Cc: You in the Pit

Tag: metal

  • The Pit Is My Pilates: A Fitness Plan for Metalheads Who Hate the Gym

    Look, I do go to the gym. But not because I want to (sorry to my PT).
    I go because I love crisps, pints, beige food and living beyond 35. It’s transactional. Joyless. Much like a team-building away day or a conversation with a tech bro about creatine.

    So while everyone on Instagram is busy doing Hyrox and posting sweaty selfies with captions like “New PB #beastmode”, I’d like to remind the world of a different kind of full-body workout:
    The metal gig.
    Specifically, the pit.

    Because nothing builds core strength, cardiovascular resilience, and deep existential grit like trying not to die during a breakdown at 190 BPM.

    The Gig-Adjacent Fitness Plan for Girls Who Love Beige Food and Violence

    Warm-Up: Queue Cardio

    Jog to the venue because you’re late from work.
    30 mins of high-speed power walking in chunky boots with a bag full of meal deals and trauma.
    HR-approved and good for your glutes.

    Upper Body: Moshing

    Throwing elbows, dodging flying limbs, and holding your pint aloft like it’s the Olympic torch = peak functional strength.
    Bonus round: holding someone’s phone light during a ballad like your life depends on it.

    Lower Body: Two-Stepping + Pit Squats

    Your thighs? Screaming.
    Your knees? Ruined.
    Your spirit? Ascending.
    You haven’t known leg day until you’ve tried to two-step during Malevolence in Dr. Martens.

    Core: Barrier Bracing

    The barrier is your enemy and your best friend.
    Clench every muscle as grown men try to crush you against it to scream “BLEGH.”
    Also works your neck from trying to see over a sea of tall people and tactical mullets.

    Gym Class vs. Gig Pit

    Exercise ClassMetal Gig Pit
    £25 per class£4 tinny on the way in
    Reformer Pilates machineHuman bodies as makeshift dumbbells
    Stretch to whale musicStretch while dodging crowd surfers
    Protein shakeWarm Neck Oil and a singular crisp
    Instructor shouting “Push!”Bryan Garris screaming “EVERYTHING IS QUIET NOW”
    Cool-down & breathworkBeing held in a sweaty hug by a stranger named Dean

    But Is It Effective?

    Let me put it this way:

    I once came out of a Slipknot pit drenched, bleeding, and 700 calories down. My Apple Watch was screaming and my mascara had migrated.
    Try and get that kind of spiritual exfoliation from a Barry’s Bootcamp.

    Also, I haven’t pulled a muscle crowd-surfing since 2018. So technically, I’m an athlete.

    Closing Thoughts from a Beige-Food-Obsessed Gym Girl in Denial

    Sure, I’ll keep going to the gym.
    I’ll begrudgingly hip-thrust in the corner next to lads called Reece who exclusively wear Gymshark.

    But my real fitness home is sweaty, beer-soaked, and full of people who’d throw you over a barrier without asking your name.

    The pit is my Pilates.
    My HIIT.
    My Hyrox.
    My sanctuary.
    And it never asks me to eat clean or wear matching leggings.

    See you in the gym(?).

  • 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.

  • MALEVOLENCE: ‘Where Only the Truth Is Spoken’

    Score: 10/10 (Don’t @ me, you know that anything less would be lying.)

    Image source: Nuclear Blast Records

    1. Blood To The Leech

    Opening slash to the throat.
    They don’t waste half a second. This is beatdown metalcore sharpened like a biro stabbed through a PowerPoint. A statement of intent: you will nod, you will headbang, you will probably wince.

    2. Trenches

    Welcome to the front line.
    “This is war” and they mean it. This song really makes me want to punch someone in the KPIs. Mid-tempo groove, guttural vocals; it’s the audio equivalent of trudging through Monday morning meetings swilling absinthe cocktails at all those colleagues you hate.

    3. If It’s All The Same To You

    Absolute Sheffield steel.
    Picture trudging through a swamp in a suit—that’s this track…but, in a good way. Crunchy riffs, down-tuned bravado, and just enough melody to make you ask why you ever wore a tie.

    4. Counterfeit

    Unmasking the fakes (we see you).
    Solid riff, pit-ready chorus. It’s got the vibe of someone calling out corporate bullshit while wearing a battle jacket. Standing desk optional.

    5. Salt The Wound

    Melodic with menace.
    National Trust’s no.1 public enemy. Mountaintop solo that comes in like a rescue team, but then stomps your face in on the way down. Think “breathers are acceptable… until they’re not.”

    6. So Help Me God

    Rock ’n’ roll meets prayer.
    Groovy, head-nod-inducing, like religious experience in a sweaty basement. You’re more likely to raise a devil sign than hymn (duh), but the conviction is real.

    7. Imperfect Picture

    Raw, reflective, relentless.
    This one hits deeper…maybe early morning existential crisis territory. Vocal vulnerability woven into riffs that remind you: perfection is overrated, but heavy definitely isn’t.

    8. Heavens Shake

    Epic, seismic, stellar.
    Title says it all. Opening chugs and thunderous breakdowns shake your world into alignment—god knows your spine needs it after that 3-hour budget review.

    9. In Spite (feat. Randy Blythe)

    Lamb of God stamp of approval.
    Randy Blythe guesting is the music industry equivalent of C-suite endorsement. He drops his signature roar on top of a track that already had enough bite. Result: getting sent to HR for throwing spin kicks in the kitchen.

    10. Demonstration Of Pain

    Three-minute sucker punch.
    Concise, brutal and effective. They’ve honed cruelty and catharsis into an art form, and apparently they didn’t need your permission.

    11. With Dirt From My Grave

    Graveyard finale.
    Closing track that leaves you drained, but transformed. Deep grooves, dark reflections, almost like shutting your laptop after a day’s work that felt like emotional exfoliation.

    THE BOTTOM LINE:
    Consider this your formal notice. Malevolence just restructured the entire genre. ‘Where Only The Truth Is Spoken’ doesn’t just slap, it throws you down a flight of stairs and makes you thank it. Ten out of ten. No notes. HR would not approve.

    See you in the pit.

  • THE POST-FESTIVAL SURVIVAL GUIDE: How to Look Alive in the Office When You’re Dead Inside (and Outside)

    Image source: Clash Magazine

    So, you went to Download (or any other gloriously chaotic festival where deodorant is optional and pits are both metaphorical and literal). You screamed, you jumped, you lost your voice and your dignity somewhere between the circle pit and the portaloos. And now? You’re back at your desk, trying to remember your passwords and not visibly weep every time someone says, “Did you have a relaxing weekend?”

    Here’s how to survive the work week when your soul is still in a field screaming “Take me back to eden” with 10,000 other emotionally unstable adults.

    1. Hydrate Like You’re Apologising to Your Body

    You’ve replaced 60% of your blood with warm beer and adrenaline. It’s time to reverse the damage. Keep a water bottle on your desk like it’s your emotional support animal. Sip continuously. Refill frequently. Pretend it’s fixing you.

    2. Curate a “Functioning But Festive” Work Outfit

    You can’t wear your battle jacket to the office (unless your workplace is very cool or has no HR department). Opt for something monochrome to mask the emotional void, and maybe sneak a band tee under a blazer. Bonus points for looking “edgy professional” — minus the crowd-surfing bruises.

    3. Apply Concealer Like You’re Painting a New Identity

    Your under-eyes are telling a story. That story is “I haven’t slept since soundcheck.” Brighten them. Hide the existential dread. Use dry shampoo liberally. Pretend you woke up looking like this and not in a tent next to a stranger dressed like a human pineapple.

    4. Master the “Festival Flu Cough Mute”

    You’re still recovering from screaming to your heart’s content and inhaling mystery dust particles. Your lungs are staging a small rebellion. Use your meeting mute button like your life depends on it. Cough silently. Nod knowingly. If someone asks, just say, “hayfever,” and move on.

    5. Lower Your Brain Expectations

    You are not at full capacity. You are, at best, a shadow of your former self being powered by caffeine and vibes. Don’t try to innovate. Don’t volunteer for anything. Just ride out the week like the corporate ghost you are. You’ve earned it.

    6. Listen to Sad Music and Call It “Decompression”

    Your post-festival depression isn’t just a vibe—it’s a diagnosis (unofficially). Lean into it. Queue up the setlists. Cry a little. Call it “processing.” If anyone asks why you’re listening to Lorna Shore at 10am, just say, “Team culture.” They won’t question it.

    7. Avoid Group Chats Until You Emotionally Stabilise

    Everyone’s sending videos. Everyone looks alive and glowing. Meanwhile, you’re trying not to sneeze out confetti. Mute the group chat. Come back when your skin doesn’t feel like it’s made of sandpaper and regret.

    Final Thoughts

    Returning to work after a festival is like trying to merge onto a motorway in a car with three wheels and no windscreen. You will look weird. You will feel worse. But you will survive. And when someone dares say “You don’t look like someone who listens to that kind of music,” just smile, sip your water, and CC them.
    See you in the pit.

  • DOWNLOAD FESTIVAL 2025: Live from a Sunburnt Goblin Woman in a Yurt

    Image source: Ticketmaster Discover

    There comes a time in every woman’s life when she must ask herself: Is this how I die?

    For me, that moment came around 3:37pm on Saturday at Download Festival, somewhere between slipping in the mud outside my overpriced yurt (twice, back-to-back, like a cursed Pixar short) and realising I had sunburn so aggressive it had blistered my chest into what can only be described as a sizzling Wetherspoons gammon.

    Let’s rewind.

    The Descent Into Hell (Day 1)

    Friday started as all good metal weekends do: with hope, eyeliner, and absolutely no nutritional foundation. Within hours, I’d had four cans of lukewarm Neck Oil, two Percy pigs and a packet of squares (girl dinner), and the kind of dehydration that gives you weird dreams about having a meaningful chat with Corey Taylor.

    There were bands. There were vibes. I screamed. I headbanged. I used a portaloo that changed me, spiritually. Everything was great.

    Then came the rain.

    And not gentle, sexy festival rain. This was Biblical. It was Mötley Crüe’s drug phase levels of chaos. One minute I was dry and happy singing along to Green Day’s ‘Brain Stew’; the next I looked like someone had shoved me through a Whitesnake video shoot in a car wash once ‘When September Ends’ began. I became one with the sludge. Hair glued to my face. Fishnets sagging with moisture. And of course, a series of 40-year-old men in cargo shorts telling me, “You actually look kinda hot like that.”

    I did not.

    The Fall (Day 2)

    On Saturday, while attempting the very non-metal task of retrieving a jacket from my yurt (sentence sponsored by the Trust Fund Goth Society), I fell over twice in five minutes.

    Same patch of mud.
    Same knees.
    Two neat little offerings of flesh to the gods of Download.

    By the second fall, I was bleeding, limping, and being laughed at by a teen in a Lamb of God hoodie who shouted “Wooooah DOWN-load!” like it was the first time that joke had ever been made. I hope his vape explodes.

    The Sunstroke Era

    Once the rain gave up, the sun arrived like a mirage in the desert. I, in my infinite wisdom, had applied SPF “vaguely” and “only to the bits I could see while squinting into a tiny mirror.”

    Result: blistered cleavage, rogue tanlines, and a deep spiritual connection with a value pack of Dioralyte sachets I cradled like a newborn. By Sunday, my body was rejecting alcohol, water, and any solid food not shaped like a crisp. I was drinking gin purely for the placebo effect, but all it did was give me heartburn and emotional flashbacks to secondary school PE (the heartburn, not the gin drinking…that would’ve made PE way more fun).

    The Music Bit (Because Yes, There Were Bands)

    Despite the carnage of my knees and skin, the music lineup delivered big:

    • Green Day (Friday, Apex Stage): Punk-rock dads still going strong. Ripped through Dookie and American Idiot like it was 2005 and none of us had lower back pain. I screamed “Do you have the time” with the unhinged energy of someone who absolutely did not have the time. Or the electrolytes.
    • Sleep Token (Saturday, Apex Stage): Beautiful, culty chaos. Vessel looked like a haunted priest, the entire crowd looked like they were being baptised in emotional damage. Tears. Swooning. Possibly a religious awakening. I’m not convinced I didn’t join a cult.
    • Korn (Sunday, Apex Stage): Full tilt nu-metal nostalgia. Jonathan Davis brought the bagpipes and the trauma. “Freak on a Leash” hit like it always does; an anthem for anyone who’s ever screamed into a spreadsheet.
    • Malevolence (Secret Set, Dogtooth Stage): AND THEN. The secret set to end all secret sets. Sheffield’s finest, Malevolence, rolled in like the Avengers of riffs and absolutely decimated the tent. My fave band absolutely blew the roof off. If I’d had any remaining stability in my knees, it would’ve been gone by track three. They sounded tighter than my budget after payday. Crowd went feral. Grown men wept. I left with a mild concussion and no regrets.

    Lessons from the Trenches

    • Dioralyte is the true headliner.
    • Don’t trust the weather. Ever. It hates you.
    • There is no dignity in a yurt.
    • 30+ at a festival hits different: I can’t bounce back from three days on a diet of warm beer and no food like I used to. I can, however, develop a heat rash behind my knees and cry into a wet hoodie.

    Final Rating: 10/10 (Would Die Again)

    Was I physically ruined? Yes.
    Did I hallucinate a little on Sunday afternoon? Also yes.
    Was this the best festival I’ve been to in years? Fuck yes. As it is every year.

    Download 2025 broke my body but healed something weird in my soul. It reminded me that even in a corporate life filled with KPIs, slide decks, and passive-aggressive Teams messages, there’s still space to scream in a field with 100,000 other likeminded weirdos and feel completely, wildly alive.

    And that, my friends, is worth every blister, every bruise, and every unsolicited compliment from a damp man named Keith.

  • 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.

  • STRAY FROM THE PATH: ‘Clockworked’

    Image source: KERRANG!

    Final album review, with feelings…

    After 17 years of inciting political fury, spontaneous pits, and mild tinnitus, Stray from the Path have announced their breakup, and Clockworked is their final war cry.

    It’s fast, feral, and fuming. And it’s so tight, it feels like they ran a Six Sigma workshop on sonic destruction. Clocking in just over 30 minutes, it’s the musical equivalent of rage-quitting your job via Teams and kicking over your office chair.

    This is not a polite goodbye. It’s a Molotov cocktail lobbed directly at capitalism, addiction, power structures…and your eardrums.

    Track-by-Track Breakdown (w/ Commentary & Corporate Trauma)

    1. Kubrick Stare

    Eerie intro, then a sledgehammer to the brain. It’s a strong start: glitchy guitars, dissonant leads, and Drew York sneering about media desensitisation and mass delusion.

    “How much can we fucking bear?”
    Exactly what I think when Outlook pings at 6pm.

    2. Fuck Them All to Hell

    No metaphor, no subtlety…just venom. This is a wild two-minute thrash that basically asks, “What if Slipknot grew up reading Jacobin?”
    Reddit calls it a “sprint-through-a-wall breakdown,” and honestly? I considered drop-kicking my printer.

    3. Shot Caller

    Groovy, riffy, almost swaggering, but still angry as hell. This one’s aimed at corrupt power figures. Drums hit like a panic attack. Drummer Craig Reynolds absolutely doesn’t miss. Ever. Put this on next time someone books a “touch base” call at 16:59.

    4. Can’t Help Myself

    One of the more vulnerable cuts. It tackles addiction with brutal honesty. The repetition of “I can’t help myself” is crushing, and it hits differently when you’re six espresso shots deep, panic-refreshing your inbox.

    5. Clockworked (feat. Florent Salfati of LANDMVRKS)

    The title track, and a monster. This one’s industrial, explosive, and groove-heavy. Salfati brings a cinematic weight to it, and the breakdown sounds like it could collapse a mid-sized Pret A Manger.

    6. Shocker

    Short and punchy. Feels like falling down the stairs in the best way. Jittery tempo, jagged transitions; the perfect soundtrack for making a scene at a company offsite.

    7. Bodies in the Dark (feat. Jeff Moreira of Poison the Well)

    A screamy, haunting mid-album gut punch. Jeff Moreira brings a post-hardcore ghostliness to it that sets it apart. Think therapy session in a haunted house.

    8. Can I Have Your Autograph?

    Peak sarcasm, peak bile. A takedown of faux-activist celebs e.g. people profiting off war, tragedy, and vibes.

    “You profit off bombs, then act like you’re Jesus.”
    This track is your inner monologue when someone with a blue tick posts a “solidarity selfie.”

    9. You’re Not That Guy

    Mid-tempo and snarky as hell. Basically an anthem for spotting the try-hard in the pit or the virtue-signaller in the brainstorm.
    No notes. Just rage.

    10. A Life in Four Chapters

    A ten-minute finale. It’s moody, dynamic, and closes the album with a full narrative arc; rage, sorrow, exhaustion, and resignation.
    Feels like you’re standing in the smoking ruins of a society (or your project timeline), just watching the credits roll.

    The Bigger Picture

    Stray have always operated like a hardcore band with a law degree. They’re articulate, aggressive, and Clockworked is their most polished middle finger yet. There’s no fat, no self-indulgence; just ten tracks of laser-focused rage.

    They sound like a band who knew they were leaving and wanted to burn the whole building down before they locked the door behind them.

    Production (Will Putney, naturally) is ferocious but tight. No muddiness, no mess. Even the heaviest moments feel intentional, which is wild considering how unhinged it all sounds.

    Final Verdict: 9.5/10

    (Half-point deducted for emotionally wounding me on a weekend.)

    This is the sound of a band giving everything they have left. It’s rage refined. Brutality with a conscience. And it’s going to be hard to say goodbye.

    If you’re a corporate girlie who needs to scream between back-to-back meetings, Clockworked is your holy grail. Put your AirPods in, stomp down the hallway like it’s a runway, and rage with purpose.

    See you in the pit.

  • SLAM DUNK SOUTH 2025: Screaming, Singing & A Pair of Questionable Leggings

    Image source: When The Horn Blows | Copyright: James Kirkland Photography

    Let me set the scene: I’m two cans deep, neck-deep in Neck Deep, and halfway through a sweaty two-step when my waterproof flies off like it’s trying to escape the lifestyle. Fair. I clock it disappear into the pit…a tragic but noble end.

    But the gods of Slam Dunk giveth. Not long after, I spot it on the floor. Salvation! I rescue it from the mud like it’s a baby on the motorway. I cling to it. I parade it around. I make a scene.

    Except it’s not my waterproof. It’s a pair of damp, visibly soiled leggings.

    I had lovingly cradled someone’s abandoned festival trousers like they were a lost family heirloom. I’m not saying that moment changed me, but I haven’t known peace since.

    The Bands: Absolute Scenes

    Stray From the Path

    I love these guys. Hardcore fury in its purest form. No messing about. The crowd was one giant middle finger to the establishment and I was very much here for it. If you didn’t come out of that set angry at capitalism and nursing a minor injury, were you even there?

    Graphic Nature

    Like getting punched in the head and thanking them for it. Brutal, glitchy, delightfully unhinged. Crowd was small (due to some rather rude overrunning) energy was not. Felt like a therapy session for people who express feelings exclusively through walls of noise and elbowing strangers (if I could do this in the office, I would).

    Neck Deep

    They had us all by the throat within the first note. Pop-punk perfection. Every lyric hit like a punch in the teenage heart. Crowd was one big, beer-soaked therapy circle. By “December” I was crying in my pint and making plans to re-download MSN Messenger.

    Electric Callboy

    The musical equivalent of someone doing ket in a laser tag arena. They came out like Eurovision on bath salts and had the entire tent acting like they’d just freebased Monster Energy. Outfits, pyro, synth-core madness. Fully unhinged in the best way possible. You don’t just watch Electric Callboy, you experience them and emerge a changed person, possibly with glitter in your ears (or your arse crack). Bring on November.

    A Day to Remember

    Still the kings of making you cry, then immediately giving you whiplash. One minute I’m belting “All Signs Point to Lauderdale” with a grin, the next I’m having a full-blown emotional reckoning to “If It Means a Lot to You” in the middle of a mosh pit whilst pulling toilet paper out of my hair. Beautifully unhinged.

    Now, onto the waterproof incident…

    Let’s break this down:

    • Enter pit, full of optimism and IPA.
    • Waterproof yeets itself into the ether.
    • Spot what I think is it. Feel triumphant.
    • Clutch mystery item like it’s the One Ring.
    • Realise, 30 minutes later, I’ve been holding a damp, skid-marked pair of leggings.
    • Quietly discard it behind a bin and contemplate never speaking again.

    You think you’re tough until you’ve snogged the abyss and it smells like someone else’s arse.

    Slammy D-ebrief

    • Weather: Schizophrenic. Sunburnt at noon, damp goblin by 5.
    • Drinks: £8.90 for a pint of pisswater but I’d pay it again tomorrow.
    • Toilets: Post-apocalyptic. Genuinely saw a lad leave one and say “I’m a different man now.”
    • Food: None. Vibes? A-plenty.
    • Fashion report: Battle jackets, Crocs, one guy dressed as the Cookie Monster, me in shame.

    Final Thoughts

    Slam Dunk 2025 was loud, muddy, nostalgic, and mildly traumatising. A glorious mess of broken voices, skinned knees, and shared trauma set to the soundtrack of our collective youth. Exactly what the doctor ordered (if your doctor is also a Neck Deep fan with a nicotine addiction).

    Would I go again? Without question.
    Would I zip-tie my waterproof to my body next time? 100%.
    Would I still end up crying over pop-punk with mascara on my teeth? You bet.

    See you in the pit, 2026.