[Gig Review]: DAYSEND + Supports, ‘Revisiting Severance’ @ Leadbeater Hotel, Melbourne (AU) 07.07.26.
Writer: Brady Irwin
Photography: Richie Black Photography
Headliner: Daysend (Sydney, AU)
Supports: Emperor Moth, HOOF, Hybrid Nightmares (Melbourne, AU)
Organiser: Your Mate Bookings
Stay tuned - additional gig photography and footage incoming soon via the Gallery of Brewicide!
See throughout/end of article for relevant artist/stakeholder links.
Intro/Thanks-In-Order:
Daysend and indeed Severance holds a special place in my otherwise frozen, cynical 2026-metalhead heart.
Coming into such an insanely fucked-up year, witnessing the rapid acceleration of a news cycle flinging past absurdist and into the deepest, darkest sociological pits of the Underdark, day by day? This actually couldn’t have been a more timely gig for those in attendance, I think.
My relationship with this band is kind of funny, at least for the onset.
I distinctly remember riding my creaky BMX down to Toormina Gardens (‘Toormi Gardens’ in our local bogan nomenclature) to see what my McDonalds’ slave-wage chicken scratch could muster up at your local friendly Sanity retailer (‘member those? I ‘member!).
Geared up in advance with a healthy dose of faux-patrician teen snobbishness and deep into my most hyperfixated “brutal shit only, mate” phase, I was likely an insufferable enough little shit. Especially to the patient Token Metal Guy, who lit up like a Christmas-decorated Ent upon seeing my pimpled face eagerly rifling the metal section to the plastic clack of CD cases in single file.
Whilst thumbing desperately to see if there was any ‘true death metal’ or such other bullshit in stock, a hand stopped mine, thumbing out an album with whimsical, minimalist art not unlike that you’d find today for, say, An Autumn For Crippled Children (what a band name).
Sure enough, I was adamant against the man’s initial assertion that “it’s good mate, trust me!”, especially learning of it being melodic [the horror!] death metal, mixed with a “bit but not much” of metalcore influence [blasphemer!].
Old Mate was yet to steer me wrong, so with a shrug I trundle back to my it’s-not-a-phase-Mum/metal-as-parental-repellent garage, clicking the compact disc into place and hitting play.
The only other albums I picked up from said retailer in 2003 that just completely sucked in, devoured and consumed my undiagnosed dopamine-huffing adolescent neurospicy brain were Soul of A New Machine and Death’s Human. That an Aussie band from Sydney were plying a far more accessible musical trade in an album that might as well have swept the measly metal rack aside for the next good month or so, is testament to the craft behind this album.
(The massive irony in all this is, despite all my posturing and posing about brutal this and kvlt that, I was deep in the millenial love of NWOAHM - Lamb of God, Dead To Fall, Himsa, Unearth, etc - and thus well-primed for this albums’ seriously groovin’ nature, too).
Thinking about whether I’d even give this album a chance today, in 2026?
Look, we here at ISC are so perpetually inundated with new releases by the minute (I’ve had 14 emails since writing the above, all new albums) that staying power is difficult. I’m sure many of our readers can relate in the day and age of Spotify, Youtube Music etc.
There’s something timeless and classic about artists of the early 2000’s though. Especially those who most skilfully wove in that emergent Gothenburg-worship with modern metal sensibilities. Whilst a LOT of this review is couched in nostalgia, Severance is an album that stands strongly on its’ own merit in 2026. Moreso than half the “We have In Flames and Hatebreed at home, son” permeating that time period, at least.
I might have taken the sludge/grind/post-metal/extreme-metal metalheads’ poison-pill in the interceding decades, but there truly is something about this album that feels equal parts contemporarily relevant and warmly nostalgic at the same time. Give it another listen if it’s been a while - you might be surprised how hard it hooks you again. In a way so many similar albums no longer can.
To Anthony Blayney and crew from organisers Your Mate Bookings, the desperate keg-switching staff of The Leadbeater Hotel (imagining an “Ah shit, I’m rostered on for a metal gig? Thanks”), supports Hybrid Nightmares/HOOF/Emperor Moth and my intrepid lens-shooter colleague Richie Black - massive thank-you for facilitating an evening that turned out even more special than what I was already anticipating. Which was something pretty damn special to begin with. I’m sure any of those present can attest to much the same.
Check out links for each artist through the review, with additional links at the end.
Peace, Love and You Taking This Pain That Was For Me (The Blood of Aaaaaaaaaaa-ngels) - Brady.
Daysend ‘Revisiting Severance’ Tour, Melbourne:
I mentioned the sheer absurdism of where we find ourselves right now before, right?
Honestly, my head has been a mess with it all. It’s all gone weird and wrong and we’re only in February. The hell? Between the head-bashing confusion of even my most diligent attempts to avoid the news-cycle, some pretty severe ongoing burnout and other stuff, I’ll admit I was feeling a little… cynical, on arrival. Flat at the very least.
Maybe other reviewers are different, but one of my many funny little ‘rules’ (thanks autism) prior to a gig is such: if I’ve not heard the support act before, I am to avoid listening to them until seeing them live. Maybe part of this is ADHD novelty-seeking, but the live front is, in my experience anyway, the best first place to introduce one’s self to new music.
Fast-forwarding 23 (?!?!?!) years from the release of Severance, we’re now invited to engorgement of artists from commercial also-rans through to sheer obscurity. With relative ease, too - no bouncing around IRC chats, Soulseek and the virus-laden minefields of KaZaa et al. If you seek it, it ain’t hard to find.
For me, gigs are one of the last bastions of novelty and a means through which I can cop the whole visceral experience as fully intended by the artist.
With aforementioned burnout in mind, though, I was pretty sluggish on arrival to a very sparse Leadbeater Hotel during the openers’ sound-check. Like, I get we don’t all rock up to all bands for every gig, but I’d be lying if I wasn’t at least slightly miffed at sheer ghosting that seemed to have ensued on arrival.
With the attitude of just taking as it goes (“Way she goes, bud”) and leaving myself open to curiosity on arrival, it wasn’t long before my expectations got their first steel-capped metalhead boot. Specifically, with thanks to tonights’ openers.
Emperor Moth:
The very first few power chords and groove-laden beats switched on top-down processing, layering ‘ah, groove-metal’ in a hazy filter down from my busted-up prefrontal cortex.
That’s the beautiful thing about brains and music though, friends - processing information is a two-way street. And reflexive writing off of any band, particularly in the live setting, is just asking for a worse off time than just being open to it.
Within moments, Melbourne’s Emperor Moth had, well, mothballed (heh) such dry and very Redditor-energy, neckbearded presumptions. Taking that flattened Mario Brothers groove-metal level-design and punctuating it with all manner of dissonant, jagged chordal spikes, inflecting devilishly tasty (and fast) death-metal tremolo runs, Leo broke my fundamental attribution errors over the neck of his weighty guitar neck from the very start. Nice.
Said guitarist did so in tandem with the skilful malacology of ‘Badger’, a drummer as equally versed in the Duplantier school of fast, locked-in groove as he was with equally-Francois, garishly-fast spurts of hyper-blasting. Breaking the entire sonic format out of ‘Local Opener Band Energy’, ‘Mad E’ burst into some seriously narky oscillations into high-register shriek and baritone growl, likewise upsetting his own gruff vocal monotony whilst engaged in serious bass-abuse. Mad’s vocals had this really nice blend of caustic shriek, grunty roar and bawly Southern drawl that reminded me of Byzantine, one of very few bands I feel get that mix right without sounding like another Hellyeah clone. Hell yeah. The fact they’re all emblazoned with warpaint only added to a felt need to straighten up and pay attention.
Okay then! Oh-kay then!
This is actually some good juu-juu. I’m listening. I’m watching. Go on…
Now the heads’ bobbing, Venom Cherry Sour sloshing in hand with increased motion (Christ those things are too easy to drink; thank Lady Luck I was too broke to imbibe a bunch more). No seriously, those things are deadly. Goes down too easy, and I say that as someone otherwise boganistically whinging about fruity tastes alongside my liquid-bread hops.
You’ve been warned for the next Leady gig, fellow impulse-control haters. No seriously, they’re too easy to drink. But I’m a hack music journalist, not a sommelier or cicero, thus we continue.
Propelled with force by the ensuing racket, in moments I’ve gone from tired burnout-man leaning on this flimsy, surely-near-dead ‘barrier’ up front, to headbanging and fist-pumping. Those most committed few in attendance stuck largely to the shadows, initially. However, as the set progressed I note a constant patter of similarly “Well alright, fuck me then!” moths drawn closer by this novel metal flame.
Flamin’ it was, mate.
Strike me flamin’ Roan, to quote Ray Meagher. This three-piece has got it.
‘Let Them Crawl’ indeed draw us in as described above, before suddenly turning heel into Megadeth classic-thrash riff territory - that was honestly completely unexpected, and very cool. Firing up the tempo barbecue even higher, the song progresses to a flat-stick but jagged pacing that gave an overall impression of Dew-Scented by way of, yeesh, Gojira or mayhaps even Ion Dissonance?
Damn, nice! What more tricks have you got for me, fellas?
Into the second track and suddenly we’re in the well-memed 0-0-0-0 top-string lightspeed domains of Slayer-riff territory, but not for long. There’s a couple of bars’ worth of marital tom-led stomp that’d appease Emperor Palpatine, dropped like yesterday’s news for even faster, more breakneck death-metal riff/drumming runs, Mad E interjecting a hell of a lot more slap-bass than I was expecting, his right-hand a flickering flurry of 16th-notes. Man. There’s quite a lot going on here!
“Welcome to Melbourne, Daysend!” came a curt but effective (and surely written down somewhere as legally mandatory) openers’ call-to-action for cheers re: headliners, returned with aplomb, and they’re off again. Following in much the same manner of unpredictability as the prior two songs, I/we are getting fast clued into a deeper and more diverse musical range, the third track of the set veering into some Nile-eqsue Egyptian styled soloing, punctuated with breakneck tremolo and palm-mute that wouldn’t go amiss amongst any blackened grindcore act. Suspending the whole thing amongst a drumwork scaffold that was equal-parts Myspace era deathcore and modern hyperblast, the aggression factor was upped in tandem with the smile on my face (and hoots from a growing crowd). I’m starting to realise these guys’d be just as home supporting a band like Munt as Daysend, which is apropos to their palette.
‘Entropy’ goes off on yet another tangent, the bands’ songwriting a little too reminiscent of my average day in ADHD thought-land. That is, a constant intrusion of disparate ideas waltzing in like they own the place. For the current track, this means a super-stoic early-aughts Strapping Young Lad/Sybreed riff template, chopped and hacked to bits by choke-heavy old-school drumming, breakdowns, and a staccato riff that had a few too many longnecks and cones before entering the venue. These stylistic changes continue track-by-track, emanating ghosts of everything from early The Haunted and fellow Aussies Minus Life through to their own scatter-shot Every Time I Die styled post-hardcore/math-metal skronk-riffing.
Speaking of longnecks and cones - where the hell is everyone for this?! I’m almost incensed at the low patronage, and even took to socials to get the troops up off the baccy-bongs and playlists on the TV. Dudes, dudettes and dudefolks, y’all missing out here…
By the sets’ closure, I was once again very glad to have the annoying, intrusive Metal-Archives dweller of Mum’s basement in my metalhead mind door-slammed. Wrong nerd, anyway. The tech-nerd, the right nerd, was out, locked in brotherly headbanging arms in my psyche alongside the muscled Despised Icon shirt-sporting brute - both were enjoying equal helpings of chin-stroking musicality and thuggish breakdowns.
See? This is why I have a silly little rule about reviews and not doing my homework on supports I don’t know.
Surprises are cool and good. Sometimes shutting up your inner perfectionist leads to a surprisingly good time, folks.
HOOF are up next, and they adorn the stage looking like someone threw Interpol and Bloodbath into one of those cartoonish mad-scientist contraptions that results in some strange, chimeric singular entity.
Looking less Big Tough Metal Guys and more like beaten/hungover Dads back from a boys’ weekend on Straddie in Queensland (albeit one that culminated in serious criminal charges), the bloodied chic mingled with the simplistic groove riffs opening their set could’ve been ripe for the picking. Especially when among the studious eye of music’s most ruthless murder of live-show crows - metalheads.
What follows next made me glad not to haven pre-emptively checked out, though.
Picking up the vocal register from a fairly monotonal, melodic death metal rasp into some brutally throaty roars, vocalist Cedric (Craig Hubert) is an interesting mix of stage-facing Presley impersonator and foldback-leaning growler, whirling in 1950’s rock-and-roll style as the riffage contorts from Pantera-homeboy to a distended Cannibal Corpse-ish industrial automaton (Devolved, anyone? The Amenta? Freaking The Schoenberg Automaton?! That’s all here, in places). Echoing the previous band but with even more brutality on offer, the uptick into full-fledged extreme-metal is helped along by some seriously energetic stage presence. The growing crowd responds in kind. “Bodies/From here to the horizooooo-ooooon!” is one of many chanted refrains with a real thuggish deathcore feel to it, adding a layer of machismo deliberately obfuscated under the simple white attire.
Poor old mate Zac Adams (Drums) cops the first salvo in a flurry of classically New Zealander banter but, being Kiwi himself, takes that shit in stride. As unfair but appropriately paid penance, Alan Burke (Guitars) and Scott Waymouth (Bass) are forced to keep up with this blasty alleged-bastard skinsmen. The only people more willing to dump banter-shit on Kiwis than us Australians are Kiwis themselves; the rest just think they’re South African or Aussie by way of accent. ‘Human Sawdust’ follows its’ titular implication, gnarling into what was easily the heaviest of their set. This stark increase in aggression is met with feverish headbangs and pint glasses raised, the ambient temperature of the room heating with the oddly charming rockstar moves happening stageside.
What I appreciated most about these guys, was what I also appreciate about Emperor Moth. Skill first and foremost, but also a readily apparent breadth of musical taste, practice and songwriting.
Between the two bands so far, and whatever you’d like to point towards as causal factors (technological advancements, self-education, mere progress of time and the scene) their set acts as ongoing evidence of Melbourne’s scene as one elevated far above your stereotypical Pantera-by-numbers clones.
I cut my gigging teeth back in the early 2000’s with some pretty damn lucky hardcore-kid opportunities re: very early Parkway Drive, 50 Lions, Carpathian, In Heart’s Wake etc - I mean, growing up in Coffs Harbour in 2003, that’s about all you copped really. But even with my relatively-short tenure in adult-aged venues from 2007 onwards, the uptick in default technical skill is something that is certainly noticeable and not just attributable to changing trends. HOOF are exemplary of this, a heady mix of fun groove and blistering tech-death. Hence, ‘Sawdust’ is as much about putting Dissection through a paper shredder as it is gluing it tightly back onto a page writ by groovier stuff like Fear Factory and Hatesphere - all techy/groovy as heckin’ heck. As heck, I tell-s ya!
‘Bulimic Jesus’ begins with ANZAC-ian self-deprecating pride (“We have double-sided shirts now motherfuckers! That’s right! Double-sided! Over at the merch desk”) but methinks the band doesn’t have that bloke on the Cross in huge regard. Nay, it’s instead a deliciously evil slice of blackened death, opting to eschew your average breakdown for a very, very cool descending tremolo/palm muted riff which felt like Belphegor records played in reverse. Sprinkled throughout (this song, but also the entire set) are tasteful, tight embellishments - funky, snapping tom-fills, pinch-harmonics, bass arpeggiations. Reaaaaaally nice mix of extreme and groovy going on here.
‘Slaughter’ is introduced as “that’s all I gotta say”, and I love that directness. My ‘tism thanks the vocalist for the concrete/literal social communication, The One Other Remaining Braincell (ADHD) likewise over the moon watching this Bloodbath-ian intro peeling off from a drummer smacking that china like it owes him Oprah-rich levels of debt. Perhaps biased here, but the ‘mathiness’ (it’s my blog, I’ll make words up fuck you), this fruit-smoothie of groove-chonk and math-skronk? I don’t have the appropriate words for what riffs like this do to my brain without entering NSFW (Not Safe For Work) territory, sorry. Suffice to say, their closeout was a finish-line race comprised of equal parts speed metal, blackened death and chunky Gojira-style groove, kept at a higher pace than kids at Good Things might’ve liked. Ah well. Listen to more extreme metal, you little Turnstile loving ratbags.
By the end of the set, I snap back to reality (oh, there goes gravit-) and realise not only is our poor, emaciated lil’ dark-green barrier getting a bit of gravitational lean, it’s doing so due to a throng of front-rowers booming out resounding applause with the rest.
Seriously, the fact that pathetic little workhorse of a ‘barrier’ hasn’t been ripped off yet is testament to construction and engineering, I guess. Jimbo from YMB looked about ready to do that job on all his lonesome as the night progressed. How’s that for lived experience, peers?!
hybrid nightmares:
Onto Hybrid Nightmares now. Speaking of ‘Bulimic Jesus’… it’s time for my confessional.
On-disc, via streaming app, whatever you want to call it, they’re a band that have somewhat eluded me. Their modern-metal interpretation of blackened riffing runs at odds to where my own tastes. Not due to the tunes being inherently bad, I just take my bag of first/second-wave riffs and head down more grindcore/sludge-infested paths instead, usually. And if it’s blackened-anything-else, I typically take it super-fast.
With aforementioned upbringing instilling a very early hunger to catch anything live, when it comes for live performance, I’m both much more open-minded, accepting and willing . The patrician stays home, and a sensory-seeking puppy-dog is brought into the venue instead with me.
Well! I’m a fierce advocate against animal abuse as-is, but in terms of metaphor? Hybrid kicked the shit out of that pupper, from go to woe.
Much like my “Oh god, again?!” reaction re: Mammon’s Throne, I likewise am glad I stowed that pre-emptive ‘whatever’ attitude as both process and particularly with respect to the current set. HN are a band I felt a bit of ‘Pfft, I’ve seen ‘em a billion times, I know exactly what to expect’.
I don’t know man. Same deal as Mammon’s Throne with my Swallow the Sun gig review. Maybe Blayney’s feeding these guys the boogie-sugar from eshays ‘round the bend once more? Elsewise, these guys were absolutely on it tonight, and by on it I of course imply that they in fact, went off.
Like, really off. Off like the scent permeating your average black-metal elitist’s sock drawer. Waltzing onstage with an elaborate, corpse-painted and costumed getup, confident in their swagger, I’m almost chuckling to myself aloud at the thought of some very-lost idiot in an Arghoslent shirt up back absolutely aghast with “But muh traditions! Muh lo-fi, muh 4-track first-wave!” and other such expressions of dismay acknowledged by no one.
Someone tell that guy with the pouty face that Mum’s headed back from Woolies to pick him up - Dad’s just gone out for cigarettes soon, I’m sure he’ll be back later. ‘Rest of us are enjoying some fun blackened tunes, sans the self-consciousness. Ta.
The spooky-skeleton stage prop and elaborate facepaint betray a much more melodic and groove-inflected chaos than just relentless tremolo-hammering and blasts, but I don’t think Hybrid give two shits if you’re offended (le epic rage-comic meme-react here). Nor should they - they’re somewhat of infamy in the scene, regular as souva’s and soy lattes in Melbourne. And this pissweak little barrier is veritably heaving from the first haunting backing-track synth-strains, by a score of punters that bum-rush the frontline. The promise of new material (delivered later via ‘Bleached Bones/Black Majick’) is too good for an over-familiar audience to pass up, but it’s clear the keen-ness for their incoming storm is wholesale.
It’s unfortunate that anything ranging from venue acoustics to volume levelling through to every gigs’ eternally-blamed/castigated Sound Guy etc, buried the frantic and early Dark Tranquillity styled duel lead playing in the mix somewhat. There was even more than one call from audience members to turn the guitars up, what with the fretboard creativity on display here being nothing short of skilful. Instead of just bashing out twenty minutes of suspended chords at 180pm or endless single-string grating, strewn throughout your black metal usuals was a soulful and diverse smorgasbord of arpeggios, blistering leads and solos, etc. And, much like HOOF, a clear prowess for straight-up working a crowd with a healthy measure of melodicism and groove.
Desperately trying to engage sleepy punters up the back with “Come on, you motherfuckers! Get to the front!”, vocalist Loki shrugged off the slack and provided those upfront with an evil plethora of vocalising. From your tried-and-true glass gargled shrieks and rasps through to boomy, baritone spoken-word, eerie hums and the like, appended by some fearsome backing, your tried-and-true black-metal shtick came with plentiful moody helpings of range. (Cue some neckbeard: neeer he sounds like Corey Taylor! Wahh, wahh, jacking off to self in corner, etc, who cares honestly).
The new track receiving as thunderous fanfare as the rest, we progress through to ‘Cathedral of the Celestial Equator’. Injecting a healthy mix of well-received trad/classic metal soaring leads and catchy riffs, the track/set as a whole propped up by an absolutely goddamned relentless battery rhythm section in X (Drums) and Y (Bass). I’ve got to say, I really appreciated and enjoyed the speed at which the band flitted between mournfully doomy and hellishly fast with follow-up ‘Instruments ov Human Misery’.
Even more appreciative was I, both in hearing a hearty “Where the fuck are you Richmond? Wake the fuck up and get to the front!” as I was the next number ‘Programmed Cell Death’. Kitting themselves out with a full arsenal of coked-out extreme-metal speed, the dopamine-deficit nook in my brain that yearns for Deeds of Flesh played at 3x speed was honestly rather sated by this absolutely blistering track Rather sated indeed, old chap! I had that black-metal hand curl up in the air any moment I wasn’t air-drumming that blasting snare. I mentioned a HOOF track being particularly fast; this one takes the cake for the whole night with regards to straight brutality. Damn, son. Outplayed themselves, these guys.
By the triumphant closure of ‘Humanity Abandoned’ with its’ mix of musical and physical theatrics amidst ear-piercing applause, I’ve once again vindicated myself with regards to, erm… myself?!
Loosen the fuck up a bit at a show, guys. Shed your usual reflexive taste-related preconceptions, past experiences and the like, and bands like Hybrid Nightmares will reward you well in kind with a fun, fast and well received set. Stay curious, not snooty. Now hop off WoW, it’s my turn and I wanna play Warframe.
And now - finally - onto the headliners.
daysend:
I made sure to have a bit of prehistory in this reviews’ preamble, because it’s self-evident to the point of being redundant - a lot of what carries weight in mine and the audiences’ feverish, every-word-sung, circle-pit ready reaction to Severance onstage, is of course nostalgia. I’ll pay you that.
Unfortunately (like very, very unfortunately) for those of you poor saps who decided to skip on tonight in assuming just a nostalgia trip? Sigh. I really dislike rubbing it in people’s faces, even more so post-hoc after a review. But I really to have to impress it on those who blew the gig off as ‘ah yeah, Daysend, whatevs mate” - you dun goofed. You missed out, homeboy.
Those either in the know and readily locked-in from the old days, or from the soon to be mindblown millenials/Gen Z contingent were all summarily treated to an overwhelmingly energetic and expertly-crafted performance.
I can (and did) sing and scream pretty much every single word of this set, pretty much all of us did. Not to mention the good old fist eternally pumping, bodies nearly crawling up onstage just to get a hair closer.
This band and album hold an emotional resonance which, for me, is partly developmental psychology in action (my teens were absolutely the best time ever to have fallen in love with Severance) but mostly just abject, honest appreciation of well-crafted modern metal. And there’s few examples you’ll get from the time that brewed the era’s modern tropes so well as this LP.
Even if the vague proposition of ‘melodic death metal interpreted through a 2000s-metal/metalcore format’ is something that’d only have me opening a promo link and streaming it out of dutiful Inner-Strength Check inbox-trawling effort these days? I maintain that it’s an album even Mr. No Thanks, I’ll Just Listen To More Dragged Into Sunlight would still readily enjoy were it a new experience today.
Amping up the nostalgia factor for me, personally, is their almost creepily-relevant choice of ambient intro. ‘Everything In It’s Right Place’ is my favourite Radiohead track from my favourite album of theirs, so to hear that progress over the PA, only to be chopped up and distorted into a super-aughts instrumental-metal stage hype intro from band members, was just chum for one hungry-as-fuck millenial shark.
Well played, honestly, because by the time Simon Calabrese’s imposing frame swooped on the small stage with the mic, the crowd was already well into movement, applause and headliner-readiness. Warmed up like servo pies, but also about to be dropped right into a coal seam’s worth of pit-energy.
I’d always thought of album closer ‘Sibling’ as equally fit for a show opener, and that hypothesis was proved instantly correct. Phones are out and heads are banging as Aaron Biljiba (Lead Guitar) brings in that first familiar discordant wave of jagged chords, bandmates joining the fray with fish’s-arse tightness. This guy cuts sick with the best of Scandinavian contemporaries, a real blazer.
I’m screaming every damn word already, that nostalgic assertion belted by a monstrous Calabrese (his vocals took on a new dimension that are hard to describe, on the night) “But now you’re old enough/To find the strength within” a checkmark for my mentally-cooked brain, bookmarked for that post-gig introspective reverie later. Inspiring stuff. He’s as gruff in vocal bark and consternation as he is loose, fancy-free and full of showmanship.
Aside him and so full of beans they need to drag themselves back to the mic-stand each and every time backup vocals are called for, rhythm guitarist Michael Kordek and bassist Jason Turnbull are writhing snakes themselves, looking similar to both bandmate Aaron and iconic plasticine-man Gumby in all their limb-flailing and headbanging. You’re reminded of the actual dexterity and skill required to ploy Daysend’s style - it might not be cavernous space-themed old-school death metal Demilich-Gorguts-something-something, but it’s sure as hell still expertly written and played stuff. Rapid-fire fret runs between palm-muting, power chords, arpeggios and leads, all in snap-fire succession with a tempo-consistency not really employed as much these days.
Particularly with the strength, flexibility and flavour Matt Piccolotto is absolutely brutalising that poor drumkit. Mein gott, man was out for blood with that thing. It’s like he’s killing the poor piggies for their skins all over again, and all he’s got are the sticks. (Spoiler: Those little mites would’ve been reduced to pork mince, had they been under Lamb’s swinging).
With the emergent rise of Guitar Pro and self-learnin’ of this era, the Gothenburgian guitar-worship is on full display with the first tracks’ ripping, bluesy soloing, a flavour permeating the skilful soloing throughout. It’s both transportation to another time, and evident of some straight classic/trad-metal riff loyalty we’ve somewhat eschewed in our current day of melding disparate subgenres into hot exploratory soups.
That focussed and super-metal conciseness explodes the room into a ball of moshing and headbanging fury with second offering and my favourite album track (and honestly, one of my favourite Australian metal tracks ever to this day) in ‘The Blood of Angels’ - warmed up with Calabreses’ query as to whether we’re ready “to actually start getting fucking moving, Melbourne?! You want to be better than Sydney, don’t you?”. As an ex New South Welshman who lived in Queensland for a decade and Victoria almost the same since - you guys are just way, way too easy to rouse up with that one. It’s like a frontman cheat-code for Melbourne shows, and I love that.
If you were around for the complete madness with which ‘The Blood of Angels’ was flung around Triple J, Haugy’s Full Metal Racket and other radio/internet avenues, the omnipresence of this song reached over-saturation pretty quick.
Unless you’re as into this bloody album as I was - in which case you didn’t care, and let the earworm stay as long as it needed to (months? Years?!).
Thus, it’s with not giving a shit about any other blokes’ perceived need for toxic-masculine presentation that I’ll proudly, happily report I was both readily crying, screaming, fist-pumping and recording every single moment of this track. From the soaring and classically 2000’s clean-rough vocal switchups, the proggy bridge and venue-wide chanting of Simon’s snarls and Aaron’s delicious Scarve-esque soloing, through to that ‘here we fucking go’ build up towards the choruses’ end refrain over nimble frets… ah man, fuck. That really got me. More gig advice - just ‘cause an album’s not in regular rotation anymore, doesn’t mean you can chuck your inner child/teen a strong emotional response during a present day set. Gotta use something to punch through the modern antidepressant-induced emotional flatline, amirite?
The whole thing got me, truly. ‘Cause here stands a bunch of guys in the simplest of black-garb attire, pushing out an iconic album with a renewed sense of vigour, force, showmanship, and also - oh. Oh. Ohhhh-yeah!
Okay, Simon. Cheers.
Just fuck my shit up even further, fam. Just casually drop an out-of-order clanger on us casually with ‘Ignorance of Bliss’, why dont you?! ‘Cause you know, I’ve only just finished blathering about my emotions. Make me grip the flimsy railing white-knuckled with your opinion-piece, too: “If you know these songs and you love ‘em, there’s only way to show it - up the fuckin’ front!”. That’s like the equivalent of a Roman thumbs-down for any silly sausage expecting folks to remain in place and not surge for the front like the last Smart TV on Black Friday.
It’s all good Simon ‘me mate, honestly.
I’m all cheers, howls and nearly in tears… and we’re only up to the second track.
A small part of me recognises right here that I’m going to be that melancholic mix of pinged-up on adrenaline and emotionally spent afterwards.
That’s not a bad feeling, mind, it’s a sign of bloody great night of Aussie metal, mate. Plus with avoidance of those sweet siren-song Sours, it’ll only be a bangover this time.
The battered and bruised savoy that is my back post Froth and Fury Fest a week prior gets a new helping of elbows and knees on the mere announcement that “This one’s about ignorance… sometimes it’s bliss.”. Once more, it’s off to the riff-races and I’m internally chuckling to myself about how chiropractors really should hang around these venues more. That, or they’ve no need to do so. After all, I’m copping a pretty furious back rearrangement from up the front courtesy of one hyped-up mosh.
Like Nailbomb’s set at said festival, I do away with any journalistic pleasantries and instead desperately shoulder-barge, push, kick and Fallout-ghoul-limbs-flay back any fucker who thinks they’re muscling in on this front-and-centre real estate. Aussie Metal Lord Above, quite a few of you sneaky feckers tried. Nope. Look - I’m not Sammy from Musolegion in the pit, ergo am not Human Donkey Kong, and whilst I might be a twink with a dad-bod (somehow) in stature - Hell hath no fury like a neurodivergent scorned.
Thus, with smiles and backpats for diplomatic measure, I otherwise throw myself into full-body headbang, errant pushes, elbows and kicks worthy of Attenborough commentary on male territorial stubbornness.
‘And here we see the Australian male, hypnotised by Daysend…’
I’m not pissed off, though. Firstly, you’re in the wrong part of the venue if you’re annoyed about bodily contact upfront. Second, I’m just grinning with delight, too busy reflexively doing railing push-ups I couldn’t normally manage, just to try getting closer to Simon and scream every word. Such a position also opportunistically allows for a brief telescopic view of the pit, which is just a thronged circle of blood-drunk maniacs.
Hell yeah, we’re finally on. As the track closes, we holler the final refrains in unison, I set myself back into place, and - Wait.
What the FUCK?!
Simon’s cheekily interjected a little welcome during the ensuing interlude, introducing none other than the bands’ second vocalist Mark McKernan. The lanky lad strides confidently onstage, mic cupped already for the wonderfully Into Eternity feeling strains of duel-lead heavy 2007 number ‘Winter’ from The Warning!
Wait. What?! This is… happening? Pfsh! Orrite mate, righty-o!
I’m surprised with the passion and furor with which I’m bashing out every single word of this melodic, powerful number, given the time elapsed since I was deep into that LP. Mark’s vocals push through a reddening face as he seems to project almost everything in his soul, taking this rare opportunity on the tour to bring his own era back. The automatic expulsion of every word from the crowd seems to come from similar limbic-brain dimensions, pulled straight out of uni/life/wherever we were late-aughts, firmly planted in 2026 with a new vitality and in-person.
Goosebumps are growing tumour-sized with those chord progressions over that anthemic-as-hell chorus, falling into a delicious interplay between shred and bluesy leads - the whole crowd erupts as one in cheering, almost overpowering Mark and Co with the final refrains of this catchy, enigmatic chorus. The room erupts like an improvised explosive device on conclusion, hooting like a thousand barnyard owls. Insert lots of metaphors about loudness, but goddamn if I haven’t been to a gig with so many punters loudly audible over the amps since yeesh, I don’t know, Alexisonfire? You don’t get this level of venue-wide choral experience if you’re one such as me who doesn’t go to many power-metal gigs. And it felt like exactly that, an amped up power-metal crowd singing their hearts aloud.
And then, I’m glad to report, it gets even more nuts. Mark’s yet to depart the stage… hang on here. What’s all this then, cobber?
‘Countdown’ is one I’d always visualised as taking the pit-thuggery and elevating it to basically the energetic equivalent of a street riot, both onstage and off it. That theory’s proven more than correct, the crackle in everyone but Simon and Mark’s self-described “Sonny and Cher duet - who’s who?!” voiceboxes becoming more apparent. My own vocal cords are really straining, but I push through to gnarl and screech the entire time, us seagulls warbling over the chip being dangled overhead in the form of the frontman’s mic. Utilising another vaguely scene-kid anecdote, the amount of mic handover felt like being back at something like Terror or Evergreen Terrace more than an Australian modern metaller gig. Honestly, we should do it more instead of sitting back all harrumphing with crossed arms. Storm for the stage like half those upfront did tonight, I say.
Dudes evidently both know how to Work. This. Shit. Neither have forgotten, same goes for the band in sum-total.
Throwing horns, standing staunch, flicking the ‘c’mon karnts!’ hand gesture, peppering in verbal encouragement at just the right spots. It’s honestly like no time has passed since 2006 onwards for the blokes, and time seems to have similarly worn little to nothing from either their or our feverish, frantic effort to give the fast melodeath track a proper sendoff.
Announced by vaguely Dad-jokey comparisons to three-dimensional shapes, ‘Prism of You’ is somewhat of the lighter-waving variety (now smartphones, to the relief of venue OH&S inspectors). It’s an exercise in clinically-2000s melodic-death balladry, and I can’t be the only one almost too choked up with emotion to nostalgically croon along with our singer. Simon’s true vocal range is just one of many real-life aspects you won’t get from an album listen alone, even if said range is impressive on-disc. The capacity for Aaron to belt out endless lead-guitar trickery whilst being a human spinning-top, the perpetually-in-motion swaying and headbanging of a rhythm section moving back and forth to mics, the spindly octopoid creature behind the kit - everyone’s throwing in an impressive amount of physical effort, giving the band huge presence in the room.
Man, I could wax lyrical about this set not only until the cows home, but for multiple generations and cows beyond my own death. Hell, exhume my corpse, commit necromancy, I could still prat on about the setlist.
It’s been a long one, though, and I think you’ve got a decent overall picture.
There’s just so many great moments reflective of the albums’ skilful mastery of the up-tempo and anthemic. It’s honestly hard to hold back the impulse to keep blabbing! Case in point, the ear-splitting roar in unison as we all croon “Sold out, Sold ooout” for, well, ‘Sellout’ of course. ‘End of Days’ as a more focused melodic death metal number amps up the pit savagery another notch, and you can really hear the crackle in our collective throat-strains, feebly attempting to match stage-scream for floor-shout.
I should take a moment to mention that it’s at this stage that Simon gives salutations to organiser Anthony Blayney, corralling him onstage with a couple of amazingly dedicated punters - one who had flown to Melbourne for third date, and one for the fifth. From Perth!
Here’s a snap of the troupe as taken by Mr. Black:
That we’ve got a relatively small venue, an Australian act playing in Melbourne on a Saturday and yet multiple folks have joined the band for the ride across Australia? That’s testament not only to the staying power of the album, but a band reunited and clearly having lost none of the passion (or skill) for the stage-front after all this time.
And what better treat left til last aside from ‘Born Is The Enemy’? A track that compresses the melodic death metal, modern-metal/metalcore stylings into an offering that’s as thrash-metal-hectic as it is Kumbaya by the campfire singalong, in terms of both song structure and resultant audience participation.
The comparatively muted on-disc version of soaring lines like “Cold and freezing/Holding nothing” and the ascent to “I did all this for you/Now there’s nothing left for me to do” is propelled to new vocal heights live. I’ve always loved the diversity of delivery of these repeating refrains on the album, but live? Goddamn. Just goddamn. That’s it. No exposition, just a hearty god-damn.We give our increasingly tired and pack-a-day-smokers’ best to match the barrel keg of a frontman in front of us the whole way through, and as the requisite rock-and-roll cymbals-and-shred finale rolls out to hooting applause, everyone is just alight with glee. Normally on any given gig night and factoring in variables like, a few too many beers, moshing a bit too long, a hard week at work et cetera… normally, there’s a bit of a mix between cat zoomies and zombie-like shamble out the door.
Well then! 23 years after its’ inception on the scene, the reunion of Daysend to perform such a seminal Australian metal classic in Severance had everyone racing round the venue like overly excited puppies afterward, the epilogue’s excitement wafting the air as though pinger-dust had been funnelled through the air-con.
[Hi ASIO, it’s your boy Brady. I promise this is all metaphor, and I’m sure the promoters’ not funneling disco-bickie-dust into the air - this is just metalhead stuff. We’re hyper people. Thanks].
Even after the most energetic heavy metal gig, it’s ultimately rare to have close to one-hundred percent of patrons madly scrabbling out the door, scratching at the backstage for autographs, etc. Particularly with domestic acts, whom we take for granted even with reunion tours.
As I semi-drift out onto the street, barely needing to walk from all the vibrational excited muscle stimulus and sheer hype, I feel it’s a different tone on tonights’ gig conclusion, because tonight was something landmark and special.
Truly, truly blessed.
