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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 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.

“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 ...

Notable by its absence last year, MERTHYR ROCK returns to the grounds of Cyfarthfa Park in style for 2014 with a new look, new organiser and a new lease of life. It’s been stripped back from a three day event to just the one day, but if anything, it’s done nothing but benefit the festival greatly. The line-up this year was the best it’s ever been, with not only British bands being booked, but massive bands from across the pond in the USA too. Here’s what went down…

It’s 3pm, the gates have been open an hour, and the first act of the day are about to hit the main stage and open proceedings, it’s a band you’ll be familiar with; CLEAR THE AUDITORIUM [6]. The young Welsh electronic-rock 4-piece won the Young Promoters Network battle of the bands and as a result, got to kick off the festival. The boys were as charismatic as ever, playing through tracks such as “Outbreak”, “Eye For An Eye” and “We Are The Danger”, but it was clear that performing on a stage of that size was new to them and you didn't quite get the full CTA experience. Performing at this level however will come naturally to them sooner rather than later, and this was a promising start both for the festival, and the band.

Second band, second stage, and we’re treated to one of the highlight sets of the day very early on in the form of COLT 45 [8]. The Cumbrian based 3-piece delivered a stunning set of RISE AGAINST inspired punk-rock from their albums “Coughing Up Confessions” and the more recent “The Tide Is Turning”, and really it’s all over far too soon. Brilliant display and the bar is set high already.

REAPER IN SICILY [6] are no strangers to Merthyr Rock and this year they’re back performing in the YPN Up-And-Coming tent. As predicted they put on a great performance churning out the crowd pleaser's, and it’s also worth noting that their new members Mitch Ponting (guitar) and Sean Ruck (drums) have effortlessly slotted into their respective roles, but the tent itself IS small and really doesn't quite suit the bands energy. They worked well with what they had at their disposal, with their brand new single getting a great reception, things no doubt looking good for the future.

Nantwich’s BLITZ KIDS [7] hit the main stage at 5pm and prove why they’re one of the biggest rising UK bands on the scene right now, off the back of their hit album “The Good Youth”. Songs like “Run For Cover” and “Sold My Soul” going down well with the afternoons entertainment now in full swing.

LOSTALONE [6] were up shortly after on the second stage, and with a live set said to be “must see”, expectations were high for the Derby based trio. They performed well but didn't quite manage to have a complete grasp of the crowd; possibly down to a lot of people were there to watch a new band, as opposed to being actual fans, who knows... 

Next up we’re treated to the set of the day, courtesy of ANTI-FLAG [9]. The Pennsylvanian punks delivered on all fronts and had the crowd begging for more. With a back catalogue spanning twenty years they pleased fans of all ages and even started up the first proper circle pits of the day. This was straight up, high-octane punk rock at its finest and it laid waste to Merthyr Rock.

Keeping in tune with American punk rock, we take it down a peg or two now for REEL BIG FISH [8] who bring the trumpets and the fun by the bucket load. Their ska-infused style of up-beat pop-punk had the crowd singing and dancing and kept spirits high into the early evening, ensuring summer was still in full swing, especially with hits such as “Monkey Man” and a brilliant cover of A-HA’s “Take On Me”.

THE BLACKOUT [9] never fail to disappoint, and close the second stage with a bang. Being home-town heroes, they get a great crowd and lap up the opportunity to play such a big show in what’s essentially their back yard. Playing tracks from “Hope” and “The Best In Town”, plus with probably the best banter of the day courtesy of front-man Sean Smith, it’s impossible not to enjoy their set and we look forward to their next tour in October.

Finally then, it’s time to close the festival and at 9pm, the head liners, TAKING BACK SUNDAY [6] grace the stage amidst a colourful light display to break up the night sky. They perform well, opening up with recent hit single “Stood A Chance” off the acclaimed album “Happiness Is”, and fleet back and forth their back catalogue playing some crowd favourites, however given some of the performances we've seen today, it’s somewhat of an anti-climax and the whole set can’t help but appear just a bit mellow for a headline act, but they still had some great sing-along's.

All in all, Merthyr Rock’s return to the festival calendar has been nothing less than triumphant. It may be a relatively young festival, and will need time to flourish, but given the right support, this annual event in the valleys of South Wales can become more than a hidden gem for lovers of live music for years to come. Here’s to 2015; the road to Merthyr begins again…

Photo's courtesy of Menai Richards: https://www.facebook.com/MenaiRichardsPhotography

After a highly successful start to the “Road To Merthyr”, courtesy of KIDS IN GLASS HOUSES and a series of brilliant, intimate live shows, we must now avert our attention to the next generation of rising rock stars, as tonight, the YOUNG PROMOTERS NETWORK are back in Merthyr Tydfil’s Red House for “Breaking Bands”. This battle of the bands competition has been set up to allow one lucky up and coming Welsh band, the opportunity to open the main stage at MERTHYR ROCK, which is being held at Cyfarthfa Park on August 17th, and features a line-up including the likes of THE BLACKOUT, TAKING BACK SUNDAY and ANTI-FLAG. There were four bands booked for tonight, all ready to step up and grab the opportunity of a lifetime…there are three actually playing…this is what went down…

CIVIL FOES [N/A] from Aberdare were originally looking forward to playing tonight, looking forward to the chance to shine, however, due to circumstances within the band, they have sadly called it a day and have split up. It’s a shame we didn’t get to see them perform but we wish them all the best in any and all future projects.

CLEAR THE AUDITORIUM [8] are the first on stage and get the daunting task of having to set the bar early on, but boy do they do it in style. Playing a mixture of tracks from their “2021” and “The Final Broadcast” EP’s, their blend of alternative rock and dub-infused electronic beats goes down a storm and it’s hard to tell which is more energetic; the music or the band themselves! Front-man Dafydd Richards getting into the full swing of the occasion, climbs 12-15 ft up one of the venues walls, runs through the crowd, throws himself around the stage…it’s a confident, determined all-round display that demands your attention and is nothing less than impressive.

Up next are Cardiff’s LAST VENDETTA [6] who, despite delivering a quality dose of melodic punk-pop, just can’t quite live up to tonight’s opening act in terms of performance and hunger. Their set was good, the band are tight but really they lacked any real spark. The inclusion too of MICHAEL JACKSON cover “Man In The Mirror” didn't help matters tonight either, as while the track itself is a good one, and it was played brilliantly, when a band is looking to impress, you should be looking to stick to original material, it slightly cheapened the performance.

Finally then, we shift gears once more for the final act of the night, Bridgend’s SET TO BREAK [7] who pummel the unsuspecting crowd with a ferocious set of hard hitting metal-core. Their performance is strong, their technical ability, musically, is superb and vocalist George Ross has an impressive set of pipes on him to say the least. Inspired by artists such as ARCHITECTS and PARKWAY DRIVE, they end the night in brutal fashion playing songs from their newest EP; “Redemption”, leaving the judging panel with a lot to mull over…

Having taken each of tonight’s three performances fairly, weighing up pros and cons, the judging panel firstly decided that it was between two of the three bands without a shadow of doubt. Secondly, the panel took into consideration that tonight’s winner would be opening the main stage of Merthyr Rock, they would need to set the tone for a great day of live music and entertainment early on, supporting a mixed line-up of artists with a mixture of styles…and with that in mind, the panel reached a unanimous decision. The winners…Clear The Auditorium.

We wish the boys from Pontypridd all the best and look forward to seeing you again on the 17th, commiserations to our runners up, Last Vendetta and Set To Break, we’re sure you’ll be back for more in future, but this is CTA’s moment, and its thoroughly deserved.


For tickets to Merthyr Rock, please visit http://www.merthyrrock.com/
Article photo courtesy of Menai Richards: https://www.facebook.com/MenaiRichardsPhotography

Tonight marks the beginning of a journey, a musical jaunt through the valleys of South Wales for what is to be known as “The Road To Merthyr”, a coming together of bands, venues and promoters in the build up to MERTHYR ROCK 2014, which returns after a year’s absence to the grounds of Cyfarthfa Castle on August 17th. However, for now we must turn our attention to the old town hall, recently refurbished and re-branded The Red House, it plays host to the first of four very special shows by none other than KIDS IN GLASS HOUSES, who announced earlier this year that they were hanging up their instruments and calling it a day. Not only do fans get one last chance to see them in such an intimate and personal setting, they've brought along two support bands to really make a show of it. This is going to be special.

First to perform are a young band called PAINT HAPPY [6]. The unsigned Merthyr 5-piece get the honour of officially kick starting this promotional road to Merthyr Rock and grab the opportunity with both hands. With a mixture of influences, they combine an upbeat rock style with the swagger of urban, hip-hop beats to make for an energetic performance. The young lads are full of confidence and play some decent original material, the only downfall they have is that they are playing to the early punters and can’t quite get the crowd going. It was enjoyable though and they received a respectable reception. That being said, they have a little more success than Cardiff’s SAMOANS [5] The alternative rock 4-piece are clinical in delivery, offering tracks off their début album “Rescue” and playing a tight set, but while they may be great live musicians, between tracks there was very little life in them at all. Each gap in their set was full of a lot of awkward silence and their lack of crowd interaction failed to carry forward any momentum gained by tonight’s openers, and their overall performance was ever so slightly flat because of it.

If ever then there was a band capable of turning things around, it would be KIDS IN GLASS HOUSES [8]. With each and every fan understanding this is going to be one of the last times, if not THE last time they get to see the Welsh heroes on the live stage, the atmosphere is charged with positive energy, a sense of celebration and gratitude and the band, fronted by vocalist Aled Phillips, feed off every cheer, every clap and each word sung back at them. With a set list comprising of fan favourites such as “Saturday”, “Fisticuffs”, “Give Me What I Want” and rarer live tracks such as “Black Crush”, it acts as a brilliant retrospective of the bands four album career and serves as a testament to how much they’ll be missed once that final show is over, come October. KIGH’s journey maybe reaching its end, but this is one hell of a victory lap. The great thing as well, is that this journey is only just starting, there’s still plenty more to come along the Road To Merthyr…

PAINT HAPPY: https://www.facebook.com/PaintHappy
SAMOANS: https://www.facebook.com/samoans 
KIDS IN GLASS HOUSES: https://www.facebook.com/kidsinglasshouses