song is trying to express.
Complexity is a tool, not a destination.
The emotional impact of progressive music isn't usually served on a plate. It often takes more than one listen to fully understand how a composition works. Odd time signatures, unusual rhythmic ideas, and long song structures demand more attention from the listener. That can make the music seem intellectual, when in reality those techniques are often there to support the emotional journey.
One of my favourite examples comes from Dream Theater. I won't pretend I remember the exact title, but there's a song where emotional climax is built around something incredibly simple—a single power chord played in a straightforward rhythm. The reason it feels so powerful isn't the chord itself; it's the tension that has been built throughout the entire song. By the time that moment arrives, simplicity becomes incredibly expressive.
That's exactly what I'm trying to achieve in my own writing.
You speak about “attention to detail” as part of your philosophy. Is perfection something you chase, or something you deliberately resist?
I think the answer is both.
I don't chase perfection because, in my experience, perfectionism is one of the greatest killers of dreams. If you're always waiting for something to become perfect, you'll never finish it.
Ironically, we've spent more than a decade writing and recording Revolution Of Essence, so I understand why someone might question me saying that. But the truth is, if we had been chasing perfection, we'd probably still be working on it today. I certainly have perfectionist tendencies, but I try not to let them make my decisions.
What is worth pursuing, in my opinion, is excellence.
To me, excellence doesn't mean planning every single note before I play it. In fact, the best ideas usually appear naturally when I'm simply playing with feeling. Only afterwards put those ideas on the “planning table” and analyze every single note and section.
Excellence isn't about thinking about more things. It's about thinking more deeply about the things that truly matter.
People often tell me that I'm incredibly intense when I'm working on a song because I spend so much time talking about its emotional meaning. I can explain the story behind a single musical phrase for far longer than anyone probably wants to hear.
Sometimes I imagine that the song is already alive and I'm simply trying to understand what it needs. That's the state I'm looking for when I compose—a place where all of my attention, emotion, and intention are focused on serving the music.
Of course, I don't always reach that state. Sometimes songwriting is messy. Sometimes I write two notes and spend hours trying to figure out where they want to go. That's normal. The important thing is that I keep striving for that level of presence.
So when I talk about attention to detail, I don't mean that every note has to be meticulously planned.
I mean that every note deserves our attention, our honesty, and the very best we have to give.
Do you think modern progressive metal sometimes hides weak songwriting behind technicality?
I don't think I know enough about today's progressive metal scene to answer that fairly. I know people often say that technicality can be used to hide weak songwriting, but I don't follow enough modern bands to judge whether that's really the case.
What I *can* talk about is my own experience.
When I was learning to write music, I definitely went through a phase where I tried to fit too many ideas into every song.
Over time, I realised that technical ability isn't the problem. The problem is writing music without intention.
What frustrates me is when someone writes songs by simply putting one riff after another without asking what the music is actually trying to say. Of course, improvisation is a perfectly legitimate way to compose, and many great songs have been written that way. But at some point, I think every songwriter should step back and ask whether the song expresses anything beyond the excitement of playing an instrument.
The same applies within a band.
If a musician is disappointed because they don't get a solo, or because their instrument isn't in the spotlight enough, I think they're asking the wrong question. The real question is: *What does the song need?*
Sometimes the strongest musical decision is not to play at all. Silence can have more emotional impact than the most technically demanding solo.
Coming from Ostrołęka – far from the usual cultural centers – did isolation help shape your sound without outside pressure, or make growth harder?
It's a bit of both.
One of the biggest advantages of living in a small town like Ostrołęka is that you can build a lot on your own. Finding a rehearsal space, organising concerts, or starting your own projects is relatively simple and affordable. And, most importantly, it's home. We genuinely like living here.
At the same time, what held us back in the early years wasn't the lack of opportunities—it was the lack of people around us who were thinking on a bigger scale.
The biggest leap in my own development came when I started working with a teacher from a much larger city. He didn't just teach me music; he taught me to think bigger and to become more ambitious.
I had a similar experience when I travelled to Warsaw for a concert organised by what I expected to be an ordinary local band. They weren't famous. They weren't headlining festivals. They were simply musicians like us.
But when the show started, I was amazed.
The performance was absolutely world-class. Until that moment, I hadn't realised that a band operating at that level could still be, in a sense, a local band. That experience completely changed my perspective. I understood how much your environment influences your ambitions. When you're surrounded by people aiming higher, you naturally begin to raise your own standards.
That kind of positive pressure is incredibly valuable.
Even so, I don't want to leave my hometown. Today it's much easier to stay connected with inspiring people wherever they are, and I appreciate the slower pace of life here. It gives me the freedom to build everything around the music—a business, a rehearsal space, and a lifestyle that allows me to spend my time creating rather than constantly chasing opportunities.
One hundred shows is serious groundwork. What has the stage taught REVOE that the studio never could?
I probably wouldn't be as enthusiastic about the number itself as the question suggests. One hundred shows may sound impressive, but personally I still feel we've only just begun. I'm incredibly grateful for every concert we've played—especially because some of them we organised ourselves—but those experiences have mainly made us even hungrier to play more.
If I had to answer your question directly, though, I'd say that the stage and the studio teach completely different lessons.
Live performances teach you everything that happens around the music: logistics, rehearsals, finances, building a setlist, and, above all, connecting with people. The audience is something you simply can't experience in the studio. Creating unforgettable evenings for the people who come to see us—that's what makes playing live so special.
Today, perhaps more than ever, concerts are where music becomes truly human. Records still matter, of course, but nothing replaces the authenticity of musicians and listeners sharing the same space.
At the same time, I honestly believe the studio is where a band grows the most.
Recording forces you to confront every tiny detail of a song. It reveals weaknesses that you might never notice on stage. In fact, many bands only truly learn their own songs after they've recorded them. If a composition is already fully finished before entering the studio, that's wonderful—but it's not the only path to creating great music.
So if I had to divide it, I'd say the stage teaches us about people, while the studio teaches us about music.
Both are essential, but for me the studio has always been the place where the band develops the most as musicians and songwriters.
There’s an interesting contradiction in your music: ambition and accessibility. Those two often pull against each other. Have you ever had to sacrifice one for the other?
I actually disagree with the premise of the question.
I don't see ambition and accessibility as opposites. In our case, they're connected.
Our ambition is to write progressive music that people genuinely want to listen to. That doesn't mean making pop music or simplifying everything. It means writing songs that are emotionally honest, memorable, and human.
We want to write melodies that stay with you. We want rhythms that feel natural and engaging. We want our music to be heavy, intelligent, and carefully composed, while still connecting with people on an emotional level.
In many ways, it's the same idea we talked about earlier regarding complexity and emotion.
People often describe creativity as a balance between heart and mind, as if they were two separate forces. I don't really see them that way. I think they work together.
Music begins with emotion. Then the mind shapes it, organises it, and gives it structure. Finally, when you perform it, it returns to emotion again. Even the physical side—your technique, your instrument, your experience—becomes part of that same process.
Poland has a unique heavy metal lineage – from Kat to death and black metal extremity. Do you feel connected to that national tradition, or separate from it?
I have a great deal of respect for Polish heavy music and for the musicians who shaped it. Bands like Kat, Turbo, Vader, Behemoth, Decapitated, Riverside, Wolf Spider, Scream Maker, The Materia and many others have made an enormous contribution, and I genuinely admire what they've achieved.
That said, I don’t think the word *tradition* is a good connection when talking about music at all.
To me, tradition can sometimes become an expectation that music should continue to follow the same path simply because that's how it has always been done. That's my personal interpretation of the word, not an objective definition, but it's the first association that comes to mind.
What worries me isn't tradition itself—it's tribalism.
I've seen discussions where people dismiss a band simply because it doesn't fit a particular idea of what heavy metal is supposed to be. Instead of exchanging arguments, they defend the identity of their own group. Once that happens, curiosity disappears, and so does meaningful conversation.
That's why I don't really see myself as part of any tradition.
I do, however, feel part of a community. I feel connected to the people around our band, to our audience, and to the musicians I meet and work with. If I became friends with members of those great Polish bands, I'd happily consider myself part of that community as well.
So it's not that I reject tradition. I simply don't want tradition to define the boundaries of creativity.
Bands often talk about growth, but growth also means abandoning older selves. Was there anything painful about leaving KARRAKAN behind?
KARRAKAN was a journey of growth.
Speaking only for myself, when we started the band I was in my twenties, but mentally I was still a teenager. I wanted to play loud, fast music, party, drink, and simply enjoy being in a rock band. There was nothing wrong with that, but over time I realised I wanted music to become something meaningful in my life.
That meant changing much more than the band's sound. I gave up drinking and partying because I wanted more time and energy for music. I started studying songwriting more seriously, questioning my own beliefs, and consciously organising my life instead of simply letting life organise itself.
Looking back, every rehearsal, every concert, and every year with KARRAKAN wasn't just about making music. It was about building a life that would allow me to keep making music.
Some people might find that strange for a relatively small band, but this is what I’ve actually done. KARRAKAN has been one of the most important parts of my life, and I'm proud of how much I've grown because of it. The difficult moments made me stronger, and today I can honestly say I'm grateful for every step of that journey.
That's why I don't actually feel we left KARRAKAN behind.
The journey never ended. We simply changed the name.
REVOE isn't a new beginning in the sense that we abandoned everything we had built. It's the next chapter of the same story. The biggest difference is that we're challenging ourselves again. Changing the name meant starting almost from scratch. Whatever local recognition KARRAKAN had built, we willingly left behind.
But I think that's healthy.
Toward the end of KARRAKAN, we simply weren't facing enough new challenges. Today we have plenty of them, and although they're difficult, they're exactly the kind of challenges that force us to grow.
I genuinely enjoy that process. I enjoy leaving behind habits that no longer serve me, building new ones, setting new goals, and accepting the difficulties that come with them.
The phrase Revolution Of Essence sounds almost philosophical. What part of the “essence” needed revolution — the individual, the band, or the world around you?
I think the answer has two parts: one philosophical and one deeply personal.
Let's start with the philosophical one, because I'm actually very happy you noticed that *Revolution Of Essence* sounds philosophical.
The name is closely connected to what I believe the purpose of music is. To me, music exists to touch the soul, to inspire people, to help them through difficult moments, and sometimes even to make them stronger. When you truly listen—not only with your ears but also with your heart—music has the power to change the way you experience life.
That's what *Revolution Of Essence* means to me.
I often describe it as a kind of paradigm shift: the ability to see more deeply, to understand more deeply, and to combine emotion with reason instead of treating them as opposites. I think that's one of the most meaningful forms of personal growth, and it has profoundly influenced the way I approach music and creativity.
The second part of the answer is much more personal.
I'm a completely different person from the one who started this band. To become who I am today, I had to confront a lot of irrational fears and deeply rooted beliefs. For most of my life I believed that pursuing music as a serious life path was selfish, unrealistic, and even irresponsible. Those were ideas I had absorbed from family, teachers, and society in general.
Changing those beliefs wasn't easy.
It meant confronting emotions I didn't even know I carried. At times it genuinely felt like fighting an invisible enemy inside my own mind. I had to remind myself, over and over again, what I truly believed and what kind of life I actually wanted to build.
Looking back, that experience felt exactly like a revolution of essence.
And that's ultimately why the band is called REVOE.
I wasn't trying to invent a clever name for a band. I was trying to find a name for something I was already living through.
If REVOE represents transformation, what would artistic stagnation look like to you?
I probably have a different view of artistic stagnation than most people.
The usual definition is that stagnation happens when you keep repeating the same ideas over and over again without moving forward. I understand that perspective, and I think it's partly true.
But I also think there's another kind of stagnation that people rarely talk about.
I'm a very persistent person. When something isn't working, my first instinct isn't to abandon it—it's to understand it. I want to know what can be improved, what can be healed, and what can be rebuilt before I decide it's time to move on.
That's important because it's very easy to fall into the trap of believing that the grass is always greener somewhere else.
Sometimes repeating the same thing isn't a sign that you've reached the end. Sometimes it's a sign that you've mastered something well enough to discover new possibilities within it. A small change in perspective can open completely new creative paths without throwing everything away.
Of course, there are moments when walking away is the right decision. I'm not suggesting that people should hold on to every project forever. But I do think we should be careful not to mistake temporary frustration for genuine stagnation.
Not everything our intuition tells us is automatically true.
Sometimes we need to step back, question our first reaction, and confront it with reality before making a decision.
To me, real stagnation isn't only repeating the same ideas. It can also be the habit of constantly escaping difficult situations.
If every time you encounter conflict, boredom, or discomfort you immediately start over somewhere else, that becomes a pattern of its own. You're no longer growing—you're simply changing scenery.
I think growth often comes from staying with a problem long enough to truly understand it.
That's something I try to express not only in my life, but also in the music I create with REVOE.