There’s a haunting elegance to The Crow, a song that moves with the slow gravity of something circling overhead yet never quite landing. ARN-IDENTIFIED FLYING OBJECTS AND ALIEN FRIENDS shapes this track with a sense of emotional inevitability, as though each note has been carried here by a long, unseen wind.
Built on a gently persistent Bolero-like rhythm, the song unfolds with a cinematic hush. Strings swell like distant storm clouds, and an English horn cuts through with a plaintive ache that deepens the atmosphere without overwhelming it. It’s the kind of arrangement that feels both classic and subtly disorienting, echoing old-school dramatic rock ballads without falling into imitation.
Hints of Roy Orbison’s emotional architecture are present; not in nostalgia, but in the way the melody arches, allowing melancholy to bloom in the open. Yet The Crow steps into darker territory. Its lyrical world is stark, almost mythic: loneliness perched like a crow at the edge of the bed, feeding on what’s already been wounded. These images don’t soften the pain, they stare straight at it, letting vulnerability sharpen rather than blur.
Andreas Quincy Dahlbäck brings a steady, understated pulse on drums, grounding the track’s drifting sadness. Meanwhile, David Myhr and Stefan Petersson’s background vocals rise like ghostly harmonies: warm in tone but carrying a faint tremor that matches the song’s emotional landscape.
The Crow feels less like a story being told and more like a presence entering the room: quiet, deliberate, heavy with memory. It rests on the listener like wings folded in the dark, carrying both weight and wonder in equal measure..
