Of Monster and Men's Epic Return with New Album, "All Is Love and Pain in the Mouse Parade"

With their fourth studio album, Of Monsters and Men deliver a lush, emotionally rich record that finds power in the everyday and wonder in the mundane.

It’s been six years since Of Monsters and Men last released an album, but well over a decade since they first emerged from Iceland with the soaring, mythic indie-folk of My Head Is an Animal. Their new release, All Is Love and Pain in the Mouse Parade, feels like a deliberate step into a different space—less about mountaintops and sweeping choruses, more about the small rooms, the half-spoken things, the quiet ache of being human. The band retains their signature warmth and melodic flair, but here they’ve traded epic for intimate, spectacle for stillness. The result is not just a return, but a deeper chapter.

Right out of the gate, this album shows that Of Monsters and Men aren’t reinventing themselves just to stay relevant—they’re evolving naturally. The sweeping harmonies and layered instrumentation that defined their earlier work are still there, but now they’re balanced with electronic textures and a more open, airier mix that lets the quiet moments linger. It’s not a reinvention so much as a recalibration. The production is more polished but never sterile. Songs like “Television Love” build slowly, the trumpet and cello wrapping around Nanna’s vocals until the whole thing swells without tipping into drama. It feels alive, but grounded.

Lyrically, this record leans into contrast—love and loss, comfort and unease, connection and solitude. The title, All Is Love and Pain in the Mouse Parade, captures that paradox perfectly. These songs aren’t about grand mythologies anymore; they’re about the fragile, messy beauty of real life. “Tuna in a Can” uses a small, almost funny image to explore insecurity and decay, while “Fruit Bat” drifts through the strange language of relationships, where tenderness and estrangement coexist. The metaphors are odd and lovely, and they pull you closer rather than pushing you away.

What really stands out are the moments that feel quiet but stick with you. The instrumental “Mouse Parade” is one of those songs that barely moves but somehow wrecks you—a soft piano line, a breath of strings, a melody that sounds like it’s half-remembered. It’s wintry and a little broken, like a memory you can’t quite place. Then there’s “Ordinary Creature,” which brings a burst of movement after all the stillness, a reminder that the band still knows how to make something soar. The album never rushes you, but it rewards you for listening.

Part of why this record matters right now is that it resists the extremes. So much of modern music either aims for spectacle or hides behind minimalism. Of Monsters and Men find something in between—a sound that feels human, with just enough polish to glow but not enough to shine away its flaws. It’s an album that feels made by people who’ve lived a little, who understand that life rarely offers resolution, just moments of clarity between the noise.

This is a band that could’ve easily leaned on nostalgia, chasing the anthemic highs that made them famous. Instead, they’ve delivered something quieter and truer. All Is Love and Pain in the Mouse Parade is their most introspective work yet—less about being heard, more about being understood. It’s the kind of record that sneaks up on you, then stays for weeks.

If you’ve followed Of Monsters and Men since their debut, you’ll still find flashes of that old grandeur here. But what makes this album special is how it trades the big sing-alongs for small truths. It’s tender, strange, and quietly devastating in places. It doesn’t demand attention; it earns it. Give it time, and it’ll unfold like something you’ve been missing without realizing it.