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... 
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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.

 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

Glasgow. A city that smells faintly of soot, triumph, and someone else's chips; cold, half-eaten, stepped on. The perfect setting, for a W.A.S.P. gig. Although It  wasn't a concert in the traditional sense. It was more a series of escalating dares between fire, feedback, and denim.

When Blackie Lawless came onstage the audience erupted. Someone spilled beer on me, and a security guard smelled of panic and Lynx Africa.

Then they proceeded to play their debut album in its entirety. "I Wanna Be Somebody" is still a cry so primal and ridiculous it looped back around and became profound. Half the crowd shouted it, the other half acted like they were trying to laugh through a midlife crisis.

During the medley of "Inside the Electric Circus" / "I Don't Need No Doctor" / "Scream Until You Like It", a woman near me screamed and did SEEM to like it. I hope they’re doing okay...

The guitars didn’t so much scream as accuse. One solo sounded as like someone had angrily trying to solder a microwave using only hatred. The drumming was an avalanche of fists. My trousers vibrated in a way I’m still not fully comfortable discussing.

By the end, my ears were ringing like dinner bells. I staggered out into the Glasgow night, mascara smudged (And I wasn’t even wearing any when I got there), with only one thought in my head: I need tea. Strong, scalding, restorative tea. And maybe a bath where I can scream underwater and reflect on my sins.

Words: Matt Denny

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