[Gig Review] CRADLE OF FILTH (UK)/DEVILDRIVER (US) Co-Headliner Tour @ Forum Melbourne, 11.07.26.
Words/Photos/Footage:Brady Irwin
Artist/s: CRADLE OF FILTH (Suffolk, UK) & DEVILDRIVER (Santa Barbara, USA)
Organised By: ThePhoenix.AU
(Refer to end of article for relevant artist/stakeholder links).
» [ See Here for Episode 81 of the Inner-Strength Check Podcast from 1st July: [Interview] with Devildriver frontman/vocalist Dez Fafara.
And if that ain’t enough, you can also check out Episode 82 of Inner-Strength Check Podcast from 8th July: [Interview] with Cradle of Filth frontman/vocalist Dani Filth.
Thanks to both of these legends for catching up on the podcast ahead of the Australian tour! ] «
Note re: Photography:
Unfortunately, our photographer Chris Dynia was unable to make it due to having his camera-gear (thankfully temporarily!) taken from him! Poor bloke! You’re stuck with my smartphone footage for now - what made it through the Youtube DMCA, at least.
All the footage comes from our Youtube Channel - head on over there to check out a bunch more clips plus our other Inner-Strength Check Podcast video interviews with an array of musicians, creatives and industry experts.
CRADLE OF FILTH/DEVILDRIVER Australian 2026 Co-Headliner Tour - Saturday, July 11th @ Forum Melbourne, AU:
I mentioned in my Gig Review of Gaerea’s stunning Max Watt’s show the night prior (see here for the full review for that one) that personal circumstances had been pretty rough in the past week. As a result I was feeling pretty damn fatigued and fairly lacking in energy and my usual gig-going gusto.
Well, backing up the events of the days preceding the aforementioned gig was a slog, and I found myself woken up by mates at the afternoon-bird time of 4pm.
Feeling the exhaustion and fatigue compounded by an inexplicably-mental run into the city, packed full of folks who seem to think indicators and distance for merging are suggestions, it’s straight to the bar-line for me. Gee. Whizz.
Taking a moment to kick back and reflect under the massive shawl of Devildriver’s simplistic logo in the leadup, I sip my cost-of-living beer and reminisce a little. See, my journey into metal and especially extreme/groove metal is an interesting one. Initially suckered in like many millenials via the Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater OST’s, cousins, friends, relatives of friends, nu-metal, all that… I very quickly catapulted past the groovier stuff altogether. Devildriver’s fantastic self-debut and The Fury Of Our Maker’s Hand being two big exceptions.
As the NWOAHM movement arose during the aughts, I found myself lured back in by way of all the metallic hardcore, metalcore, djent, you know - all the stuff us uppity mid-late 30’s blokes wouldn’t deign to admit being a fan of. Well, it could be autism or some other demand-avoidance of social norms, but I’ve really never bothered too much with being one to self-monitor, censor or otherwise feel guilty about musical pleasures (even though there’s plenty I probably should be guilty for, by rights).
Sitting there mentally tracing the emails and memories for ticket bookings and other such evidence, I realise with no small surprise that California’s extremity-addled groove-merchants opening this evening are among my most-seen bands, alongside Meshuggah, Opeth and Psycroptic. This would be either my 12th or 13th time seeing them. I really, REALLY went on an aughts/2010’s tear with these guys, my undiagnosed-ADHD ass clamouring for a brand of moshpit that really stands above many others for sheer, straight furiousness. And by Dez and Co’s hands, not our makers’ [rimshot playing].
As mentioned in the above pre-tour podcast interview with Dez Fafara (frontman, Vocals), it’s a Devildriver pit that’s partly responsible for reconfiguring my teeth! I had a smartarse in Doc Martens slam into me the wrong way in the pit, so I coathangered him, picked him up and laughed it off. Said bloke was basically trebuchet’ed into me at speed later, and I copped a kick to the face, a lump that took 3 months to go down on my lip, and a buck-tooth I’ve still got to this day. I’ll also never forget the bloke that was suspended upside-down for a good couple of songs before we were able to jaws-of-life him back to upright. You Queenslanders sure know how to do hectic pits! Upside-down guy, if you ever read this: hopefully you enjoyed the rest of Soundwave 2009.
It’s not just the unmatched fervour Dez and Co have for inciting pit-thuggery, however. As a musical act, it’s the live stage that really blings their eclectic blend of groove, death, thrash, hardcore and more to the front. One of those acts where the live end-product feels magnitudes sonically heavier than on-disc. And that stuff already gets decently heavy to begin with.
And so, many years since my last experience, I’m nevertheless hooting with a much wilder and more reckless abandon than the previously-noted exhaustion would’ve had me expect. Especially as our tattooed mainstay raises two arms, asks us “What the fuck is up Melbouuuuuuurne?!”, striding proudly across the stage with his fellow prowling animals to reclaim a Victorian stage-throne once more.
Similar to the night prior, and an experience I’m sure many of you’ve had before - the neurological feelgood surge of biochemical yummies uplifts my physical state and sharpens the mind at once. It’s like free Ritalin. That Dez was diagnosed with ADHD at a young age is no surprise, either - every second the man isn’t belting out his trademark snarl, he’s whipping that infamous circle-shape, raising hands and otherwise verbally screaming for more. More pits, more action, more movement.
‘Clouds Over California’ as an opener - you’re kidding, right?! Chef’s kiss choice on the setlist selection, as tonight’s DD bill draws heavily on old-school fan service. Myself and the toe that is still busted up from Warbringer’s set at Brutefest a while back stay out of the gnashing, swirling wormhole that inflates to a size I haven’t seen at Forum since Suicidal Tendencies or Machine Head. It’s a fantastic pick for demonstrating the bands’ musical prowess, aided by the veterancy of the bands’ latest incarnation.
Locked in to a good few years’ worth of live-show/studio consolidation, the most recent iteration of Devildriver’s lineup is watertight. David Lee (ex-Bonded by Blood, so you know he’s good) widdles frets and headbangs recklessly astride fellow guitarist Gabe Mangold (ex-Shadow Of Intent, also great curriculum vitae). The background of technical and thrash-metal proficiency is on full display, augmented by the pulsing and relentless drive of Jon Miller on a very busy, thudding and sonically hefty bass. Rounding out the arrangement over the near-death-thrash-goes-groove-metal bouncing opener, Davier Perez is a maelstrom of rhythmic force, steering the ‘driver through a menagerie of tempos and stylistic changes within each song.
A haughty and oafish blood-drunk roar emanates from us primates, equal parts satisfied with the opener and ravenously eager for more. Whilst I always feel something’s a little remiss in gigs going without at least one local support, in tonight’s case it only serves the gig (and myself, selfishly) better. With a ripper new album in Strike and Kill showcasing a lot of that older/mid era classic/trad metal riffing and lead work, it’s also a nice primer for the new tunes soon to hit the air in this cavernous place.
A little faux-pas from Dez on this tracks’ conclusion, yelling out “BRISBAAANE!” to half cheers, half guffaws from the crowd. With a quick and very neurodivergent-coded ‘I totally meant X not Y’ save, he waves the fumble off smugly. “Bah! Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne, it’s all the same…” Dez grins mirthfully, ahead of the next song.
‘Not All Who Wander Are Lost’ is such song, and one that always goes hard live. Tolkein about a moshpit, huh [drumkit returns for rimshot]? I’m perched up by the corner bar right by the baroque statues inlaid on the far-left wall - even from there, I have to catch my feet as the domino-effect ripple created by falling bodies one way, beeline of pit-enjoyers frantically slicing through the crowd the other, all the while machine-gun triplets raining hammer-like on all. The Last Kind Words is an album I cherish as much as Fury or Self-Titled, so to see both ‘Clouds’ and this one brought to life back-to-back is a real crowd (and Brady) pleaser.
It nears pure thrash-metal throughout, a spindly collection of lead stabs and spurts pushing through a strong, flat-footed pace. Dez retains that classic range between discernible but gravelly shout-bark, deep guttural growl and acidic, high-pitched shriek, the descending staircase of riffery only adding more vitriol to fuel the mosh. The delicious, trilling dual-guitar soloing and breakneck pace meld together to catapult this speedy number to an absurpt, cheer-filled conclusion.
“Fuck yeah… mate!” Dez yells with a sarcastic inflection that does away with his sunny-side US origins. It’s an impressively well-done take, one you can only nail by virtue of being exposed to us over time, and unsurprisingly, we boom a true-blue appraisal back at the lad in response.
We’re given even more opportunity to relish in pure early-aughts nostalgia with the very sinister and far more groove-oriented ‘Grinfucked?’, next. As the meandering but simplistic palm-muted riffage begins and we collectively gasp in excitement, Dez is already whipping that circle-shape with his hands, yelling “Take that shit around! Turn it around! Circle! Go!” between rasps.
His bandmates do an impressive job of even holding onto their instruments, straps notwithstanding, as they sprint to foldbacks, back and forth from Davier’s endlessly grinding drumkit and elsewhere. Fluidity is in motion up the whole front portion of the spacious venue. As a track, this one crawls onto mid-tempo tracks, mostly, but with some gnarly little riff-detours. It’s well placed to break up the battery of the first two tracks, and the crowd hoots in unison as it comes to that sudden, sharp finish.
These guys and their inner-thug brain-tugging have already incited me into the second beer of the night, yet another healthy indicator of their pull towards creating a rowdy atmosphere. The cans are always flying at these guys’ shows, same with crowd-surfers and flailing limbs itself. Heck, even from the back it’s a fight not to slosh more poor punters as my arms stab, devil-horns aloft, with the instant recognition of another self-titled classic in ‘Meet The Wretched’. More up-tempo albeit no less dripping with pit-encouraging malice, that deliciously staccato riff that accompanies Dez half-scatting “Come and meet the wretched/Come and meet the wretched (“Wretched! Wretched!”)” is boomed chorally from those of us offstage in a surprisingly loud boom. Old Mate was not kidding at the songs’ outset that “Music is our business, and I came here to do fucking business”.
Stabbing, punching and gesticulating between his screams as the riffs surge past him, Fafara’s freneticism seems tp spur the blood-drunken antics of the circle pit even further. It starts forming a larger, more irregular shape as viral smaller moshes break out amongst standees. It’s the best kind of viral; no face-mask required, and social-distancing is completely absent. The momentum continues even as the cheers raise up as this one finishes, showing just how hyped-up and agitated the flock are tonight.
I then literally let out an an involuntary cry of “Oh, bull-SHIT!” as they bring the 2003 madness into trifecta with ‘I Could Care Less’. We certainly could, and Dez’s command to “Keep feeding that pit, motherfucker!” only further cements the point. More blooded zombies are pulled in, swarm in, jump in, bitten by the movement bug, swelling the whole floor-side into a state of pandemonium. The infectiousness of the hooks and riffing in this track have always been undeniable, and I giggle to myself at everyone’s loud shout of “(Idiot!)” to back up our callous barks of “I COULD CARE LESS!” alongside the Dez-man.
“Don’t you know/our lives are on trial now/and if they lose, we’re going straight. to. hell!” bursts out in stacatto fashion, the momentary pauses filling up with cheers every single time.
There’s a break in the play-your-old-stuff nostalgia service after this, as the band rip into the searing opener from VERY recently-released stomper Strike and Kill, ‘Dig Your Own Grave’.
The whiplashing tapping and breakneck staccato of the intro, coupled with that tight-as-a-fish’s arse Fear Factory styled palm-muted fret chugging gets heads on and offstage whirling, as does the flashy, wah-laden soloing from Gabe and Alex. It’s deceptively busy, anchoring around a stompy collection of power chords and chug, but is also awash with technicality and all manner of instrumental flourishes. The fact it opens back up with a snarling breakdown section is straight chum for the pit-sharks, a devastating and discordance filled riff that feels nastier than ever. What an introduction to the album for the unitiated, hot damn!
And as if that ain’t enough, they follow up with the very classic/traditional metal informed dual lead guitar wails that introduce another Strike and Kill newbie, ‘Dead In The Water’. The panoply of influences runs fast and thick throughout this one, bouncing around like a concert beach-ball from blistering death-metal runs, tight and thrashy riffs, Dez’s hyper-speed barks and those omnipresent slices of straight groove.
Of everything played tonight, though, it relents the absolute least, and the entire band are as much a swirling mass of snakes as Dez lyrically and literally implores us to “Stay the course/No breaking!”. By this stage, folks are wandering out of the pit over the breakneck number with blood dripping off them, bruises and too many beers taking their toll. Don’t worry kids, I’ve been exactly there with this band too - just kick back and enjoy the blistering soloing going on during this one.
Which is another reminder that whilst some folks might’ve thrown these guys in the nu-metal/’its just groove metal’ bargain-bin of neckbeard opinion, that’s entirely their loss. Sure, it’s healthily inflected with groove, but this one in particular shines with a speed and viciousness that keeps up with my roster of bree-bree/growl-growl on more regular current rotation.
‘Hold Back The Day’ has my throat seize up and choke from lyrics, screams and shouts I’m only really half-aware I’m slinging at the band. The progression feels serpentine in almost post-metal fashion, the track aurally holding back a pack of wild dogs to be unleashed in the latter half in glorious Devildriver fashion. Davier’s got his work cut out for him tonight, shredding away at the kit throughout this track as Miller mashes a wall of well-timed sonic-booms under the endless riffing. I don’t think I missed a single lyric or beat, but I could sure as hell use some water after screaming myself hoarse. Really, all I’d need to do at this stage is inhale as even the whole-ass massive open floorside area feels thick with cloying sweat. Mmm-mmm, metalhead-a-licious!
“Make some noise for our friends in Cradle of Filth!” Dez barks, his word writ law and we applaud accordingly. As Dez and I discussed in our recent interview, the notion that a band like Devildriver can tour with Cradle of Filth free of snobbish nose-turning is, I think, indicative of our metal culture being far less cut-and-dry about who tours when and with whom. Not only that, though, the viciousness on display both from performance, showmanship, and that almost copyrightable surge of violence known as the Devildriver Pit (TM) is yet again slung into furious overdrive.
The refugees from such self-induced movement calamities are pouring out now as more and more folks are gassed. Even with the difficulty popping my head or filming it, you can see a constant influx of fresh faces ready to pick up the slack. Helping that in no small facet at all is the incredibly groove-laden ‘The Mountain’, a track ripped straight off the shelf and flung straight at the pit for the masses to feast on like rabid, circling sharks.
Brief ‘The Mountain’ Clip
(via the ISC Youtube Channel):
I mentioned ADHD before, right? Well you can blame a lot of things in my daily life that go pear-shaped on it, but it’s almost sarcastic and hilarious to watch Dez and Co belt out AWOLNATION’s ‘Sail’, kicking off with Dez spitting “Raise the flag and give no quarter - aye-aye- Captain!” as the leads wailing their metal-interpretation warble in.
It’s hilariously kitsch, but there’s something to be said about thousands of metalheads screaming “blame it on my ADHD, baby!” which is as fun as it is probably telling about our scene (it’s a spicy one, this community). Dancing kicks off in tandem with some circle-pit antics and it’s too at-odds not to be both funny and endearing.
The relatively brief downtime allowed by cranking out that stomp-clap 2010’s pop hit in metal form is torn asunder by the ripping and climactic ferocity with which Devildriver then belts into ‘Cry For Me Sky (Euology For The Damned)’. It’s been a while between Devildriver gigs, and I’ve seen that far more times than is probably even sensible, but tonights’ rendition of that particular track felt like their best yet, the most honed and brutal.
I’m standing there furiously headbanging and suddenly feeling that overly-familiar crick in the neck start to form, those mild ‘banger-aches. It’s at that moment with surprise and despite my between-tracks note taking that we’ve already surpassed twelve songs so far. Not bad, not bad at all, especially given Fafara and Co continue headbanging, swivelling, gyrating, fist-pumping and throwing their instruments around, whipping the crowd into frenzy with gestures and phrases as often as they possibly can. Like I said, these guys have a magical weave over a pit. Sure, playing groove-laden metal helps, but I’ve seen far more infectious acts come nowhere this close to brewing such a floor-side storm. Happens every time, like it’s some metalhead cultural bargaining agreement between us and the band.
Brief clip of ‘Cry For Me Sky’
(via the ISC Youtube Channel):
And oh my word. Bah gawd, son. Don’t even get me freaking started (I’m going to anyway) as to what’s next for our final taste-tester on this hard-hittin’ groove-smorgasbord setlist. Arguably, in my opinion, the very best was left for the last. The trickling of that familiar, tinkling clean guitar refrain earns a huge applause of recognition as ‘End of The Line’ heralds one more stage-led assault. Absolutely beside myself cheering along with everyone else to this one, you bet your bottom Dez-dollar.
Compounding our response is the nice bit of by-ya-bootstraps oratory that Fafara barks whilst the intro plays: “Treat every day as if it’s your last, you never know when that day will come!” he shouts, stabbing at the crowd with a defiant finger. “I get up every day and I wanna burn it fuckin’ down. Burn it!” he roars, cheers ensuing. “Last call for alcohol, baby” he smirks whilst raising one, arms aloft and getting a clap going through the meandering opening. The tentative lead wails then breaks out into that deliciously thrashy, punchy riff (“Show me your [middle] fingers up high! Look at that shit! Burn it down, motherfucker!”), Dez peeling back with a hearty grin to watch the pit consume itself. He then begins spitting that idiomatic venemous growl in short, choppy bursts between riff-stabs, creating that initial vocal-instrumental tradeoff that helps move both the speed and groove along.
“Some-things-are-just-best-left-un-said” is chanted aloud by all before the bass-drop into that thrashing chorus. I’ve always loved how this one sets up Maker’s Hand as their first album from a more classic, trad-metal playbook, particularly the searing leads. It’s an excellent choice of closer as fan-service ago-go. Part of me still wonders if there weren’t a few snooty goths who’ve also been converted to the Devildriver live-show cult, ‘cause from the sound of that applause-eruption, opinions are near unanimously positive and rich with stoke.
Brief sample of ‘End of The Line’
(via the ISC Youtube Channel):
(Yes, that’s me doing all those “yeeeeeeeew!”’s, lol)
The chill outside as the rain seeps over us vapers, smokers and assorted lung-haters outside, dripping coldly as wet winds whiplash from multiple directions.
I wasn’t even in the pit and I feel appreciably heated-up - can imagine the colds some folks went home with after putting their own bodies through the temperature meat-grinder. I remember me a bunch of Devildriver pits, and you could probably cook an egg in most of them.
Stepping back inside, I was almost gobsmacked at the sea of bodies. I’ve been to many packed and sold-out Forum gigs, luckily, but this seriously felt like punters were climbing out of the ducts and rafters. It’s like a goth and mid-30’s ex-metalcore-scene-kid filled mine of Moria.
Well… it’s not a Balrog that emerges from the dark under slowly building lights, as cheers erupt in blackness. No torches either, to the relief of whoever’s assigned Fire Warden tonight. Instead, it’s a very 2026-coded, phosphorous-like speckling of smartphones shows - a Fellowship of the Filth-ling.
The ensuing sweep of choral ambience and synth as a more simplistic introduction allows breathing room to make a slow entrance, cheers erupting as orange lights hue to bright white and green… it’s as expectedly lavish as you’d assume from the gothiest-goths in extreme metal’s mainstream canon.
But really, no one here should be anywhere near surprised - this is bloody Cradle of Filth after all, innit? Dani’s an over-the-top guy, they’re an over-the-top band, playing grandiose music about haughty and imperialistic/classical themes. ‘Course this is going to be an absolute spectacle, wasn’t to be anything else. We know this. Doesn’t make it any less grandiose, though. Certainly moreso than the last time I caught them in Brisbane, eons ago.
Circling back to some of the discourse around “Neeeeer, why this band play with this one, da-hurr-hurr!” (if you can call tired, formulaic bleating about shit ‘discourse’) - Cradle’s actually a perfect follow-up from the brow-beaten barbarism and chaos of Devildriver. I’m choosing to focus more on the aesthetic and music for these guys’ set, but rest assured there’s still plenty of consistently healthy pit-action throughout the second act.
Heck, that’s also a point of (slightly unfair, bigger venue/city etc) comparison with my last Filth experience. Dez, if you ever read this, dude - well-played, you got ‘em whipped up more nicely for the ‘Filth than the crossed-arm snobs would have expected, that’s for sure. Quite a few of those types still had to brace the core from the imminent radiant waves of extra-circular-moshpit human-wave energy.
There is just so much to take in from the outset that it’s near overwhelming. From the elaborate and giant tapestry draped behind them, the intricacy of the aesthetics and the complex, cacophonic and symphonic rush of bombastic, sneering extreme-metal. Methinks there had to be a bit of deliberation between and likely between bands to get these setlists going, and both are great for anyone from rabid fan, old flame or complete noob. The end result is a multi-generational cacophony of hoots, roars and screams that can barely be heard over the blasting din.
Striding with a swagger torn straight from a mercenary guild in the Victorian era, our short in stature frontman in the iconic Dani Filth (Daniel Davey) is ostentatious and theatrical in both gesturing, gait and movement. Garbed in what looks like high-level Daedric armour from The Elder Scrolls video games, caked in corpsepaint and sneering knowingly on arrival, he’s got the pomp and splendor needed to back such orchestral-laden extremity. A litany of corpse-like devotees stride onstage equally proudly under the piercing lights, sonic-booming into action following a darkly orchestral, ambient-laden intro to the fast-paced opener ‘To Live Deliciously’.
Rolling toms and sparse snare breaks a into faster d-beat and eventual blasting from Marthus (Martin Škaroupka) - an absolute beast behind the kit from start to finish. An initial belching firestorm of snare and kick erupts and doesn’t let up. It’s one of many hyper-blasting sections he and accompanying rhythm-section ghoul Daniel Firth (Bass) use to purge the whimsy away with frantic, punishing riffing. Thank Gods, honestly - it’s the inclusion of blasts or at least old-school death metal styled punky/d-beat sections that keeps me from waning more during the night. I’m not picky with my tastes usually, and maybe this is an autism/ADHD thing, but stuff with a lot of higher-register symphonic stuff happening can really get my ears prickly.
I feel like the richer and warmer live environment, amplification, nicely-dialled in and bassy synths/backup vocal mix and avoiding a tinnier, more trebly dial-in saved me here, for sure. So honestly, props to the sound team as I would’ve had a similar experience as my first go with these guys (lots of tinnitus and a headache). Plus, you know, bassist bias I guess, I like being punched in the solar plexus with force by the lower register, wakes my neurodivergent millenial arse up and reminds me I’m in fact an alive person.
There’s a smattering of death-thrash and groove amidst the sets’ opener, sharing that role as first track off their most-recent LP The Screaming Of The Valkyries, helped in no short order by the studious and dextrous playing of guitarists Donny Burbage and Joff Bailey. As the thrashing riffage plays, I’m reminded that’s exactly what I appreciated from the latest LP - an injection of some healthy thrash-metal riffing, speedy tremolo and a pretty nicely blackened-death tinge to their faster moments. It does drag for me, though (ironic as someone who loves being brain-zoned-out on Godspeed You! Black Emperor and other pretentious stuff), and I think again it is the sheer imposing ferocity of the mix, the gnarling guitar tones, the chest-bursting bass of the live setting that keeps my unmedicated ADHD mind from veering off during many longer symphonic/synth sections.
Given the controversy (and healthily English online self-deprecation) surrounding quite a few recent lineup changes, a couple of them acrimonious to say the least in departure, the band at least appear to be having an excellent time together. There’s not much of the sad-panda black-metal sneer between the guys/gals; they’re looking like they relish the company (and probably also a very astutely Dez-whipped pile of drunks in the pit!).
This current iteration of ‘Filth as I’m watching live feels tight, consolidated and, well, like they’re all having a bloody good time. It was honestly kind of adorable to see the corpse-laden, armour-heavy getup clash with the many ‘ain’t this great fun?!’ grins being shot between members. See also: members twirling towards each other, heaving axes and heavy stage-garb, Dani’s appreciative nods to the opening tracks’ widdly and histrionic soloing, as well as the booming response from the crowd. It might’ve been rocky there for a minute, but the current crew’ve got it in the bag, and the pit responds appropriately to an up-tempo basher to begin proceedings.
It’s that dark Victorian thematic contrast, the gothic sneer of occultic pomp emanating through the lyrics (the ones you can hear not in that iconic banshee-wail), such as “Velvet invocations/Standing ovations from the stalls” which feel purposefully draped onto the very classical/Renaissance-styled interior of Forum Melbourne. Not to mention the fact I feel the tracks’ placement isn’t just promo, it’s an invitation to the rest of the set via the multi-vocal bark of the chorus: “We wish to live deliciously in this garden of unearthly delights!”. Compounding all of this heady mixture, Kelsey Peters weaves a tapestry of synth, plinking keys, chordal sweeps and her own angelic, sopratic voice.
It all culminates in the classic Cradle formula you know and love, farm-to-table, but there’s a decidedly thrash-metal bent to the opener that perks up the Devildrivered (again, Devil-driven?! I’m really forcing that pun, huh), and thwacks those of us feeling leery back into full attention.
Speaking of dark-Victorian chic, you can’t any more goth-coded than the velvety drape of tinny synth that plinks alongside warm synths, as Filth raises his arms aloft, bowing fitfully after a hushed, gruff spoken-word intro. That opening riff, driven by push and pull between a near groove-metal riff and contrasted against the synth, feels like two worlds colliding. As the beat goes a little more flat-stick and urgent in pace, heads whirl on and off-stage in grandiose unison. There’s a post-hardcore, half-spoken to slant to Dani’s vocal delivery between the usual barks, which just lavishes more of that meta-level satirical feel atop a band cosplaying cruelty in power. I probably piss off more than a few Cradle fans at the abrupt shift to a near-Disneyfied segue around the four-minute mark, but even I can’t deny how dripping and sinister the spoken-word section is, especially when stolen away by epic dual guitar soloing that feels more European melodeath than British extremity.
Kelsey’s operatic additions are sparser here, punching through in layered moments like an upper-class marzipan of metal. It’s a track I can only describe as crisp-sounding, and props to the sound engineers and techs who had a hell of a lot of mid to high-range treble to manage from pretty much everyone bar the rhythm section!
It’s the third track that really snaps my black-metal-loving tush back into orbit. Doing away with the more ceremonial and lengthy engagements that spur on later material, the discography plumb to pipeline ‘Nocturnal Supremacy’ out from Avernus and straight onto the live stage. Again, Cradle heresy in action and a complaint this bassist has of a lot of blackened heyday albums, but I’ve always lamented the comparatively tinny, high-register feel of Dusk And Her Embrace.. The Original Sin to bug me in a similar manner to Deathcrush, Transylvanian Hunger, etc. Fantastic albums all, but it’s the booming sonic resonance and visceral immediacy of the bellowing basslines and thudding double-kicks that give the track new life for me. The crowd, as you can imagine, eats it the hell up, now ballistic in headbanging and pitting to nostalgic CoF in motion.
My grin slides upwards in pure tsundere-anime-villain-showdown-smirk fashion as Marthus graciously provides a release of what I’ve craved so bad, all night - blastbeats. And a hell of a lot of them too. Oh yeah, baby! Not to mention one of my favourite tricks in the ‘meat and taters/okay, i’m done with progressive metal for the week’ - shoehorning every fret-wielding instrument holder into a charnel forge of blistering tremolo, allowed out only to punch and stab with frenzied leads and thick chugs. If Dean Underhill (fellow ISC writer and black metal connoisseur) would be absolutely beside himself. Hi Dean!
I join in the chorus of howler monkeys around me on the resounding, appreciative hoot for that bilious little blast from the past. Folks are hopping to and fro on their feet, friends now carrying friends out by shouldered arms like wounded soldiers. Sure, the pit-antics aren’t as intense as the previous band, but this is one you can kick back and watch for the visual feast between headbangs. A welcomed sight for those huffed out by a 50-minute washing machine just prior, then.
The cacophonous din of the prior track settles. Dani’s a man of few words between tracks, giving your usual perfunctory statements and more than a few wry, British-as-hell verbal quips. You know, the ones much smarter than our Aussie banter that are compressed into fewer words and take the audience a second or two to click? Yeah.
Instead, Filth and his underlings plow back into the more grandiose and breathable sonic-room of latter-era Cradle via ‘Malignant Perfection’. As one of those annoyingly obnoxious [raises finger condescendingly] “ACKSHUALLY… i prefer their older stuff, hmph” listeners, I’m surprised this one gripped me as hard by the proverbials as it did. It starts quite inconspicuous, tinkling keys and a semi-spoken hiss from Dani before flying off into a stop-start push and pull between punky sneer and traditional metal lead stylings.
The extra-jagged and angular lean of the fretwork seems mirrored by the band, guitarists and bassist twisting and writhing with the more spasmodic moments before churning out the headbangs side-by-side as the riffs morph into a groovier form. Not to mention the fact the vocal bombast of the chorus gives this one a traditional rock structure that, in the context of what we’ve witnessed thus far, feels jarring in a positive way. That is until the extreme-metal malice finally unleashes in full, banshee-wailing mayhem in the latter half, a release of coiled tension that works super nicely against the lilting female vocals and thudding double-kicks. It’s an odd mix that shouldn’t work, but it filled out awesomely in the Forum’s open expanse.
I’d say ‘The Principle of Evil and Flesh’ dragged things back down to Earth afterwards, but you and I both know that’s outright horseshit. There’s no repentance, no wistfully My Dear Lady romping about the courthouse spinning political intrigue with this one. It’s got what grinders like me crave, but it’s no Brawndo - instead, it’s blistering, pummelling and unrepentant, blackened as the soul of any good politician. Cradle’s new iteration handles the feverish storm of impious riffing and discordant leads well, and the drummer doesn’t in fact do a Spinal Tap and blow apart. The mid-track turnaround leads to some of Filth’s most iconic shrieks, and you can hear our applause over his inane banshee shrieking. Dude is sounding fiercer now than he did then, an opposite trajectory to what you might expect from an old cut, his band locking in hard for the rest of this focused, punishing number. Oh boy, did my weakened voicebox let out an appreciative kicked-puppy shriek of its’ own in hearty praise when this one came to conclusion.
‘How Many Tears To Nurture A Rose?’ then, is very well-placed if you ask me. Trilling off into a frantic run of leads that feel deliciously Scandinavian, the synths thick but not imposing, the feverish palm-muting is peppered with all sorts of harmonics, guitar/drum/bass fills, flirtations with that imperialistic tripleting march, easing back into a haunting spell of warbled vocals from Kelsey over a sparse section that performs a musical ouroborous, circling back to that speedy introductory tempo. Haunted refrains and swelling synths from the keyboardist ride atop blasts, stop-start dynamics and a blistering run of full-tilt black metal. The savagery only increases alongside the height of the synths’ swells, tapering off to some deliciously melodic lead work strewn all through Existence is Futile.
Just about everyone in the damn room cheers as one before the first choral strain and plinking, Carpenter-esque arpeggio introduces ‘Nymphetamine (Fix)’. I mean heck, I haven’t listened to Nymphetamine in a long time prior to the pre-gig leadup, but I find myself mouthing both Kelsey’s faithfully melodic wails as Filth’s half-muttered growls. The track is still drenched in all manner of harmonic trickery, layered with the usual CoF musical marzipan. But there’s a directness and simplicity to the structure that elongates everything, allowing powerful vocals to shine and power chords to punch alongside lead-guitar stabs with more clarity. Hands are waving from some of the crowd as others are bashing into one another in the pit, a truly idiomatic sight you’ll only cop during sets like this. Marthus’ martial stomp helps give the whole track that more grounded, melodeath flavoured style, and it’s about as close as ‘hooky and infectious’ as you’ll get until a nice surprise a little later.
‘White Hellebore’ is contrastingly a vicious statement of intent, pummelling with a brutal intro and urgent, frantic guitar-work that doesn’t led up for a second. I love the incantation-style punch of Dani’s vocals in this one and how they flare against the lofty whimsy of the Kelsey’s wails, a dynamic that perfectly matches their drawback from near-groove-metal into spurting sections of blast. Especially around the four-minute mark when the band collectively throws their arms up, says ‘fuck this!’ to the traditional song-verse structure and instead just chooses to aurally climb to the ceiling in a frantic, speeding, lead-guitar-wailing climax. It works a treat to rouse those feeling stuporous by now, snapping the audience into a hearty cheer. They’re digging the new stuff…
But, can you really paint such a Victorian-era baroque picture without the inclusion of the whole goddamned ‘Bathory Aria (‘Benighted Like Usher’/’A Murder of Ravens in Fugue’ / ‘Eyes That Witnessed Madness’)? Well, probably, but that’s like choosing to skip Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans and opt for a cough-drop instead. Just risk it for the biscuit - the band did. ‘Benighted’ acts as the first story-arc, Marthus’ more brooding plodding underpinned by equal restraint from the bass. Being an epic strewn across multiple titles, you’ve of course got the deft weave of Dani’s spoken-word and harsh, hissed, whisper-like scats strewn through the first journey-leg. It’s impressive to see how widely and comfortably our vocalist can play in the upper-register, making other just as if not more accomplished black-metal vocalists feel flat in comparison. ‘A Murder of Ravens’ battens down the hatches somewhat, tightening and speeding up the riffs, the synths swelling with the urgency and gravel in the oratory. The uptick in movement and gait from band and stage alike is that simultaneous it feels choreographed, adding to the aria’s feel of a dance in the pits of hell itself.
‘Eyes That Witnessed Madness’ is played perfectly by Dani, my aforementioned comment about the dude’s range becoming stark, here. Like a madman, he’s probing, screaming and clawing at the mic with renewed venom, dispersing his full range of howls, barks, growls, shrieks and piercing wails, fitting the increasingly-heavy riffage very nicely indeed. The best part is when it feels like the whole spectacle’s done - and the band suddenly lurches into one of the more ballistic, frenzied blasting sections of the entire night. Honestly, that little section there was probably my favourite part of the whole set. It felt completely deliberate to be dangled such a long payoff, but holy hell it went hard as it dropped, and the crowd ate it up completely.
‘The Mordant Liquor of Tears’ was neither a reason to cry for the set ending, nor was it unfortunately a segue into ‘The Smoke Of Her Burning’ like me and the guy who yelled that track out nearby had hoped. That’s totally fine, because they encored with that track. Y’know, the one every millenial had on their mixtapes, blank CD’s and blasting in your Mum’s Holden Commodore whilst you punched Winnie Blues, thinking you’re cool (totally not me!).
That’s right folks, it’s the black-metal-goes-Sepultura mosh-ready mayhem of straight-shooter, no-bullshittin’ Gilded Cunt! You’re not beating about the bush with a statement of intent like that song title and, ironically, it’s such a bruising and tightly-wound number from these guys that it once again feels like a brilliantly constructed satire on their own work. That’s what I like about these guys - ‘Jesus Is A Cunt’ on the back of your merch? Dani’s complete social media self-deprecation at his own changing lineups? The entire Gothic lyrical theme being toyed with like the eternal damnation of the bourgoise? Yeah, mate. It’s a rollicking Devildriver-styled slice of shut up and mosh, and the sheer surprise at its’ playing gave rise to a stampeding herd of those still recovering right back into it.
And as freaking IF an entire venue full of Australians was ever going to give up the chance to chant and scream “Cunt…CUUUUUU-NT! OH! YOU GIL-DED CUNT!” along with a devilishly-smiling Dani. C’mon, self-important metalheads, loosen up, relax and headbang a bit. Don’t be such a gilded c-
And if that’s not enough, they whip out a Cruelty And The Beast classic straight after in ‘Cruelty Bought Thee Orchids’. Hah. You want to hear wailing?! Jesus tapdancing (and apparently, also is a cunt) Christ, Batman! The ear-piercing ball-pinch wails and banshee shrieks are brought out with newfound sonic heights on this one, Dani somehow managing an even more banshee-like register here than on all prior tracks. I swear there had to be a halo of dead bats and birds dropping outside the venue with the way those howls pierced the air. Riff-wise, it’s a fantastic little romp through blackened death metal, roomier and melodic sections and haunting vocal refrains from Kelsey in a track that is flat-stick, start to finish.
You can’t get more all-in-one as a closeout than ‘Her Ghost In The Fog’, which essentially bookends everything down from the setlist thus far into one tight, tremolo-inflected snarl of blackened pompous glory. Pushing, driving and rolling riffage shows that Midian-era tilting point between repentless extreme metal and more a more experimental, expansive musical era afterwards. It’s a jarring, discordant and frantic track, male and female vocals smashing together against wailing guitars, crammed against brutally-fast sections filled with breakneck tremolo and soaring synth in an absolute cataclysm. Heck, the keys themselves feel like they’re going to fly off the board, let alone the rest of the band. So yeah, for all their glorified aesthetic and stagecraft, in the end the Filthers show their true, grimy, blackened forms to a raucous, hooting sendoff.
Punters are veritably staggering out the doors now, and I’ve got to say but a simple summation (seeing as I wrote half a novel for a small lineup, oops): it’s not that often you’ll see this many folks looking beaten to within an inch of their lives with proverbial-eating grins staggering out of a sweaty venue, on a cold midwinter’s night in Melbourne, after just two bands.
Well played, Cradle and ‘Driver. Well played, indeed.
LINKS:
Cradle of Filth (UK):
Artist LinkTree
(See for: Social Media, Australian Tour Tickets, The Screaming Of The Valkyries LP Order, Merch, Official Videos, etc)
DEVILDRIVER (US):
(See for: Socials, Tour Tickets, Merch, Music Videos etc)
Youtube (via Napalm Records)
Strike and Kill Pre-Order/Stream Links
Thephoenix.au:
inner-strength check - links:
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