When THE BIRTHDAY MASSACRE played La Belle Angele on Sunday 26th October 2025, Edinburgh had worked hard to freeze and soak us all into submission. The title of the venue "the beautiful angel"—was a snarky let-down as goths shuffled in the door, dripping eyeliner and despair. One guy's perfectly coiffed hair had been pushed down by the savage harshness of Scottish weather. Another was cinching their velvet jacket in like a filthy rag. This is what religion tastes like at 7 PM on Sunday when you're fifty two and your knees hurt. In here, though, the club shone like a dream preserved in a space between a Hot Topic and a weird dollhouse.

The bar was doing great business in gin, the unofficial drink of people who've long since forgotten lying to themselves about needing to "loosen up" for a concert. THE BIRTHDAY MASSACRE are less a group and more a time capsule that never really got lost. They've been doing this for over twenty years now—this fizzy-splotched, synth-saturated melodrama of broken hearts—and it continues to work because they understand the force of myth. Everyone else from the mid-2000s tried to rebrand themselves as ironic fathers or crypto-interested podcasters, TBM doubled down. Same aesthetic, same dedication to emotional overstatement, same refusal to pretend like you outgrow it. The issue with nostalgia, however, is that it's embarrassing. We're supposed to roll our eyes at our teens, erase the LiveJournal posts, act like we never stood for three hours mastering winged eyeliner to see a band play in a club that smelled of Red Bull spilled and shattered dreams.

The Birthday Massacre began with "Night Shift", which thudded like a neon requiem—half candyfloss, half corpse makeup. The synthesizers burbled like smoke machines full of existential horror. "Sleep Tonight" interrupted later, its chorus washing over the audience like some collective breath of all who have known what it is to feel things honestly.

The audience had melted into one, flowing mass by "Sleepwalking" and "Superstition"—middle-aged goths singing along as teenagers again in EVANESCENCE-poster-filled rooms and bad poetry. The woman next to me was crying. Not crying—just cold-hard, plain tears, the sort that demand this has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with what the music represents. Maybe it's the version of her she'd imagined herself to be. Maybe it's the friends who'd all stopped answering calls when they'd all gotten "real jobs." There was also a marriage proposal which caused more tears. This time, tears of joy mixed with the running of freshly applied mascara.

This is the band for all of the freaks who still get this strange pang of nostalgia when they hear the words "LiveJournal," that mourns the return to the way MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE made existential crisis sound like a halftime show. My Chemical Toilet (Sorry, Romance) gave the game's introduction to a whole generation of kids who had to ask permission before they could possibly be allowed big feelings out there in the world. MCR, though, had that melodramatic detachment, that comic book mythos, that being-in-character thing. Gerard Way wore his heart on his sleeve, sure, but the sleeve was a costume. It was safe because it was in disguise. By "Kill The Lights", I finally understood that TBM are what MCR would have been had they abandoned their leather jackets and lost whatever sense of saving anyone.

But TBM sing to the same children in their twenties, having bought a house they can ill afford and discovered their fear to have no prejudice against eyeliner.

It's a subtle but essential one: MCR wanted to save your soul; TBM only want to give it a comfortable home in which to live. There is something nearly obscene in seeing a cohort of adult men and women in their thirties and their forties bending to this kind of sincerity. We can do better than this. We're supposed to listen to murder podcasts and bob our heads up and down in agreement to whatever algorithmic playlist Spotify determines is right for our "vibe." But there we all were, shoulder to shoulder in a decidedly über-capacity space, bobbing our heads to tunes of melancholy and darkness as if 2006 and anything else was once more possible.

Chibi, the ghost ringmaster of all time, has that kind of charm that can turn even mannered Scottish goths into cult acolytes. She grins like a ghost remembering human existence. You don't often get a front woman who can survey a horizon of PVC corsets and black lipstick and make everyone feel spied upon and not scrutinized.

She could have sold us all a coffin and we would have loved the regard. There's a commerciality to her stage that teeters on the edge of the uncomfortable. No congratulatory theatrics, no pretences of modesty, she’s merely a woman in her own space, acutely conscious that every single individual in this room has paid money for the privilege of sitting in on something polite society is otherwise well-trained to button up. She wields that sensitivity as a scalpel. With "The Vanishing Game" and "Lovers End", however, the band had it nailed, with just a touch of self-awareness to see how dorky it is. The bassist looked like someone who'd been playing that long he'd at last achieved some sort of zen plateau.

The guitarist's fingers bore the muscle memory of a player who plays these songs so many times that they become second nature to him.

This is what artistry is like when it has been sharpened to the point of almost spiritual fervour. At one point, someone beside me exclaimed, "I love you, Chibi!" with the sort of arid seriousness that only the gin and tonics and ten years of repressed despair can allow. The audience laughed—not at him, but because we've all been that guy. Some of us still are.

"Destroyer" exploded in heroic peril; "Under Your Spell" swayed with agonizing suffering. And then "Pins and Needles"--still the best synth-goth tune ever dreamed up—hit, and the room literally bounced up off the floor. Everybody screamed the song out, off-tune and completely sincere. You could sense the overall feeling of catharsis in the room: irony was actually dead, and nobody cared. This is something they don't teach you when you're growing up: you don't actually grow out of the things that saved you. You learn to be ashamed of them.

You learn to giggle first, before everyone else. You learn to insert the words "guilty pleasure" into your vocabulary, rather than just "pleasure," to excuse the things that make you live. But here, in such places as this one, the apologetic squinch is abandoned. No apologies are offered. Nobody is guilty. By the time they reached "Happy Birthday", it was catharsis in plain sight—a hymn that imbues sentiment and mourning with a kind of religious fervour. Chibi delivered it with an unusual euphoria, half-teasing, half-mourning innocence. It's the only hymn that comes to mind that employs "happy" as an illness. Everyone was crying in earnest now, and no one cared who noticed. What is armour for if you never take it off?

The charm of The Birthday Massacre is that they've finally figured it out, something that most bands will spend the rest of their careers attempting to find: they know who they are and who they're playing it for. And then "Red Stars" and "Blue"—two songs that're literally an epilogue to this perpetual puberty.

In a world in which the truth is employed as a punchline, in which it's more popular to be talking about the fact that you don't care about something than not caring about anything at all, perhaps that is the punkiest thing that's left. They're not here to save the world. They're not here to save you. They're just creating room for the part of you that never did learn how to do normalcy very, very well. The part that still appreciates the fog machines and purple lights. The part that gets it, deep within its heart of hearts, that becoming grown-up was always a charade.

MCR would quote that teens scare the wits out of everyone. But The Birthday Massacre? They're here when those teens grow up—and terrorize themselves. When they're at home and the phone is ringing. When they look in the mirror and their parent's faces stare back, but the music remains unchanged. And on a genuine note? That's scarier than anything Gerard Way ever wrote.

We scattered out into the October darkness, satisfied and dressed in black, already anticipating the next chance to meet up and revel in our common fate. Some accompanied us to the local chip shop, because even existential terror cannot do without proper fuel. Whilst others went on to the Cowgate's establishments, hoping to extend the evening's fellowship with the dark through the ageless Scottish ritual of drinking. until great ideas come or oblivion sets in (whichever comes first).

THE BIRTHDAY MASSACRE, undoubtedly, packed up their equipment with the same weary professionalism that all road musicians have to possess in order to be ready to decamp to the next town, the next venue, the next set of devotees clamouring for their daily dose of cultured despair. It's an odd existence, really, to travel the world warning folks that life is sad by nature, but at least it sounds pretty nice. Words: Matt Denny.

There is a musician—uneven, almost mythic in our debased era—who steps out into the stage bearing the burdens of the road itself. JACK J HUTCHINSON is such a being. Here, on this Edinburgh evening in October, in this small and sacred space of the world famous Bannerman;s, he stood over us not as diversion but as testament. Not as singer of songs, but as medium through whom the real burden of living bears witness. One could almost hear the universe exhale, "Don't worry—your life's suffering now has a soundtrack."

The fedora was a vagabond crown, pride of the unsettled. It was sitting on something far more solid, however. What it was notable to mention was the charged atmosphere in the room as he stepped onto that stage. What it was notable to mention was the recognition, immediate and genuine, that we were witnessing something that cannot be reproduced again, cannot be manufactured in any studio or factory of our highly industrialized desolation. I mean, mass-producing.

His bearing commanded but not demanding. No art inclining into attitude, no thoughtful turning of attitude. There was a man who had lived correctly, and had elected to translate that living into music. The difference is important. Most artists paint self-portraits. Hutchinson painted an account, a confession, an accounting. If the severe accountant of life ever makes an appearance, he'd take his lead from Hutchinson.

Nothing was measured but sound, and the truth pouring black wine-like out of that guitar. Each note an agony, each line a confession yanked out of the bowels of experience. The instrument itself an extension not of talent but of vision. This is hard metaphor's language; this is explanations for what happened in that room. And yes, some of those individuals will have you wanting death to be easier.

He spoke of suffering borne. Of a liberty's requirement. Of transmuting agony into something which scorches and off it goes. This is shaman's work—the alchemy of sorrow into beauty. Or, if cynics prefer, the not-so-glamorous alchemy of turning misery into something an admission fee can be hawked for. The room was stirred at once. There was no space between Hutchinson and the people; space was gone the instant he played that initial note. We were no longer spectators, only witnesses to a more ancient ritual than rock and roll, older than electricity itself, perhaps older than plain common sense.

The technicality of his playing was apparent to anyone who was paying attention. There was a guitarist in there who had spent thousands of hours on the thing, not toward virtuosity, but toward saying something. His fingers take openings other people would cut out as being too hard, too clever, and make them requirements. That is, Hutchinson makes your errors appear like amateur hour—and generously advises you'll be dead before you catch up.

The setlist blazed its way through the wastes of obscurity and rebellion. The songs were lights on a highway. Some dipped and blunt as desert rock, some burning with a bruised loveliness. There was anger there, yes. A refusal to trade and compromise. Not the adolescent fury of the eternally outraged, but the fury of the adult who has seen the middling machine working its will and knows it will always outlive us all anyway. And vulnerability—not the pseudo types the corporate world markets and sells as "authenticity" but is still very dishonest, rather the genuine article. A man's nudity after learning that to exist one must drop all pretence. To be vulnerable to strangers takes courage. Hutchinson possessed it. Or perhaps madness—one or the other, it did the trick.

The emotional arc was complicated—unpredictable and non-linear. Intensity, stoic contemplation, moments when melody and structure disintegrated into raw emotion, and moments when you felt like the universe would finally let some other unfortunate piece of humanity have a turn to mourn. Spoiler: it won't.

His playing communicated someone who had paid their dues in blood and time. No flash for the sake of flash, but a forceful eloquence, notes applied with the stinginess of the man who knows that every movement is valuable. This is the tremendous difference between the journeyman and the serious artist. The journeyman learns tricks. The artist learns when to refrain from using them. Hutchinson could probably teach you how to turn a funeral into a carnival and you'd be beholden to him. The music took a course through thematic landscape we could describe as the underworld and back. In short, the musical equivalent of making peace with the Grim Reaper isn't coming after you—he's taking notes.

There were questions of obedience and faith, of the depth of commitment and relation. There was cosmic metaphor—star and empty spaces out there—against the intimate reality of a man fingering a guitar in a rock cell in Scotland. It was as if one heard the universe's claims adjuster nod in concurrence. Most astonishing to me was the lack of sentimentality. Hutchinson steers clear of the tacky tear, the slobbery emotional button-pushing. In its stead, he offers unadorned honesty that embarrasses most music-making today.

Where you're the one taking the blows, translating the agony, and crafting something that smoulders with a fire more intense than any vacuous lie or soothing fantasy. Or in plain terms, he makes life look like hell—and beautiful.
Inside a Scottish stone chamber, all that changed. Those who saw it know. The others only get the echoes. And, if you're lucky enough, you may even succumb to jealousy before the next performance. Words: Matt Denny.

 I don’t travel to gigs much anymore. Not since the last one ended with a power cut, a medical evacuation, and me explaining to a very patient police officer that “technically” pyrotechnics aren’t illegal if you’re passionate. But when DeWOLFF announced a show at The Voodoo Rooms, I thought, why not? Worst case, I’d die in Edinburgh. Best case, I’d hear some real music before the paramedics arrived.
The journey up felt biblical, but not in the uplifting way—more in the plagues and retribution way. The train swayed through sheets of rain so thick you couldn’t tell where the sky ended and the land began. The windows fogged, the passengers stared at their phones like sinners at confession, and I sat there wondering which one of us would snap first. Edinburgh greeted me like a bad omen in a trench coat: wet, brooding, and whispering that I’d made a mistake. You don’t go to Edinburgh for the weather; you go because something in you wants to be punished.
The Voodoo Rooms lived up to its name—half ballroom, half fever dream. The ceiling shimmered like melted gold, the walls hummed with the memory of too many bad nights, and the stage looked like a shrine built for the damned. I ordered a drink that tasted like despair with citrus notes and waited for the band.
Then DeWolff appeared. No fanfare, no fake humility. Just three men who looked like they’d crawled out of a swamp in Alabama and hitchhiked to Scotland to remind us what soul music is supposed to feel like. They plugged in, nodded once, and unleashed something that sounded like a sermon delivered by the devil himself.
The first few songs came on slow, thick, and sinful—like honey dripping off a knife. You could tell what they were about without hearing a word. Long nights. Bad promises. Love that rots from the inside out. It wasn’t storytelling; it was confession. The kind you whisper when you think God’s already turned his back.
Pablo van de Poel played his guitar the way surgeons cut flesh—precise, clinical, but with just enough pleasure to make you uneasy. His brother Luka didn’t so much play the drums as interrogate them, each hit landing like a question you don’t want answered. And Robin Piso on Hammond—he wasn’t playing music. He was summoning it. Notes poured out of that organ like smoke from an altar fire, thick and holy and slightly unhinged.
Midway through the set, something shifted. The air got heavier. The lights dimmed to the colour of dying embers. A song began that could only have been written by someone who’s watched a relationship die and thought, good. The crowd went silent—not respectful silent, but afraid silent. No one wanted to break the spell. It was beautiful, the way watching a car crash in slow motion is beautiful.
You could feel the ghosts of Muscle Shoals in the room—the ache of Etta, the sweat of Pickett, the dirt of Leon Russell—lurking somewhere behind the amps, nodding along in approval. DeWolff weren’t imitating that legacy. They were feeding it. You could tell they’d been to the mountain, or at least to the part of Alabama where God still drinks bourbon and smokes indoors.
As the set went on, the songs got darker. One of them sounded like temptation given a melody—something you’d play while driving home from a sin you enjoyed too much. Another was pure heartbreak, slow and reverent, like a funeral for feelings you never deserved. The closing number wasn’t so much a song as a reckoning. It started like forgiveness and ended like revenge.
When it was over, the crowd didn’t clap right away. They just stared. The band left the stage quietly, leaving us there to pick through the ashes. Then the applause came—loud, raw, desperate. Like everyone in the room had just been resuscitated against their will.
I walked out into the night. The rain was still falling, of course—it always is in Edinburgh—but it felt different now. Like it was cleansing something. The city shimmered in the streetlights, damp and alive and entirely indifferent. Somewhere behind me, someone was still humming one of the songs. Or maybe it was just the sound of the storm.
DeWolff didn’t just play a gig. They performed a ritual. They raised the ghosts of Muscle Shoals and fed them Scottish whiskey until they sang through the walls. I’ve seen bands try to fake soul, to bottle it, to wear it like a costume. DeWolff doesn’t do that. They bleed it.
And as I headed back through the soaked, cobbled streets, I couldn’t shake the thought: some bands make you believe in love again. DeWolff makes you believe in damnation—and makes it sound glorious. Words: Matt Denny.

It’s Saturday, September 20th, and I wake up in my Travelodge hotel room in Morecambe, and you know when your compos mentis but are fully aware of the fact you are incredibly hungover at the same time? You need a minute. I look up at the TV, which is still on, I don’t know what I’ve been watching, but I know it wasn’t disabled porn, they said it was, I may have gotten confused. There’s a Burger King gift bag on my desk; they have room service? No, it’s empty, that was from last night, that’s a good sign. I ate. Check the note...LANCASTER? I can’t remember going to Lancaster? Oh no wait, I used Uber. Wait what?! How much did that cost?! Fuck me it may as well have come from Camelot.  

I stick my nose out the window for some clarity and fresh air, the type that only opens around 3 inches to prevent suicide, I admire their foresight, and all I see through the pouring rain is more rain, despair and clouds promising even more rain. Eric Draven said it can’t rain all the time...the bastard is a liar, as he’s clearly never been to Morecambe in September. I know the football team are called the shrimps but surely, they don’t play in an aquarium? What’s the pitch made of? Seaweed?  

Anyway, I digress...after a shower, a quick dash to Wetherspoons down the street for breakfast, there wasn’t a lot of time before Saturday’s shenanigans, as we have a full day of bands today, starting at 2pm. Back in March, I made the mistake of not realising this and ended up missing half of CORROSION, but this time I am prepared. What I wasn’t prepared for, was the aforementioned weather. Honestly it hasn’t stopped pissing it down all morning and it showed no signs of stopping. Never mind coaches and trains I may need to book an Arc home tomorrow! Admitting defeat, I make a slight detour to the local Morrisons, buy an umbrella (They had dinosaurs and leopard print, of course I chose leopard print) and head back to the Alhambra to resume my coverage of BATS IN THE ATTIC... 
​
I get there for 2pm, somewhat damp despite the umbrella, (I may as well have swum across the bay) and head to the bar. I don’t exactly know how much I drank last night but the lady serving me was like “Jack & Coke?”...of course it is. I clearly established myself. OH MY GOTH was at the bar too and joked “It’s too early for me!”...but as they say it’s 5 O'clock somewhere. That’s never bothered me I don’t care what time of day it is; I’m having a drink. Pleasantries aside, we have a long night ahead of us, so let’s get stuck into our first band... 

Being the opening band can be a daunting task in any live situation, even more so when you’re the youngest band playing the weekend, but credit to them, SOCIAL YOUTH CULT [7] take it in their stride like seasoned post-punk veterans. These Newcastle natives play as though they’ve been plucked fresh out of the late 70’s, as they effortlessly channel the likes of JOY DIVISION and BAUHAUS, perfectly recreating that distinctly dark, indie-rock sound. With tracks like “Temporary Love” off of their debut EP “Memento Vivere”, plus recent singles like “Black Lipstick”, they pleasantly surprise not only the crowd, but the other bands in attendance with their authenticity. With their debut album on the horizon (More on that soon, watch this space), these youngsters are a welcome breath of fresh cemetery air. 

Next up we have Nottingham-based outfit CHAOS BLEAK [6] who while themselves haven’t been together long (Forming in 2019), are actually 20+ year veterans of the underground Gothic music scene. Comprising of former members of the likes of MIDNIGHT CONFIGURATION and CRIMSON BRIGADE to name some, they bridge traditional hard rock with socially charged post-punk lyricism, and a hint of semi-industrial cyber-punk in their aesthetic.

With recent releases like the single “Deathtrain” and their 2024 album “Agents Of Chaos” to promote, they chug their way through their set with a solid consistency and cool, controlled swagger, allowing the early afternoon punters to groove along nicely. “Long Black Coat” is dedicated to all those in attendance, celebrating the togetherness, while “Dress The Kids For War” comes with a “Free Palestine” call for peace, which gets a cheer. Not the most exciting band I’ve ever seen live, but they perform well despite a certain level of monotony it can be argued they bring sonically. Bleak is a strong word but SOME chaos would have been nice...

We liven things up a little for our third band, as Bristol’s NAUT [7] add a little sparkle to proceedings…in a sense. Frontman Gavin Laubscher is wearing this wonderfully sequined black blazer jacket, coming across as either a depressed disco ball, or SAM RYDER’s evil twin. I would have tried to take a photo, but I feared the flash would cause serious reflective damage to both the venue and all those in attendance. Imagine the bit from “Shin Godzilla”, when all the atomic rays come out of his dorsal fins, taking out buildings, helicopters, possibly low orbiting satellites…I mean I’ve seen Morecambe, I doubt the fire brigade answer the phone.

I digress…with their dark blend of indie-rock, melodic post-punk and Gavin’s baritone drawl, they treat the crowd to some fine Goth ‘N’ Roll. Tracks off of their debut album “Hunt”, such as “Dissent” and “Nightfall” go down a treat with their subtle synth elements, while earlier EP cuts like “Disintegration” show that Bristol has its own bat population too. It’s a fun set, and here we have another band full of potential among the UK’s darker musical circles. Don’t miss the boat on Naut…

Next up we have a band I was more familiar with, as THE BLACK CAPES [8] made the trip from Greece to grace us with their dark, Goth rock intensity. I’d previously reviewed their album “Lullabies For The Dead” a couple of years ago, which I thoroughly enjoyed, so it was good to finally catch the guys on the live stage. Tracks like “Wolf Child” off of said album, are justifiably popular, but they’ve since released their most recent LP “Looks Like Death”, which gets strong representation. With cuts like “Love Is Love” and “The Reject Anthem”, frontman Alex prowls the stage like he should be wearing a black cape himself. So brooding and ominous is their stage presence; add this to the heavier riff work and Alex’s deep vocals, this is a more doom-influenced Goth rock treat, and Alhambra is left trembling. These aren’t so much as Greek Gods…no…more like Hades’ own in-house band; inspiring his schemes to murder Hercules with each and every note while he gives Cerberus belly rubs… 

By this point I should remind everyone that this is day two of a festival of sorts, not a stand-alone gig night, and we’re having a full day of it, so what better time to hammer home the hospitality, foresight and organisation of the whole team that run both BATS IN THE ATTIC and Alhambra as a whole, than to highlight their half-time scran. Yes, that’s right, in a small kitchen set-up adjacent to the bar, everyone in attendance can pop up and get some homemade vegetable Saag Aloo curry with rice, naan bread…and there’s nachos and cheese with salsa, for a fiver!

​For a break between bands and to soak up your Jack & Coke, and for just a moment to sit, chat and recharge if anything, it’s a wonderful inclusion and just goes to show once again that the team behind all of this care about you. Sure, you can survive off crisps and peanuts from behind the bar, or brave the weather for a local establishment, there is a KFC down the road, Kentucky Fried Cockles anyone? (For fuck sake Gav! For the last time! I’m not telling myself again!) but, Bats has you covered. It was bloody nice too to be fair! You cannot fault the organisation here. 

Our next band are notable by their absence, and that is because sadly, WITCH OF THE VALE [N/A] pulled out of the event. I was genuinely gutted to hear this, as having previously seen the Scottish dark electronic duo supporting THE BIRTHDAY MASSACRE, I was looking forward another set of their nonchalant, ethereal splendour. Their cover of “Hurt” for example almost brought me to tears. We instead, have the replacement bus service that is MARK E MOON [6].

Not to knock the Isle Of Man…man…as his electronic-tinged post-punk fleets between darker indie-pop and nostalgic synth-wave, as he and his backing band promote their new album “Pop Noir”. Tracks like “A Kiss Before Dying” and “Children” (I think) are decent, but my disappointment got the better of me and I kind of wandered off to chat with The Black Capes and grab another Jack & Coke. To be fair I felt bad and went back and had a listen after the fact, Mark’s earlier stuff on Bandcamp is better than the new and only record on Spotify, but that’s just me.

Our penultimate act of the weekend are a Swedish outfit by the name DARK SIDE COWBOYS [8] and outfit is a fitting term. Channelling the likes of FIELDS OF THE NEPHILIM and PHANTOM OF THE BLACK HILLS, they truly embrace a sense of Gothic Americana, with their Stetson’s, long coats, and generally coming across as the kind of ghosts Zak Bagans would be playing with in some haunted-ass saloon somewhere obscure in Texas. The smoke machine only adds to the spooky aura these Swedes bring…it’s like John Carpenter’s “The Fog” but the costume department somehow confused pirates for cowboys.

Their sound is more of a traditional rock ‘n’ roll with a semi-Southern twang. It’s a bit bluesy, they have solo’s, they have aura and atmosphere, but it’s delivered with a darkness that can only truly be appreciated on the live stage.  With their latest EP “Gunslinger” and a hefty back-catalogue spanning over twenty years, they really embrace both a lifestyle and gimmick in their art. With an imposing stage presence, and the tunes to match, they’ll be your huckleberry for sure, delivering a solid set at the Alhambra. Despite the gimmick, the subtle theatrics and face-value niche appeal, remember this quote from John Wayne; “Real art is basic emotion. If a scene is handled with simplicity – and I don’t mean simple – it’ll be good., and the public will know it”. Dark Side Cowboys don’t mess around and play from the heart. They’ll finish up, down a bourbon and saddle up for the next town. Well…when the rain stops at least. In the mean time they can enjoy tonight’s headliner…

Finally, then, when the smoke clears, it’s time for our final act of the weekend. Another Swedish act by the name of THEN COMES SILENCE [8]. Silence, however, is not on the cards, as the dancefloor / pit area is packed, and the Alhambra is in full swing for this lot. Dressed like somewhere between ALKALINE TRIO and TURBONEGRO, these Swede’s deliver a punk-riddled dose of dark alternative rock with more hooks than a Morecambe fisherman. Tracks off their latest album “Trickery”, such as “Like A Hammer” and “Stay Strange” bring a boisterousness that invigorate the late-night crowd for the largest dance along of the weekend. “Pretty Creatures” houses certain KILLING JOKE vibes which is never a bad thing, while older cuts like “Apocalypse Flare” only reiterates the capability of these Swede’s and their penchant for catchy, alternative rock bangers.

​It's been a long day and night…it’s an endurance for anybody, no matter how much you love a genre, but what’s evident yet again, is the team behind CORROSION and BITA care about what they put on, who they put on, and who they cater for. There is a budget for everything in music promotion, marketing and booking, and I’m sure they could have booked a big artist to sell tickets…but that’s not what these weekends in Morecambe are about. The whole point in these events at the Alhambra are to celebrate the alternative Gothic scene…forget genre specifics and flow charts and where what sound came from…the point here is togetherness, appreciating music, appreciating bands, discovering bands, and being a family. I’ve only attended twice now myself, but I feel more welcome and appreciated here than my local bars and rock clubs (Not that there are many).

​Between the half time scran, the personalised bottles of wine for the artists, the goody bags, sweets and promotional flyers on the tables, the warm welcome, games of pool, banter…this is a true community. If you’re into your old-school Gothic rock, or even if you’re just discovering your new favourite alternative genre, Morecambe needs to be on your radar. I can’t celebrate these events enough as mere words don’t do them justice. You have to be there. Bats in the attic in any part of the country are protected by law…well I’m making it law that this event be protected and celebrated. Embrace West coast Gothic…and allow a real grassroots alternative festival to flourish. Corrosion returns in March…I’ll see you there… Words: Gavin Griffiths

The second BETH BLADE & THE BEAUTIFUL DISASTERS plugged in and the first chord was struck, the air became heavy, sweltered, lethal. You could smell it: perfume and sweat, fear and something else, something abrasive, like ozone before thunder. The room reconfigured itself. We were not in a bar. We were in a cathedral worshipping the Gods of Rock n Roll and feeling very unworthy.  If the true king of Rock & Roll himself,  Mr John Craven, had made an appearance, I fear I would’ve spontaneously combusted.

Beth strode to the mic looking somewhere between sinner and saint. Her guitar hung low like a knife poised to spill blood. The first shriek was an open wound in the evening. The other riffs were jolts and shudders, the kind that twist your belly around and kick your pulse against the ribcage. She was laying down songs for their new album, "Vintage Rebel x Trauma Bond", an album that's thick with the smell of lust in a snare trap. Her voice was gasoline and fire, a voice that didn't just brush up against flesh, it rippled beneath it, nestled comfortably inside the veins, made all the nerves feel used and vulnerable.

The Beautiful Disasters trailed after her in lewd precision. The bass swooshed from torso to torso, pushing hips into motion, forcing strangers into one another as if they were old friends to start. Guitar solos wafted across the space like tendrils of smoke on a single cigarette, curling around the edges, sweetness one second, savage the next. Drums were relentless and almost primal with a rhythm that made you remember when you last were held tight enough to bruise.

​Between scream and solo, a mole appeared from under the stage. A dazed, bewildered little creature that, apparently, hadn't been spotted for thirty-six years. It blinked twice, blew out its nose at the beer-laden air thick with pheromones and feedback, then disappeared back into wherever it had emerged. It appeared to decide that this wasn't a home for the living. Nobody saw if it was there. Nobody cared. [Editor: We're Going To Have PETA Activists After Us Now...Great]

The room was feral, a fevered ocean of open mouths and outstretched arms in the front row. Sweat bucketed like baptism, glitter dissolved into skin. Bodies pressed so tightly together you could feel each breath, every shiver of desire kindled by a downstroke or a scream. A girl at the perimeter of the stage mouthed along with every line like a prayer, mascara running into her smile. A guy sitting beside her was on the edge of toppling over, his hand across his chest as if he was trying to hold the song in.

By the time the encores hit the air, the cathedral had reformed. Flags dangled from unseen rafters, Marshall stacks were like altars. Fireworks detonated in spectral colour beyond our gaze and spelled out "BETH", written in some private heaven we'd all agreed to believe.

Her guitar was now slick, shiny, lethal, and, with the final wail, she baptized us, not in water but light, sweat, and spit (Maybe even snot, Beth did have a cold). The crowd disintegrated. Some kissed like they'd never known light before. Some got on their knees. Some just stood still, trembling, afraid of what they let go. It was sex, it was surrender, it was music.

As the last note dissolved, the air cracked like glass. And there, in the silence after the storm, the mole reappeared, blackened, blinking, with a guitar chord trailing behind it like a love letter that it could not understand. It paused, it sneezed, and vanished into a wineglass.

BETH BLADE & THE BEAUTIFUL DISASTERS are not a band. They are hunger. They are risk.

They're the holy war on four chords and a scream. Words: Matt Denny.

Back in March, you may recall that I embarked on an adventure Northbound, to the west coast of England, and a quiet little seaside town called Morecambe. Quiet as in dead, that is...even the convenience stores closed conveniently early. Dystopian IS a strong word, but the seafront looked more like the front line of a battlefield. On the losing side. Like, “Humanoids From The Deep”, without a budget, or extras, and less appeal. I jest it's lovely looking out to the sea...just...don't turn around.

I explored a little more this time around. The stick of rock was probably mined in Littledale before Thatcher, and in that same touristy shop I found open, they were selling fridge magnets saying Cornwall. Made me equally dyslexic and disorientated. I travelled 230 miles North, to Morecambe remember, and Cornwall is even further South than me! Can you physically travel North to Cornwall from the UK? I’d take a paracetamol right now but apparently Donald Trump said they give you Autism...I have enough on my plate. 

Anyway, as per Morecambe, famous for its footballing shrimps, heavyweight boxing dosser and self-proclaimed gypsy king Tyson Fury, and of course, comedic legend Eric Bartholomew, who is such a national treasure he has a Wetherspoons named after him, (That's better than being fucking Knighted!) we were here once again to try to appreciate this post-apocalyptic seaside destination, and the music was fitting. What is it that’s so alluring about Morecambe’s dark side? No, I’m not going to make another cockle picker reference, I did that already for GOTHZILLA months ago and that was pushing it. We’re of course going to be taking a look at Morecambe’s Gothic scene...and the family vibes surrounding events at the Alhambra.  

While March hosted COROSSION FEST, the main West-Coast Gothic event of the year, acting as an alternative to the already established East-coast Whitby weekend, September finds the team putting on the Sister show if you will; BATS IN THE ATTIC. Really it differs only in name, as again we have two nights at the Alhambra, a genuinely lovely venue, filled with bands covering everything under the Gothic umbrella. I must emphasise umbrella at this point as the weather this weekend is wetter than an otter's pocket, after said otter drowned looking for cockles...DAMNIT! I did it again! Moving swiftly on...let’s hit the Alhambra for night one and get that Friday feeling underway... 

Our first band of the weekend are an immediate highlight, as Sweden’s SJÖBLOM [8] entertain the early crowd with their finely stripped back synth-rich delivery. A group I’ve been looking forward to personally (Even though I honestly can’t pronounce them); the duo utilises a backing track for percussion as they bridge indie aesthetics with a sense of new romantic melody. Their stage presence may be minimal; jeans, hoodies and leather jackets...one guitar, around two keyboards, but they have the tunes to carry this set effortlessly.  

​“Oh My Heart” from 2016’s “6” for example, is an incredibly infectious number, with a solid bass groove, piercing keys and dance-along qualities, easily an early hit and fan-favourite, getting people up on the dancefloor early on. Their latest album “Dead Of Night” gets good representation, including a wonderful rendition of “Turn My Head”. Instrumentally it channels the likes of early DEPECHE MODE with its quirky electro-pop aesthetics, while “Telephone” from 2021’s “Demons” only cements their status as a solid indie-synth ensemble, and they’re a brilliant way to open the weekend and get everyone in a great mood. Their sound could easily do well in UK markets, given the trend for nostalgic 80’s throwback lately and hopefully, we’ll see a lot more of these Swedes in the future, as they are well worth checking out. I purchased vinyl, trust me. 

 

Finally, then, we get Friday night’s headliner, GHOST DANCE [8] and to give a sense of perspective, this Leeds-based bunch initially broke up the year I was BORN. Having themselves been born out of THE SISTERS OF MERCY and SKELETAL FAMILY you just know the heritage is there, and vocalist Anne-Marie Hurst turns back the clock to perfectly encapsulate what post-punk and proto-Goth should embody, with this newest iteration of the band line-up.  

Tracks like “I Will Wait” chug-along rhythmically with some solid riffs and slick guitar licks, almost bordering on classic heavy metal tropes, and they allow for an intense, end of night dance along as the track grows and grows into a wonderful crescendo. Forget about genres for a minute, this is a wonderfully crafted song. “Spin The Wheel” showcases a softer side of the band, as Anne-Marie allows her melodious vocals to take centre stage, sounding pained and perturbed, over the gambles and uncertainties of life, but in a venue full of likeminded friends, acquaintances and adopted family, it’s a message that we can all relate to. Both Corrosion and Bats In The Attic provide a haven for likeminded people to congregate and enjoy culture, and we always run the risk of judgement, or ridicule, it’s the wheel we spin when we make these choices growing up, but this community has shown me that they thrive; WE thrive, when bands like this bring us together.  

Further tracks like “Down To The Wire” highlight the joviality you can have with alternative music with its clap-along qualities and indie-pop sensibilities, while newer tracks, like “Goodbye” and “Jessamine” only cement them as lost icons of the UK’s proto-Goth music scene. We’re so used to reliving the good old days, or at least yearning for them in some generation's cases, that some bands can often be overlooked in favour of the big guns. This is one of those bands, that we need to appreciate more, and the Corrosion/Bats team ensure that we do. For that, we applaud them. 

Regardless of any sense of genre bias we have for these weekends in Morecambe, what’s important, is that night one of 2025’s Bats In The Attic went down a storm. Friday may only have had four bands, but each and every one of them delivered in their own way, and it’s that which makes this community flourish. Music is subjective in nature, but the message is always the selling point, and the whole point of this Morecambe-based congregation, is this menagerie of unrelated family members can come together, have fun, and appreciate not only the legacy and history of Gothic rock and post-punk, but enjoy each other's company in what’s become a bi-annual reunion. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my hotel, order a Burger King from Lancaster because of course I do, nothing is fucking alive let alone open in Morecambe as far as I can tell, and make notes ahead of tomorrow...because there are plenty of bats left in the attic. It’s going to be a long one...not unlike my journey here to be fair! - Words: Gavin Griffiths

On stage presence? Check. Lead vocals, bass guitar and the kind of between-tunes chat that can make a bar feel like a living room? Check. MARCO MENDOZA, and in rhythmic head-nodding, an army of fanatical accountants from Leith? Also check.

Marco was sporting the sort of Hawaiian shirt that seemed to have been stolen from a tourist, then unbuttoned for effect to expose chest hair so thick it would frighten a small terrier, and with a gold medallion dangling like the pendulum of some randy grandfather clock, he stood there, not as a man; but as a sex god, who had clearly misplaced his temple and wound up opening up a shop in a bar instead.

The walls slanted inwards, the audience was height levelled, and Marco rushed in like lightning with a small brass band tied across his shoulders. The walls themselves converged to engulf the basslines which had previously helped to move a lift in Stockholm three levels above with a power cut. [Editor: I'm STILL confused] A potted fern obligingly paid compliment backstage.

The setlist was a cavalcade of silliness: "Viva La Rock" songs marched in with the kineticist energy of a brass band on an ostrich, "Live for Tomorrow" songs booming so hard that a dozen pigeons flew in the opposite direction in a squadron. Even "Casa Mendoza" patrons sparkled like a chandelier made of nothing but harmonicas.

He made his way through the crowd whilst still playing like a sage musical god, dispensing wisdom, benevolent sarcasm, and the occasional hint of bass play to any who would take it in. Children stop crying when he's around; adults have admitted their musical darkest, deepest secrets; even bartenders have poured with more syncopation when Marco's around.

He segues from rock effortlessly into Spanish beat as we get to appreciate the ghost of Carmen Miranda's fruit bowl on Congas, maracas blasted out on two Buckfast bottles thudded softly by a local pigeon, as the crowds are whisked away to Havana, but with kilts in abundance and fewer cigars.

A veteran of bands such as BLUE MURDER, JOURNEY, TED NUGENT, and an otherwise anonymous Montevideo circus, Marco Mendoza was leading a small orchestra of aghast bystanders and smoke detectors once more demonstrating history to be the flexible thing that it is.

In a moment that was completely transcendent, Marco bursts into what is the sole description of a bass solo so lovely that there are a few individuals here and there in the audience, who can be seen trying to pull phones out of pockets, not so that they might record the performance, for what recording device could possibly hold such greatness? But so they can call their mothers to say hello and tell them how much they love them, because with this kind of music floating in the air suddenly life does make sense.

And just to make it an even greater experience, Marco himself hangs around after the performance, hugging fans, shaking hands, and even possibly christening the odd baby in tequila. One of the tall tales is that he used to run a clinic where he taught three squirrels progressive rock blindfolded and while trying to solve a Rubik's cube. I departed Bannerman's with the resident house martin who retained the empty Buckfast bottles and was off to their next gig. [Editor: I honestly don't fully know what happened tonight...and I'm not about to start asking questions]

 La Belle Angele, 11th September, Edinburgh. The lights were extinguished like they'd been removed, and the room expelled a solitary, damp sigh. AND SO I WATCH YOU FROM AFAR took their place. By the time the first note was struck, I could feel it. Heat seeping down walls, curling round beams, something wet, nervous, held in restraint. The air thickened, iron and perspiration on the palate, a mouth ready to close over us all.

The guitars crashed, and the beast was born. Both parts of “Mother Belfast”  tore the darkness apart, flame crawling low, licking ankles, gnawing calves, licking thighs. The crowd writhed; hands slapping, voices screaming, blind fools, but it had accepted me. Its vacant attention slid into my marrow, its second heart thumping within my breast, battering me into submission with each beat.

With "A Slow Unfolding of Wings", it was flesh, obscene and inescapable. Smoke hips grinding, thighs around me, a mouth of fire against mine. The bass thonged through me, the drums pistoned harder, faster, until I was bent, bound, stripped. Guitars wound upward and the fire moaned, battering against me, whispering destruction as release.

“7 Billion People All Alive at Once” was detonation. It destroyed. It fucked down my throat, through my mouth, claws through lungs, a burning cock driven into my spine. My ribs burst open into bellows. My veins flared like wicks. Each drum-stroke a thrust, each chord a savage climax, deeper, harder, until my groin flared into fire. I wasn't possessed. I was blown out, replaced, remade into a furnace.

And then. It flashed. It streamed through my pores into the throng. Their applause soured to screams, screams to groans, groans to stillness as they themselves were pierced, consumed. Sparks kissed their hair, smoke tongued their lips, fire slammed into their guts. Arms convulsed, legs buckled, pelvises jerked in time with the drums as they themselves were ridden from the inside out. The entire club trembled, the hundreds of bodies convulsing, culminating, blazing at once, all moaning the band's name in worship.

The walls were not strong enough to keep it in. Then came Edinburgh town. Flame swept along streets as though ejaculated sperm, cleansing closes and wynds, lapping stone with tongues of ardour. Tenements groaned as they went up, windows shrieking apart, the town bending into the push of flame. Chimneys bellowed out smoke like lungs, pavements cracking like ribs. All buildings strained, all alleys creaked. The entire capital shuddered in a hell of fury and desire.

​I plunged into it, no longer stumbling human but stumbling altar, vessel, conduit. My lungs gagged embers, my groin throbbed sparks, my skin radiated raw. But I was not alone. The whole city had arrived. Every soul branded, every body thrashing, every street burning in consummation.

I didn't fear fire anymore. I no longer respected it. I was it. And it was everything. The city screamed, came, burned, and begged for more.

 As I arrive once again into the Scottish town of Edinburgh, I am struck by the thought that I am well-qualified to salute the flat-out heroic performance that FURY put on at Scotland's world-famous Bannerman's bar, on this the Seventh of September, Twenty Twenty Five.

With the introductory parts of "Interceptor", they had quickly demonstrated that this band had already established their single-handed dominance of metallic arts. Julian Jenkins' vocal delivery was euphonic in character. His laryngeal expertise extended well beyond the horizon of possibility to the point of pure virtuosity.

The rhythm section; raw, and elemental underpinning the percussively ecstatic Tom Fenn on drums and low-frequency-massaging Becky Baldwin, provided a sonic underpinning that was firm. They created soundwaves that travelled beyond the auditory canal of the ears and into the very being, of each person who was in the audience.

Tom Atkinson's six-string instrumental brilliance on songs such as "Prince of Darkness" and "Hell of a Night" was nothing short of mind-boggling. His fretboard acrobatics were the height of technical prowess that would be the green-eyed monster of even the most educated musicians.

The inclusion and addition of co-singer Nyah Ifill brought a high-octane, zestful energy that enhanced, and took the overall sound experience to stratospheric heights. Vocal acrobatics in "Embrace The Demons" created harmonies so unbelievably beautiful to the ear that this humble wordsmith was temporarily left speechless in discombobulation.

The stick-drenched, rhythm-saturated hiatus, was dazzlingly dissonant in the most enjoyable manner possible.
With the finale of "Down To Rock", the audience present had been given total entertainment by this masterpiece of artistic adroitness.

The allotted time was sadly, compacted for this masterfully adept, and no-doubt-about-it hyper-skilled troupe of thespians.
FURY turned out to be a first-rate tribute to British heavy metal in all its ultra-high-achieving glory. Words: Matt Denny.

As we wander through the gates of BLOODSTOCK 2025, ORANGE GOBLIN - closing in on their final show ever later this year - are on FEROCIOUS form on the Ronnie James Dio stage. Their “meat and potatoes heavy metal” lacks the hedonism of PALEFACE SWISS, the chaotic deathcore band whose set they followed, and is worlds away from the pomp of the melodramatic LACUNA COIL show that follows it. But Orange Goblin need no frills. Their groovy, swaggering riffs and gruff vocals are more than enough to entertain this mid-afternoon audience, and it’s not until after the final notes of "Red Tide Rising" ring out that you realise Orange Goblin have been a subtle mainstay of metal for thirty years. It’s sad to see them go

​The show goes on, though, and we catch Polish "Metal 2 The Masses" winners RASCAL on the New Blood stage. All About The Rock flew out to Bydgoszcz to join the judging panel for M2TM Poland earlier in the year, and while our winners AEONION didn’t win the final round, Rascal are worthy winners. Their melodic speed metal has earned them a decent crowd, and vocalist Kacper Pędziszewski is certainly one to watch. Over on the Sophie Lancaster stage, EIHWAR are showing off the other end of the metal spectrum. Frontwoman Asrunn is a theatrical performer with a hypnotic voice who wields a shamanic drum, while Mark (...) handles multi-instrumental duties effortlessly. Their sound is a pagan-style blurring of folk, electronica and metal influences. Like a heavy version of Jockstrap.

As is Bloodstock tradition, next year's line-up is announced early on Friday evening. Despite the hype surrounding this being the festival’s 25th anniversary, the announcement falls a little flat. Sure, we get some phenomenal bands like LAMB OF GOD, JUDAS PRIEST, SHINING, SEPULTURA and CRYPTOPSY, but there’s no return for first-ever headliners SAXON (Though admittedly this could be down to Biff Bifford’s recent cancer diagnosis) and none of the huge-scale bookings seen floating around the rumour mill. Most problematically, one of the headliner slots has been given to a certain Russian deathcore band with Nazi ties. There has already been a lot of understandable backlash, including calls to boycott next year’s festival… [Editor: We've covered said band, recently, and for transparency, it was an album review, nothing more, and in no means endorsing or championing any semblance of Nazi ideology or fascism...we don't do hypocrisy here]

But that’s next year’s problem. Spirits are lifted quickly by the triumphant return of black metal legends - at one time controversial in their own right - EMPOROR. Fronted by the bespectacled, purple-guitar-wielding IHSAHN, the band power through their dark, ferocious anthems with almost no break. They’ve felt no need to release new music in the last twenty-five years, and you can see why when the brutal shrieks of "Ye Entrancemperium" and "Inno A Satana" haven’t aged a day.

The Sophie tent is almost as full as it was for MACHINE HEAD’s secret set a few years ago, even though until a couple of weeks ago, NAILBOMB hadn’t performed live since their debut show back in 1994. It’s hard to tell who is there as a fan (After all, the band only released one album and disbanded almost immediately after) and who is just following hype, but either way, we stand no chance of getting in the tent, so make our way back across the field and over to the miniscule EMP stage, where hidden gems are often lurking. Northern Irish death metal trio INSIDIOUS VOID are on hand to deliver one of the heaviest sets of the weekend, complete with the fastest, most mechanical-sounding blast beats I’ve ever heard. 

TRIVIUM were the first metal band I ever saw live, but despite adoring "In Waves" at the time, I never really got stuck into any of their other output. I already knew their set was likely to only touch upon that album’s title track, so aside from recognising the odd tune here and there, I was going in blind. The band, clearly relishing an opportunity to headline a major festival, promised a ‘very special’ set for Bloodstock, and they weren’t lying.

‘"Rain", "Pull Harder On The Strings Of Your Martyr" and "Like Light To The Flies" from the "Ascendancy" album they had been performing in full recently are clearly well-oiled and all hit hard as an opening trio. They quickly transition to a covers-heavy middle section, with their version of "Symptom Of The Universe" seeing them joined by Machine Head’s beaming Rob Flynn, and their rarely performed cover of "Master Of Puppets" going down about as well as you’d expect a true heavy metal anthem to go down.

That said, it’s frustratingly hard to ignore the duds, and Trivium certainly have some duds. The lifeless "Until The World Goes Cold", generic "The Sin And The Sentence" and especially the slog of "The Heart From Your Hate" are tough listens that can’t be salvaged by any amount of infectious live energy. Their melodies are as bland as they come, and instrumentally all three tracks just play it way too safe to be of any interest. What does bring the energy up, however, is their new track, "Bury Me With Your Screams", which is a chuggy cut that doesn’t skimp on the heaviness, leaning into Matt Heafy’s gritty shout without an over-reliance on a big clean chorus. This is immediately followed by the set’s inevitable highlight, the unfathomably groovy "In Waves", which welcomes Ihsahn back to the stage for some backing vocals, and, despite Heafy’s insistence that it wouldn’t be, should have been their closing number. 

Death, taxes and a bit of atmospheric post-metal on a Saturday morning at Bloodstock. VNDER A CRVMBLING MOON deliver a harsh, melancholy set of slow, doomy, widescreen metal before BA'AL replace them to do a very similar thing, but with slightly more syncopation and a slightly less visceral vocal performance. We head over to the New Blood stage to bring the energy back up in the early afternoon, and through the bouncy fun of Mantis Defeats Jaguar and intense slam of MECHROMORPH, our mission is accomplished with ease.

The same can’t be said for the main stage, which seems to be going through a bit of a mid-festival crisis. CREEPER, whose frontman William Von Ghould has been seen on the big screens relentlessly advertising Tixtel all weekend, might look the part, but their punky gothic rock lacks bite and sounds weak throughout almost the entire set. On stage performances that lack confidence and very wobbly vocals don’t help their case either

They’re followed by KUBLAI KHAN TX, a metalcore band who look like they’d have bullied every member of Creeper at school. The toxic masculinity is off the charts from frontman Matt Honeycutt, who spends as much time grabbing his crotch, flexing his muscles and reminding the audience the band are from Texas as he does singing. For the first time ever, I see the Bloodstock pit turn from its usual haven of heaviness, into a blurry mess of fist-flailing incels, most of whom are foaming at the mouth as they’re crowd-surfed into the photo pit. The band’s obvious popularity makes it hard to call them a bad booking, but it certainly doesn’t feel like the right atmosphere for Bloodstock.

The flamboyant NEONFLY are a great antidote to an overdose of masculinity. They’re not my usual cup of tea, but any set that opens with some unrelated fire-breathing is going to bring me on side. Willy Norton’s voice in particular is a soaring, melodic weapon and his prowling stagecraft alone should lead him to the Ronnie James Dio stage one day soon. The Sophie stage remains on fine form for the rest of the day, with the tongue-in-cheek brutality of UNDEATH contrasting the singalong flamenco metal of “the biggest unsigned band at Bloodstock”, BREED 77, who even sneak a cover of THE CRANBERRIES’  "Zombie" into their set. 

As is the way at Bloodstock, momentum can shift at any moment, and the main stage quickly recovered from its mid-afternoon stupor to switch gears into a triple threat of legends. First up is FEAR FACTORY, playing the entirety of their groundbreaking second album, "Demanufacture". Only instantly-recognisable guitarist Dino Cazares remains from the band’s most influential era, but Milo Silverstro does a good job of stepping into the shoes of Burton C. Bell and their sound is as weighty and futuristic as ever. Their signature blend of industrial timbres, subtle electronics and grating riffs represents itself best on tracks like "Self Bias Resistor" and "Dog Day Sunrise", which sound about as close to the record as they can. They’re followed by fellow industrial legends MINISTRY. The unsmiling Al Jourgensen looks incredible and carries himself with the unshakeable confidence only a true icon can muster, but aside from the hardcore fans gathered on the barrier, there isn’t much enthusiasm for Ministry around Catton Park. Their performance is tight and their sound is loud and crisp, but to put it bluntly, they just don’t have the tunes. 

An evening of certified legends is rounded out by MACHINE HEAD, who deliver one of the best headline sets in Bloodstock history. Rob Flynn, who looks simultaneously like a huge, hairy monster and a soft, cuddly teddy bear, is unmatched in terms of stage presence. He can switch between a totally genuine grin and the frenzied stare of a man locked into one of the grooviest riffs you’ve ever heard with ease. And that comes before we even mention the sheer might of the setlist. It’s hard to argue with a band that can open with "Imperium", drop their most played song fifth in the set and swap out a mid-set lull with the anthemic "Locust".

Later in the set, Flynn pays a moving tribute to Michelle Kerr, his (and, previously, Bloodstock’s) PR, who sadly died in September 2024. Over the tender chords of "Darkness Within", he tells stories from their many years working together, and leads the audience in a celebration of her legacy, pointing out the bands that many of us would never have even heard of without her influence. It’s a beautiful moment, handled with so much care that when the energy picks up ​again, everyone in the audience knows she wouldn’t want us to wallow, but to get stuck into yet another huge-scale metal show that wouldn’t exist without her.

The back-to-back of "Davidian" and "Halo" that brings the show to a close is a fitting power move the likes of which haven’t been seen at Bloodstock since LAMB OF GOD hit us with "Laid To Rest" and "Redneck" in 2022. The night is rounded out by a mass shout-along, a sea of headbanging and a flurry of fireworks. 

We take up our usual late morning spot at the back of the Sophie Lancaster stage. APATHY UK are as energetic as it is possible to be at 10:30am on day three of a metal festival, while BARBARIAN HERMIT are as loud as the hungover heads in front of them can take. FRAYLE, however, are just dull - they claim to take influence from the likes of SLEEP, BLACK SABBATH, BJORK and PORTISHEAD, but realistically, their sound is bland and vaguely doomy. It goes nowhere and offers very little.

RIVERS OF NIHIL, however, offer a hell of a lot. Not only is their progressive death metal musically interesting (Saxophone at Bloodstock alert!), but their performance is passionate and intense. Bassist/vocalist Adam Biggs sprays spit as he alternates between surprisingly catchy melodies and the brutal screams of "Where Owls Know My Name". Over on the EMP stage, Z MACHINE are the weekend’s token prog band. Until just an hour before, they believed themselves to be introducing Bloodstock to its first saxophone. Bad timing. But their blend of King Crimson-esque experimental prog-jazz-fusion-metal is an endearing chance of pace, and the small gathering of confused metalheads still manage to mosh to it. 

In an attempt to overcome my obvious anti-metalcore bias, we sought out AUGUST BURNS RED. From their clever SYSTEM OF A DOWN fake-out opening right up until "White Washed", I was hooked. Every moment of melody was carefully balanced by a crushingly heavy groove or a tempo-chopping breakdown that would take the audience by surprise. The mellower moments didn’t feel self-indulgent, but a necessary moment of calm used to make the shift back into intensity worthwhile. Maybe not a hidden gem to the thousands that gathered to watch them, but certainly one to me.

Between seeing Cypriot progressive groove metaller's SPEAK IN WHISPERS on the New Blood stage and THROWN on the Sophie, we don’t catch much of FEUERSCHWANZ, aside from a cover of "Dragostea Din Tei" when walking in one direction, and a snippet of "Gangnam Style" while walking in the other. I feel like that may have been all I needed to know. There was a lot more intrigue surrounding ORME, though, who may be the first true drone band to grace a Bloodstock stage. Their set, which consisted of a heavily truncated performance of the normally hour-long "Onward to Sarnath", turned most passers by away with the sheer might of its unshifting slab of noise presented at a ferocious decibel level, but those who stuck with it were rewarded by a slow build into some truly satisfying doomy, sludgy riffs. This is the sort of thing the EMP tent was made for.

MASTODON were always the band I was most excited to see this weekend, and it was especially interesting to see how they played without recently not-so-amicably-departed guitarist Brent Hinds. The answer seems to be that it made absolutely no impact on them whatsoever. Brann Dailor’s ability to sing the band’s most melodic tracks while unflinchingly powering through proggy drum beats is incredible. Equally, Troy Sanders’ hoarse grunt is the perfect match to the thunderous tone of the likes of "Black Tongue".

"The Motherload" is a frenzied web of riffs interspersed with the band’s biggest hook, while "Megalodon" offers a dreamy, psychedelic haze of rhythmic instability that keeps the listener on their toes. The evergreen "Blood And Thunder" holds an almost indefinable power that makes the entire audience ignore almost every lyric in favour of relentlessly singing along to that riff. 
​
[Editor: In the process of publishing this review, it has come to light that Brent Hinds, former guitarist of Mastodon, tragically passed away in a motorcycle accident, on August 20th. Everyone involved in the All About The Rock / Gav The Gothic Chav collaborative team, sends our condolences to Brent's immediate family, close friends and loved ones. A powerful force in modern metal...talented, creative and adored by many. RIP Brent Hinds.]

In the eight years I’ve been reviewing Bloodstock, GOJIRA are the first returning headliners I’ve seen. If there’s a band more deserving, I don’t know who it is. Since their last performance, they’ve become tighter, their stage show has expanded into a true spectacle and they’ve become international flag carriers of metal thanks to their Olympic triumph.

Their music, however, remains largely unchanged. Aside from three tracks from "Fortitude", a lot of their set overlaps with that of 2018 - but that’s no bad thing. The opening sucker punch of "Only Pain" is the perfect way to set the tone, filled with those trademark walls of thick, distorted sound Gojira are known for, completed by an off-kilter, polyrhythmic drumming style that could only be Mario Duplantier. "The Axe" gives his brother Joe Duplantier a vocal workout with its ferociously catchy tech-death first half, before giving way to a cinematic instrumental outro that is every bit as perfect live as it is on the album.

Tracks 4, 5 and 6 are identical to 2018, probably because they act as a beautiful way to encapsulate the band’s career and evolution, with the Grammy-winning, ultra-catchy "Stranded" giving way to the atmospheric expanse of "Flying Whales" from more than ten years earlier, before returning to "Magma" for the relentless energy of "The Cell". "Mea culpa (Ah! Ça ira!)" is a welcome new addition to the set, and its blend of ferocious Gojira-style groove and operatic interjections show exactly why this was the perfect choice for their Olympic performance.

The only thing that disappoints is the way they bring the set to a close. Aside from the incredible encore-opening "L'enfant Sauvage", their decision to with the two tracks from the disappointing "Fortitude" shows that they either aren’t in tune with what their audience wants, or a need to back their newer material overshadows their commitment to better show structure. Their "Under the Sun/Every Day Comes and Goes" BLACK SABBATH cover is great, but it feels like it may have landed better earlier in the set rather than in place of a hard-hitting penultimate number. Similarly, the show-closing "The Gift Of Guilt" is anticlimactic, especially when the likes of "The Heaviest Matter Of The Universe" are left out entirely. But these are minor details, and the important thing is that overall their set is a triumphant success and a welcome return to Catton Hall.

2025 is yet another impeccable year for Bloodstock. Where else can you see Mastodon and Gojira back to back, discover your new favourite unsigned band, watch a potato-eating competition, do a Raised By Owls-hosted metal pub quiz and mosh to an authentic classic-era Slipknot tribute band in the same day? There’s nowhere else quite like it...

Words AND Photography: Dan Peeke