Dealing with all of these first world problems I forget momentarily that there is in fact another band to play, and I’m not about to complain because D-A-D [8] are fucking good to be fair. While I might not appreciate Portuguese gig etiquette or manners on this first experience I can sure as hell enjoy a good band, who to zero surprise, deliver a superb set. They open up with the classic “Jihad” which see’s tonight’s crowd finally come to life. There may be no fuel left for the pilgrims, but Portugal has seemingly been saving energy for these Dane’s and it’s fascinating to see different cultures appreciate different bands. it was 2019 D-A-D last played in the UK...but they are adored here! 

That 1989 record seemingly strikes a chord with this crowd as “Girl Nation” and ESPECIALLY “Point Of View” get rapturous sing-along moments of sheer joy. This is wonderfully insane to me as the majority of punters are dressed like Lisboa Ao Vivo is a library not a venue...and any sense of subculture visually is an afterthought. The crowd here really are giving it their all for D-A-D and it’s frankly educational. 

 ICE NINE KILLS at the Hydro in Glasgow felt like going through a haunted house I'd already been dragged through a dozen times, only this time the walls smelled faintly of vape juice and overpriced nachos. The night opened with a tape of NICK CAVE's "Red Right Hand" bleeding out of the PA-a warning I should have listened to, rather than trying to act brave in front of people twice my size. Glasgow crowds don't scare easily, but I do-so naturally, the band kicked things off with "Meat & Greet", all meat, very little greeting, and enough theatrics to remind me I probably should've updated my will.
 
I'll give them this much: it must have been a very expensive production. Fog machines were coughing up more smoke than I ever managed in my teenage bedroom, and somewhere around "Funeral Derangements", I remembered these guys treat horror tropes like sacred scripture. The audience roared. I flinched. My drink was trembling like we were in Jurassic Park, only with more eyeliner and fewer scientific credentials.
 
But as the setlist grew, I did start to wonder if maybe I should be by "Hip To Be Scared". There's something unnerving about a band so committed to murder ballads that you start checking the exits. I kept thinking some masked extra might leap out and slash ticket holders for "immersion." No such luck. Probably cut for budget.
 
At the beginning of "Stabbing In The Dark", I got a sharp poke in the ribs - turns out that was just someone trying to get past me to film, on their phone. Terrifying either way. "Wurst Vacation", predictably, made me hungry rather than horrified which I doubt was the intended response. Maybe I'm desensitized or maybe horror-core metal just needs more actual risk these days. Something real, like malfunctioning pyros or, a reasonable bar price.
 
And then, because irony is a performance art, they segued into a cover of KATRINA & THE WAVES hit single "Walking On Sunshine" (Taken from the "American Psycho" soundtrack album). I didn't know whether to laugh or run. The Hydro briefly morphed into a horror-themed wedding reception before sliding back into "Rainy Day" like nothing weird had happened.
 
The middle stretch included “The Great Unknown”, “Ex-Mørtis” and a heartfelt BOSSTONES cover (“The Impression That I Get”). At this point in the set, my initial nerves had eased up a bit, and I was able to enjoy things more. Clearly the band loves its costume changes, and I can appreciate the effort—though standing for two hours isn’t necessarily my favourite thing in the world. The crowd seemed to be having a generally good time, and that’s enough.
 
Things picked up again with "A Grave Mistake", either the title of a song or my internal monologue for attending. By "The Laugh Track", though, I was anything but laughing, though the theatrics tried hard-fake blood, stage screams, the usual metal Halloween carnival. Somewhere around "The Shower Scene", I caught myself actually enjoying the melodrama; it annoyed me deeply.

"Welcome to Horrorwood" came across like a blockbuster movie trailer I'd seen one too many times: all glossy and loud, before "IT Is The End" wrapped the main set in a bow soaked with nostalgia, gore, and theatrical camp. The crowd loved it.
Of course, for the encore, we got "The American Nightmare", plus "A Work Of Art" featuring Hannah Greenwood (From main support band CREEPER), who was goth-charming enough to make me forget that I'm supposed to be unimpressed. I shrugged, pretended I'd seen better, and tried not to look emotionally touched in public.
 
As the audience were leaving the venue, there were cries of "THAT WAS KILLER!" Maybe it was. I'm numb. I scare easy, but nothing seems to get under my skin anymore. Maybe that's the real horror-you can blast me with chainsaws, costumes, and blood-splatter theatrics, and all I can think of is how long it's going to take to get a taxi in the rain. Words: Matt Denny.

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.

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

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

 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 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

As I travelled into Edinburgh for tonight’s entertainment, I kept wondering who this Cooper woman was and whether she could be the same one I met on a Sunday in Milwaukee in the rain. She was the ugliest woman I had ever seen. Cheekbones like broken glass and a smile that looked like it belonged to a taxidermist’s first attempt. But lord, did she know how to command a room.

Turns out, ALICE COOPER isn’t a woman at all. Not in the traditional sense. More like a ghoul in a tuxedo, caked in mascara and bile, dragging a leather sack of rock ‘n’ roll theatre behind him like Santa Claus’s deranged brother. The Playhouse was packed—boiling with pensioners in eyeliner, teenage goths pretending they’re not with their dads, and me, nursing a can of Monster like it was communion wine.

When the curtain dropped, it felt more like an exhumation than a concert. A dollhouse of doom wheeled in on squealing casters. Nurses, nooses, toy boxes full of snakes. The band hit like a chainsaw through a wedding cake. Cooper himself emerged like a resurrected vaudeville demon, waving a sword, then a crutch, then a baby doll’s disembodied head. He doesn’t sing so much as spit prophecy. And somehow his voice, all gravel and grave-dirt, STILL carries with the command of a man who’s seen the inside of more padded cells than stages.

“Bed Of Nails” came early and hit hard. People lost their minds. Grown men in IRON MAIDEN shirts screamed like toddlers seeing Santa at the garden centre. “Poison” sent the balcony into a swaying mess of clasped hands and haunted expressions. At some point, he was beheaded, then resurrected, then strangled a puppet. It was hard to follow. Narrative coherence wasn’t the point.

What struck me wasn’t the music—though it slapped—but the devotion. Alice could’ve walked onstage in a paper crown and just whispered nursery rhymes for 90 minutes and they’d have STILL cheered. But he didn’t. He gave them the full nightmare. Confetti. Guillotines. Smoke. Applause so desperate it felt like a séance.

By the end, I was soaked in fake blood (Not mine) and adrenaline (Probably mine). I still don’t know if that was the same Cooper I met in Milwaukee (Mill-e-wah-que), but if it was, she’s cleaned up nicely. Still terrifying. Still commanding. And still, somehow, rock’s reigning corpse bride. If this is retirement age, then God help the rest of us.

Words: Matt Denny

I THINK I was there. I MUST have been. There’s blood on my sleeve and a set of co-ordinates in my back pocket in someone else's handwriting. Bannerman's. Underground stone. Hot, wet, shaking. Maybe it was last night. Maybe it hasn’t happened yet. Time did something funny in there. Slid sideways.

I remember the wall. Cold against my spine, or maybe it was breathing. Hard to tell. Could’ve been me. It could’ve been the wall.

I came to watch. That I know. Not to move. Not to feel. Just to witness. Someone needs to remember this properly when it’s over. I think I forgot what I was meant to remember.

Nero Bellum arrived by not arriving. One blink—nothing. The next—there. Smoke, red light, some metallic hum in my teeth. His shadow hit the ceiling before his feet hit the floor. He didn’t walk. He slid. Or maybe the floor moved for him. I looked down to check. The tiles were twitching. Not metaphorically. Actually twitching. I think one licked my boot.

Then “Devils Work”. Or what I assumed was it. It could’ve been a fire alarm. It could’ve been someone screaming backwards into a pipe. The noise didn’t feel like noise. It was weight. It came through the speakers and pushed the air out of my lungs in reverse.

People started jerking forward, twitching in place like wires were being yanked from inside their bones. Someone fell. Someone else fell on them. Nobody noticed. I stood still. I tried to blink slower as I didn’t want to miss anything important. A vole appeared from beneath the drum riser. A serious little fella. It might’ve had glasses. It was hard to tell in the strobe.

“The Poison Will Deaden The Pain” melted the centre of the room. I saw it happen. One second—people. The next—just blur. Hands, faces, teeth. Bellum was the only thing not vibrating. Just prowling through the distortion, mouth open, arms twitching like he was pulling threads only he could see. I thought he was bleeding, but it was just light. Or sweat. Or memory.

Every track hit with a new shape. “I Choose Violence” came with static in my eyes. I couldn’t see properly for the whole thing. I felt like someone shoved me into a microwave and hit purée. The synth lines crawled under my skin. I scratched at my arm and found ink I don’t remember writing.

There was a moment louder than the rest. I swear to God the bass spoke. Not metaphorically. Not poetically. ACTUAL words. I couldn’t hear them, but they were there. In the corners.

Nero stared out over us like we were ants he'd decided not to crush just yet. Or maybe he was somewhere else entirely. His mouth moved. Lyrics, probably. Or instructions. Or prophecy. My ears were bleeding by then, so I just smiled and pretended I understood. The strobes stopped briefly, and I swear I saw the crowd aging in fast-forward. Just for a second. Then we were back inside it.

I don’t remember hearing the final song. I remember feeling something explode behind my right eye. I leaned into the speaker and let it rattle my thoughts loose. When it ended, I wasn’t sure what year it was.

Everyone exhaled at once. The collective moan of the overused. People fell into each other. Some collapsed. Some crawled. One couple kissed with the urgency of people escaping a burning building. I stayed. Couldn’t move yet. My knees felt fictional.
Cleanup came. Gloves. Mops. One of them looked at me and flinched. I smiled. Didn’t mean to.

Outside, the night was wrong. Too empty. The cars looked fake. I followed the last few disciples up the hill. They limped like they’d left something behind and weren’t sure if it mattered. One of them turned and looked straight at me like I was part of it now. I tasted metal in the back of my mouth and it didn’t go away. Neither did the vole.

Tonight's gig coming in at 9 minutes of the sound of AOL dial-up internet through damaged speakers, out of 10.

Words: Matt Denny. 

The new album, "And Then Oblivion" by PSYCLON NINE is out now, via METROPOLIS RECORDS.

“Your world is coming to its end, but you don’t have to be afraid”…never before have these lyrics been as poignant but sadly, we ironically find ourselves in joy and sorrow as HIM…Finland’s finest romantic rockers, are bidding us farewell, calling time on their 20+ year career. Yes back in March, the news was dropped by Daniel. P. Carter on the Radio 1 Rock Show that HIM were embarking on a farewell tour, after announcing that 2017 would see the band play their final shows and go their separate ways, breaking countless hearts around the world…with the departure of drummer Gas after the last album “Tears On Tape” things were just never the same and despite having Jukka take over behind the kit, new material simply wasn’t working…the spark had gone and it was time to say goodbye. With the UK only getting 5 dates on the “Bang And Whimper” farewell tour, I was lucky enough to see them one last time at Nottingham Rock City…and I should have taken tissues.

Any HIM gig starts early in the morning and today was certainly no exception…even though we’re in the middle of December, there were people queuing at the venue from 8am, camped out with blankets, highlighting the dedication and commitment HIM’s fans truly have…but by the time doors were opened, this sold out show had a line of fans literally streets long…never mind meters, you could measure the queue in postcodes! As the crowd inside started to grow and settle in and while the bar was all hands on deck, we were warmed up by tonight’s only support act, BITERS [7] from Atlanta, Georgia. The four-piece strutted their stuff on stage like seasoned veterans and their style echoed the same sentiments…inspired by the hey-days of rock ‘n’ roll, taking elements from the likes of T-REX and the NEW YORK DOLLS they took the crowd on a semi-nostalgic journey back into the 70’s, the denim and leather, the long hair, the rock star swagger and the tunes to back it all up…tracks such as “Gypsy Rose” with its clap-along charm and the simplistic merriment of “Stone Cold Love” allowing front man Tuk to channel his inner Marc Bolan…while “1975” exudes a true sense of heritage, harking back to a time when rock ‘n’ roll was fresh and captivating, and it’s still not gone out of style today. Their set may have been brief but with the time they had they won over tonight’s crowd and it got the gig off to a great start.

Now, in this situation, normally we’d be excited knowing HIM [8] were about to make their grand entrance but tonight, we know it’s also their swansong…this really is the beginning of the end as it’s the final time we get to witness Ville Valo and co work their magic on stage, and the excitement is mixed with a sense of sadness. Simply knowing that once tonight is over, they will be but a cherished memory and it genuinely is heart breaking for many, many fans. Luckily however, HIM have a back catalogue of hits that can turn any frown upside down and they waste little time getting going, opening up with “Buried Alive By Love”. Mige’s pummelling bass and Valo’s powerful vocals breathe life into an already swelling crowd and the energy in Rock City tonight is incredible. Every word is sung back by each and every person in the room and you can feel the love and appreciation everyone has for the band, and as they plough through fan favourites like “Heartache Every Moment” and “Wings Of A Butterfly” it really does send chills down your spine. Each of their eight albums are represented in some way with inclusions of “Kiss Of Dawn” and “Heartkiller”…and we’re even treated to a rare inclusion of “Sigillum Diaboli” to rapturous applause…but as the set draws to a close, the realisation of what’s transpiring hits home and when Ville humbly says his thanks for the love and support over the years, and as they slide into “Funeral Of Hearts” there are plenty of mixed emotions. The beauty of the moment, the sadness of the occasion and feelings of both togetherness and loss, there’s barely a dry eye in the room as HIM don't really have fans, no, they’re more like family and it feels like we’re saying goodbye to a loved one. Then, after closing with an encore of BILLY IDOL hit “Rebel Yell” and a painfully apropos rendition of “When Love And Death Embrace”, the Finns leave not only the stage, but a gaping hole in our hearts. HIM were one of a kind and their iconic Heartagram, whether tattooed on the skin of fans worldwide, or emblazoned on proudly worn t-shirts, will forever be a reminder, a symbol of happiness and positivity, as Ville, Mige, Linde, Burton, Gas and later Jukka, touched each and every one of us with their music. As a band HIM were too often underrated but tonight, everyone in attendance knows the world just lost something truly special. There really is no love without tears and tonight really does prove we will always love HIM. Kiitos ja jäähyväiset, ystäväni ...