Cc: You in the Pit

Category: GIGS

  • MCR are officially back…because therapy is expensive

    Image credit: My Chemical Romance

    Sound the bloody trumpets and cancel whatever beige plans you had next July — My Chemical Romance are storming Wembley for not one but two nights of pure, unfiltered emo catharsis. Friday 10th and Saturday 11th July 2026 will see The Black Parade rise again in all its theatrical, melodramatic, gut-wrenching glory.

    Yes, you read that right. They’re doing the whole bloody thing, start to finish. It’s the 20th anniversary of The Black Parade — which is frankly rude, because that means we’ve all been emotionally unstable for two decades now.

    What to expect

    Picture it: 80,000 black-clad degenerates screaming “When I was a young boy…” at a man in a military jacket like it’s a national emergency. Tears will flow. Voices will break. Someone will inevitably pass out in the queue after necking a can of Monster on an empty stomach. It’s the closest thing we’ll get to church, except with more eyeliner and less moral judgement.

    The setlist? Every track from The Black Parade plus whatever else Gerard babes fancies throwing at us. Prepare for Famous Last Words to finish you off emotionally, and for Mama to slap harder than a late-stage capitalist pay cut.

    Ticket bloodbath incoming

    Tickets go on sale Friday 15th August at 10 am. You’ll need:

    • Three different devices open at once
    • Your bank card ready
    • The patience of a saint or the reflexes of a coke-fuelled cat

    Also, forget “refreshed and ready” — you’ll be sat in your pyjamas, shaking, swearing at Ticketmaster like they personally wronged your family. Which, in fairness, they probably will.

    Why you’re going (even if you pretend you’re over it)

    Because you never really got over them. You think you did, but then Helena comes on and suddenly you’re 15 again, crying into a hair straightener. This isn’t just a gig — it’s a pilgrimage. An opportunity to stand in a crowd of equally deranged adults and scream about death, love, and eyeliner like your mortgage doesn’t exist.

    Cc: You at Wembley.

  • A Day To Remember at Brixton: Wait, Haven’t I Moshed Here Before?

    Image source: Antonio Giannattasio/MetalTalk

    There’s nothing quite like the thrill of seeing your favourite band live… except when you realise you’ve seen them very recently, screamed the same lyrics, and got bruised in identical places. Yes, I saw A Day To Remember at Slam Dunk a few weeks before this Brixton show. And yes, I went again. Because consistency is important, even in emotional breakdowns.

    Corporate to Chaos (Again)

    The O2 Academy Brixton, in June heat, is less “iconic venue” and more “metal gig reimagined as a Turkish bath”. I arrived straight from a long ol’ day working from home (nothing more embarrassing than joining an unexpected Teams call in full glam on an afternoon), clutching a pre-gig pint and pretending I didn’t still have Outlook open on my phone. By the time the lights dropped for ADTR, I’d fully transformed back into my festival goblin self: sweaty, screeching, and 99% mascara.

    Opening with “The Downfall of Us All”, the crowd exploded in a way that made me briefly worry for the venue’s foundations. If you’ve never screamed “LET’S GO!” into a wall of 5,000 equally unhinged fans, I highly recommend it. Pure stress relief. Cheaper than therapy, just as emotionally damaging.

    The Setlist: Familiar, Fabulous, Feral

    Yes, they played the same set as Slam Dunk.
    Yes, I screamed every word like it was my first gig.
    No, I don’t regret a single second.

    Highlights included:

    • “I’m Made of Wax, Larry…” – Two-stepped so hard I almost lost a shoe and a contact lens.
    • “If It Means A Lot To You” – Crowd singalong so powerful I got goosebumps (and maybe a mild concussion).
    • “2nd Sucks” – It does. But this didn’t. Neck still hurts. Worth it.
    • The Kelly Clarkson cover – “Since U Been Gone” is now legally a breakdown anthem. Fight me.

    And then: confetti. Beach balls. Crowd surfing like we were auditioning for Jackass. I saw someone crowd-surf whilst vaping and holding what might’ve been a Cornetto. Inspirational.

    Slam Dunk vs. Brixton: Spot the Difference?

    EVENTVENUE VIBECROWD ENERGYSWEAT RATIOCORPORATE RECOVERY TIME
    Slam DunkOutdoors, sunburned chaosFestival feralHigh (UV Edition)3 days + Dioralyte
    BrixtonIndoors, emotional saunaTighter, louderHigh (Steam Room Edition)2 days + ice pack

    Verdict? Both slapped. Both shredded my throat. Both had me Googling “can you survive on Cruzcampo and adrenaline alone?” (Answer: sadly, no.)

    Final Thoughts From Your Favourite Metal-Hungry Middle Manager

    Corporate on the outside, crowd-killer on the inside. ADTR at Brixton was a cathartic, sweaty dream with just enough déjà vu to make me question my choices. Again.

    Would I go a third time if they came back in November with the exact same setlist? Obviously. I’ve already got a spreadsheet ready.

    See you in the pit.

  • BABYMETAL at The O2: Metal, Mayhem & Mild Corporate Burnout

    Image source: Secret London | Credit: Stewart Marsden, Shutterstock

    Reviewed by your friendly neighbourhood corporate goth.

    There are few things more disorienting than finishing a Q3 strategy call and then, mere hours later, getting your face melted off by three tiny Japanese women in gothic tutu armour yelling about chocolate. But that’s the life I’ve chosen – corporate PowerPoint assassin by day, mosh pit gremlin by night.

    So, here’s my full report on BABYMETAL’s O2 Arena takeover on May 30th – a gig so chaotic, so dazzling, and so violently adorable it felt like getting slapped by a glittery war hammer.

    Pre-Gig: Suit Off, Docs On

    Let’s start with the preamble. I left the office at 5:47pm with the energy of a dead printer, changed in Victoria Station’s toilet like some sort of glam-rock Cinderella trying not to gag (failed), and arrived at the O2 surrounded by thousands of fans who looked like anime characters possessed by the ghost of Lemmy.

    Some wore fox masks. Some wore full cosplay. I wore a blazer because I forgot to pack my mesh top. Ah, I’m home.

    Kawaii Meets Carnage

    The house lights dimmed. The opening chords of “BABYMETAL DEATH” blasted. Flames erupted. Somewhere, a finance bro probably felt a disturbance in his gilet.

    Su-Metal, Moametal and Momometal (the new girl, she’s fabulous, think Power Ranger with eyeliner) ascended like goth cherubs of chaos. What followed was 90 minutes of unhinged, synchronised metal mayhem.

    Setlist Highlights (or: songs I screamed so loud I herniated a lung):

    • “Megitsune” – Fox god is real and she’s wearing pigtails.
    • “BxMxC” – Su rapped. I blacked out.
    • “Metali!!” – Tom Morello on screen doing guitar heroics while I tried not to cry.
    • “Kon Kon” – Featuring BLOODYWOOD, because why not? IKONic.
    • “Gimme Chocolate!!” – Still an anthem. Still sounds like a toddler having a sugar rush in hell.

    The Vibe: Excel Spreadsheet in the Streets, Demon Summoner in the Sheets

    You know how I love a Venn diagram. Picture this:

    • Circle 1: Finance analysts who scream in Excel.
    • Circle 2: Black-clad metalheads who think tinnitus is a spiritual experience.
    • Intersection: This gig.

    Final Thoughts: Babymetal Don’t Play – They Slay

    Look. BABYMETAL is not for everyone. If you want your metal served gruff, grey and dad-approved – go see Judas Priest. If you want a multi-sensory ritual that feels like being dropkicked through a kawaii apocalypse, BABYMETAL is your band.

    They brought fire. They brought weird. They brought a dancing fox cult and the loudest production I’ve ever experienced without signing an NDA.

    • Corporate stress: 10/10
    • BABYMETAL live: 13/10, would get spiritually cleansed by teeny Japanese metal angels again
    • My soul: cleansed
    • My ears: obliterated
    • My heart: full
    • My Outlook calendar the next morning: “Meeting with Dave | 9:00am | Try not to cry”

    See you in the pit.

  • CLEOPATRICK at Electric Brixton: Riffs, Rapture, and the Tallest Bastards in South London

    Image source: The Upcoming | Copyright: © Virginie VICHE

    Reviewed by your resident short-arsed corporate metalhead.

    Saturday night. Left home reeling from the most exciting part of my week, a client deck titled “Future-Proofing Our Go-To-Market Strategy” (seriously, what is with the corporate jargon? such an ick) then legged it down to Brixton – significantly better looking than I would have been coming from the office. Small wins.

    I was pumped. CLEOPATRICK – Canada’s finest purveyors of shouty slacker blues – live at Electric Brixton. I was ready. Unfortunately, so were 1,400 other people. In a venue that felt like it had been designed by someone who’s never stood behind a 6’5” man with a vape the size of a Pringles tube.

    Glorious. Loud. Sweaty.

    CLEOPATRICK absolutely brought it. Two lads, one guitar, one drum kit, and a metric tonne of angst delivered with the sex appeal of a collapsing shed (in the best possible way). They ripped through bangers like:

    • “Hometown” – a.k.a. the national anthem of anyone who grew up in a town with more cows than feelings.
    • “Family Van” – which made me want to road trip through a thunderstorm with tears in my eyes and snacks in the glove box.
    • “OK”, “Youth”, and “Good Grief” – all sounding like Nirvana if they worked in a Canadian tire shop and had therapy once.

    There’s something about their raw, fuzzy energy that just gets you in the ribcage.

    The Venue: Poo Poo

    Electric Brixton, let’s chat.

    I love you in theory – cool lighting, decent sound, enough sticky floor to feel like a real gig. But good grief, what happened to capacity limits? I’ve seen fewer people at a Heathrow passport queue in July.

    It was oversold to hell and back. I moved approximately 8 inches the entire night and had the honour of watching the whole gig from between two giraffe-shaped lads in vintage Strokes tees (as the world’s biggest Julian Casablancas fangirl, I’m not complaining about the clobber). I’m not even that short, and I saw nothing but backs, elbows, and the occasional flash of stage light like God teasing me with hope.

    At one point someone turned to me and said, “Do you want to get on my shoulders?” and I thought, Darling, I work in marketing. My dignity’s already fragile. So no thank you, but also…yes please.

    Also – can we talk about the heat? I’ve been in saunas with more ventilation. It was so humid I think I saw a cloud form near the merch stand. It smelled like beer, regret, and deodorant failure. Sexy.

    The Vibe: Rage. Sweat. Shared Trauma.

    The crowd, though? Beautiful. Sweaty. Committed. The pit was full of flailing limbs, bad haircuts, and people who meant it. Every time a bassline dropped, the room shook like the collective weight of student loans and heartbreak had been weaponised.

    At one point, the whole venue screamed “fuck you” during Family Van, and I swear I felt emotionally healed.

    Summary for the Busy Corporate Girlie:

    • Band: Excellent. Loud. Cathartic. Would let them ruin my life (again).
    • Venue: A sauna inside a sardine tin designed for tall men with zero spatial awareness.
    • Experience: 8.5/10, docked points for seeing more armpits than the actual band.
    • Recovery: Two ibuprofen, one Berocca, and a stern note to Electric Brixton’s capacity planner.