Cc: You in the Pit

Tag: review

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.