Cc: You in the Pit

Tag: NEWS

  • 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.

  • 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.