Pomposity, insanity, galloping blasphemy: 1988’s Seventh Son Of A Seventh Son is a mighty Genghian cleave of a record, a progressive concept album that contains all that is glorious – and mildly deranged – about Iron Maiden. Strangely delicate melody juxtaposed with gazumping rhythmic pulse; wild theatrical delivery; dramatic, occult-referencing ideas. But while seen by some as the most fulsome of their career, it is by no means their easiest – indeed it took my (much) younger self years to fully appreciate its myriad subtleties over the more immediate ampage of Number Of The Beast or Powerslave. Cranially speaking, Iron Maiden...
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