Explore the sacred domains

Hangover in Minsk is one of those rare projects whose origin story is so absurdly specific, so drenched in exhaustion and delirium, that it becomes instantly iconic. Born in 2024 during a 12‑hour, post‑festival, beer‑soaked, sleep‑deprived bus ride from Munich to Warsaw, the band began as a joke among the members of Dymna Lotva—a half‑serious, half‑delirious attempt to create “depressive beer metal” because no one could agree on what to listen to in their collective hangover haze.

And then the joke became real.
And then it became good.
And then it became a band.

Drummer Wojciech “Bocian” Muchowicz—as the story goes—was peacefully asleep when the others decided he was now part of a new project. He woke up to a hangover and a new band. The rest of the lineup—Mikita Stankevich, Jauhien Charkasau, and Nokt Aeon—all core members of Dymna Lotva, brought their characteristic emotional weight, melodic sensibility, and blackened melancholy into a project that was supposed to be a joke but quickly grew into something more substantial.

Musically, Hangover in Minsk sits at the intersection of depressive black metal and post‑black metal, but with a uniquely sardonic edge. The themes revolve around alcoholism, but not in the celebratory, folk‑metal sense—this is the bleak, introspective, self‑aware side of drinking: the shame, the numbness, the spiraling, the emotional hangover that lasts longer than the physical one. The band channels this into music that is melancholic yet strangely catchy, atmospheric yet grounded in lived experience.

Their first release, the 2025 single Devil in Me Wants to Dance, set the tone: blackened melancholy wrapped in a wry, self‑destructive grin. It was followed the same year by the full‑length Party Is Over, a record that leans fully into the project’s origin myth—equal parts despair, irony, and genuine emotional weight. The album blends shimmering post‑black textures with depressive black metal’s rawness, all carried by Nokt Aeon’s expressive, wounded vocal delivery.

Despite its humorous beginnings, Hangover in Minsk has become a sincere artistic outlet—one that acknowledges the absurdity of its birth while embracing the emotional truth beneath it. It stands as a testament to how creativity can emerge from exhaustion, how humor can coexist with despair, and how a hangover can accidentally produce one of the most unexpectedly compelling new projects in the Polish post‑black metal sphere.