[Gig Review]: FEAR FACTORY (US) ‘Cybernetic Domination’ @ Northcote Theatre, Melb (AU), 23.05.26.
Writer: Brady Irwin
Photographer: Vidic Images (Jason Vidic)
Artist/s: Fear Factory (Los Angeles, US) + Body Prison (Melbourne, AU)
Organised By: Soundworks Direct Touring
See end of article for relevant links.
Any initial groans of complaint about their android handler had been quickly quashed once The Archivist had kicked open the first of many hidden compartments within the endless wiring and smoke-scarred innards of the first layer.
A gargantuan inorganic entity was without need for klaxons, the only noises in the disquieting structure being the occasional thudding and thumping of plasma-rifle fire from the Resistance soldiers breaching the second layer below them.
They stood over their prize - a collection of small, archaic brick-like containers, each reportedly holding hundreds of terabytes of data apiece. Chump change compared to the average Resistance signee’s neural implants, but according to their mechanoid companion, the historical data was immeasurable. Particularly since so much had been lost with the rise of the machines.
‘“I have come upon an interesting cluster of data within the era formerly referred to as ‘2026 AD”, the bot intoned. Murmurs rebounded from the five heavily-armed figures in the room, looking up suddenly from their menagerie of scanners, datapads and salvage drones busily soldering, knitting together frayed cables. ‘“That’s… that’s pre-AGI-era!” one of them exclaimed. They huddled closer, watching the simplistic two-dimensional ‘web page’ unfurl before them via holographic projection. “Woah!” another exclaimed. “As in… written down?! Pre-neural implants?!’
“Precisely.Engaging inference analysis… please wait”. AR-CH13 (‘Archie’, or formally, ‘Archivist’) hummed thoughtfully, the warble keening in the ultra-static wail indicating petabytes of data consumed, probabilistically inferred and mused upon.
The wary Resistance members neurally beckoned their hover-lamps closer, casting purple-light over the flickering atoll of ancient data storage devices. “Inference analysis suggest that Gig Reviews indicates ‘Gig’ - a single performance by a musician or group of musicians, especially playing modern or pop music, or by a comedian (= a performer who makes people laugh, for example by telling jokes or funny stories) - that’s by their own Cambridge Online, circa 2026.’
“So… what have you ‘inferred’ from the data, clanker?’” Lieutenant Kowajski growled impatiently from the back, flicking her headset light on to sweep the room once again.
“Perhaps it is best that I scrawl the text and emit an audio replay,”’Archie replied, seemingly uninterested by the technophobic barb. “Listen to this, for instance… fascinating. The author begins by describing some group known as Body Prison, whom play a more aggressive form of what was once referred to as ‘heavy metal’.”
“Body Prison?! Aggressive heavy metal?!” Kowajski scoffed. “Guess some things never change. Archie, begin transfer to our data-swatches and commence audio replay. This I gotta hear.”
I’ll start this review with some straight-up advice for you punters considering a Northcote Theatre gig in the near future. You’d think after having spent four years working on High Street, I’d have learnt my lesson - nope. Thus, the clock was ticking down as I did endless blocks near the venue in wanton search for a car-park - Northcote’s most precious commodity this time of a Saturday evening.
The Omnissiah must’ve heard my tech-god prayers, however, with a spot alighting just in time right near the venue. Like jostling past the endless sea of pastel-shirt-sporting young bucks on the sauce when you’re traversing to/from The Corner Hotel in Richmond, there’s just something deliciously-funny about a dining-and-couture hotspot like High Street being suddenly infested with a bunch of us grubby black-shirt-wearers.
The metalhead-incursion was consistent, punters ushering through the downstairs/upstairs entrances in a relentless march. I’ve just enough time to steal myself a tactical pint up the back, do the ol’ head-nod and how-ya-garn’s to some locals, when the lights dim a shroud-like, deep velvety purple.
Prior listens on record gave me some semblance of what to expect, musically at least - deathcore with strong helpings of industrial/electronic influences. Very reminiscent of early Code Orange material, albeit with a much heavier bent.
Opening with an ethereal, droning warble of synths, the introduction hangs as low and unassumingly as the veil of dark-purple lighting. It all begins to feel a little constrained, a little reserved - until the ‘Prison break their musical shackles and deliver what is a criminally-heavy performance.
Frontman Daniel MacDonald (aka DMAC, also of Zeolite/Wormtongue fame) gurgles a “What the fuck is up Melbourne?!” square in the stage’s centre, throwing fists as bandmates Nicholas Van Vidler (Bass) and Frankie Demuru (Drums) pack themselves in front of/to the side of the headliners’ kit atop a sizeable stage-throne. Comparatively limited space did naught to thwart Daniel’s incessant stage-prowling, air-punching and whole-body swiveling to the gnarly, Jesus Piece-coded metallic-hardcore inflections woven into a soupy, breakdown-heavy death metal mix.
To be sure, to be sure - they’re certainly deathcore, Dear Reader. If anything, though, these guys are exemplary of stylistic shifts happening elsewhere in the world of ‘core - a melding both of the more street-smart, thuggish metallic-hardcore influences of the late 90’s/00’s with that truly guttural Sanguisugabogg/Peelingflesh gurgling, belching bent. It works wonders for the crowd who jeer in unison as the opener’s final rattling chugs peel off, feedback ringing.
“We’re back, baby!” Van Vidler proclaims, effectively acting as a secondary MC for the set, Macdonald nodding and dropping a gestured verbal missive to “Open that fucking pit up.” A swarm of organic bipedal drones bee-line it for an ever-increasing and already frantic circle-pit, a healthy mosh breaking out from the barrier to about a third a way through the room.
Showcasing the first of several upcoming tracks which the band have couched in secrecy prior to release (check their official site below if you don’t believe me!). Lights twist into gnarled red, flashing with the higher-register, scat-like shrieking of Macdonald as his bandmates writhe, headstocks chopping through the air with our banging heads. The unsubtle and plentiful bass-drops feel like a button-press from the mantle itself, erupting with a subsonic range that makes the eyes rattle, teeth shaking.
Well-known gig-going masochist Banana Man of Melbourne is, as is our local tradition, singled-out for assassination by the frontman amongst those in the crowd. This time though, no one’s safe from the decree: “Get yourself a serving of real potassium in your diet” Macdonald grins with an arm outstretched, and just as the breakdown really hits: “Fuckin’ kill him - kill someone.” Might I also add this is happening around a sample of “Bring out your dead!” from Monty Python and The Holy Grail? That’s some sampling I can get behind, and both are on-bloody-brand for the music, tell you what. Also, bananas are good for you. Both are facts.
‘Happy’ feels like an ironic title but reflects the sheer eagerness of band and crowd alike, heads bobbing appreciatively from front-to-back. The push-pull of staccato riffage and monolithic breakdowns continues, numerous grin-serving moments of Bringing The Riff Back But Slower earning hoots, gurns and cheers from us floor-side. Other track titles not currently sworn to pre-release secrecy included ‘Until Madness’, ‘No Love’ and ‘Body Bag’ - bullshit-free titles from a band almost purely focused on generating the maximum amount of movement possible.
“This pit’s not big enough, bro!” Van Vidler shouts accusatorily, contrasting pretty nicely with his query after another new-material beatdown: “You all good? Moisturised? Hydrated? Nourished?!”. Jabs like this continue us unabated as the endless rolling, rollicking waves of caustic hardcore-tinged death, with some absolutely massive snare-thwacks that purposefully reverberate through the hall like an industrial-metal clarion-call.
A quite-generous run time as the solo support saw these dudes give it all, front-to-back, start to finish. On conclusion, the resounding applause and exhausted bent-over postures of half the moshpit indicate our locals have done a fine job of roasting the place. I’d say ‘warmed up’, but that’s not entirely accurate. It is steamy in here - steamy with the frantic efforts of band members and pit-goblins alike.
‘Pit-goblins? Deathcore?’ one Resistance member shrugged. ‘So, basically - this is just an expanded version of Corporal Reece’s weird-ass ‘band’ back on the habitat?’. Several looks and chuckles towards a certain team member, who shrugs dismissively.
‘Not entirely,’ Archie chitters. ‘Access to musical instruments of these sorts requires specific technical skill and materials - it is my hope further archival of these archaic data-storage devices may illuminate how. In any case, it’s a marked difference from your kinds’ current celebration of musical culture.’
The ‘bot had a point - this ‘gig’ seemed to be played in a public space, using acoustic amplification and loud volume. Hard as the Corporal may try to emulate that through in-ear/neural auditory interfaces, it was just far too dangerous to risk detection by the machines with loud music - on and off-world.
‘The ‘headliners’, this… Fear Factory, are an interesting anomaly,’ Arch continued. ‘Their commitment to lyrically and musically extolling the dangers of becoming too enmeshed with technology - it’s near-prophetic. I’d say the author and his fellow attendees at this performance had some inkling of what was to follow, however both seem far more coerced by the entertainment-factor than the underlying message.’
‘Too busy in these weird little rituals to notice,’ the Lieutenant chuckled. ‘I mean… head-banging? Circle pits? They sound like barbarians. Continue, Archie - I’m intrigued to hear how these primitives played out the rest of this ‘gig’ with this…. ‘Fear Factory’”.
Initially nothing more than mere curiosity, the squad-mates now seemed entranced at the continued scrawl and Archie’s warbled recitation.
These primitive, Earthbound individuals had some very strange rituals indeed.
The inevitable shoulder-barging jostle of beered-up latecomers provides nary a threat to those sandwiched in towards the front, such as myself. There’s no egress, no sale if you didn’t plan accordingly. Such is the way with Northcote Theatre - sellout/near-capacity certainly feels that way.
Finding myself nestled just front-right of the barrier when the lights cut, joining the venue-wide chorus of anxious appraisal. Like surely many others in attendance, I’ve made as decent as possible an attempt to catch these guys live pretty much any time they tour Australia.
They’re a band that survived the nu-metal era, toured extensively alongside the New Wave of American Heavy Metal metalcore/melodeath influenced explosion of the 2000’s, continuing on to put out their iconic industrial-metal blend through the 2010s - a decade filled with prog-djent artists I’d argue have as much to thank Fear Factory for as, say, Fredrik Thordendal.
For me, they’ve also survived a long and inexorable process of desensitisation and habituation, one of the few groove-oriented acts that both still see semi-regular playlist rotation. I’d argue that’s also largely driven by their live show, too, a spectacle that seems always as ruthlessly iconoclastic in claiming the industrial-influenced metal space as it is welcoming, fun and punk-rock in nature. Technicality, booty-shaking groove, soaring vocals, wild pits, venue-wide singalongs. Pretty impressive for a band extolling 35 goddamned years of ‘Cybernetic Domination’.
Dominion is indeed the word of the day, here. There’s an immediacy to both the authority and shared revelry with which vocalist Milo Sylvestra whips up the crowd as Digitmortal-era bop ‘What Will Become?’ booms in the first of endless skull-shaking, stop-start chug riffs made to get bodies moving.
Dino Cazares (Guitar) trundles out an endless procession of water-tight riffage with the automacity of breathing, a learned response from nearly four decades as the bands’ sole surviving original member. He might be long in the tooth compared to some of the younger rapscallions punching the air near him barrier-side, but his grins are as endless as his shouts and air-punches of vocal lines from his very, very fitting latest vocal recruit.
Milo’s ability to work the crowd and the sincere, emotive delivery of the bands’ former longstanding vocalist Burton C Bell feel as loyal a tribute as my past couple of times seeing him helm the biomechanical outfit. From the croaky harsh tones of the growls to the semi-operatic wailing across tracks, Milo delivers on the vocal brief without losing his own idiomatic flavour. I’m still yet to converse with a single person who feels he was anything but the best (or at least, close to) replacement for a very iconic singer. Having gift of crowd-work gab also helps things along plentifully throughout.
Endlessly swapping places with the veteran guitarist is live-wire Ricky Bonazza of Butcher Babies, taking the post in place of Tony Campos on bass duties for this tour. Dime-precise and rattling a seriously-gritty tonal mix, he’s pogoing just as pop-punker madly in a FF jersey as the rest of us, bouncing with animated energy whilst straight-up nailing the sniper precision required as one of the rhythm-section backing half. Rounding out the troupe atop his elevated throne, Pete Webber is a relentless, calculatingly-precise firestorm. Double-kicks are deliberately pumped hard through the mix, the endlessly pulsating heartbeat around his intense, details-oriented, arm-flailing performance.
Sure, these guys have seen more lineup changes in the past few years than underwear, it seems. You probably can’t write any sort of Fear Factory review without at least acknowledging there’s a layered, acrimonious and oft-changing timeline behind the group. There’s no digs here, though - they’re simply having way too much fun, and so are we.
‘Slave Labor’ tightens the vice-grip even more, the machine-like riffage flickering with white strobe to an applause as stunned as it is grateful. “God! Help me pour this gas on me/I need to drown in flames to be free” Milo snarls, the crowd audible even with his boosted, effects-drenched delivery atop the relentless kicks of the chorus. Dino and Ricky provide ample backing, chanting with whichever half isn’t going with Milo’s resounding soars as the track comes to a climactic, full-venue-a-capella closer.
Amplifying the human component even more is the relatively stripped-back tempo and choral tenor of ‘Archetype’. Milo injects quite a bit more venom into the vocal delivery than the studio version, here, utilising some of many little vocal inflections I noticed him using throughout the night to spice up more spoken-word/softer vocal moments. The crowd’s cheering through the drum-and-bass led verses, pouring souls into pit and voicebox where lyrical introspection meets heavy-metal riff-precision. “Alright! Let me see some headbanging and some fists in the air for this part!” Milo rasps, just as Dino’s simplistic arpeggio swings back to the track’s super-anthemic final third. I needn’t mention we had another interesting call-response vocal roar from both sides of the stage with the similarly epic outro refrains of “Open/Your/Eyes (Open your eyes/Open your eyes)” from ¾ of the machine.
No sooner has the hooting and bewildered hollering abated (likely from many like myself who are just as stunned-mullet this go around as their first FF experience) than Milo gives us our next discography-drop: ‘Alright - this one’s from a little record called Mechanize - it’s called ‘Industrial Discipline’!”. Woah, woah, woah. Now hang on a second there - ‘Industrial Discipline?!’ - nice. This album personally sits amongst some of my favourite Fear Factory canon, and the track in question goes full-throttle with little regard for the lactic acid building in the collective muscles of an already-beaten pit. “Whatever soul that has been erased/Only a machine remains/Beaten to submission/That’s what it means to be saved” Milo croons before that neck-snapping breakdown riff, the crowd both gang-chanting his barks and this soaring, lilting chorus. His fenangling with vocal effects helps build a pulsing ebb and flow of reverb, delay and the like - it’s a nice touch, honestly, breathing unique flair into tracks well worn into ears of myself and others.
‘Powershifter’ is up next. Do I even need to describe the absolute ape-shittery that went on both onstage and pit? Well, I’ve laid out my own literary noose by doing this track-by-track (you’ve just got to with this setlist), so sure, I’ll bite. The intro riff lays the band bare, martially clacking with riffs tighter than your uncle who owns five properties and still complains when milk isn’t onsale at Coles. This one’s always felt like technical metal bracing a punk-rock interior, and it’s both the defiant brightness of the chord progressions and strongly anti-establishment/growth-focused lyrics of the chorus that embolden us all to scream harder, sing louder and headbang at least somewhat in time with the swivelling humans writhing around the stage. I still get a kick out of singing “Always question authority/Control my own destiny/Forcing change, breaking free/From the gears/Of the ma-chine” and “Changing my world so I can live/Execution, power-shift!” to myself with headphones cranked. Just one of many human-affirming, personally validating lyrical moments amidst so much forlorn technological oppression. Live, with hundreds of people and Milo driving that over punishing riffage? Cybernetic chef’s kiss, mate. Needless to say, the frantic midsection and anthemic outro have the crowd as brothers-in-singsong-arms as brutishly pit-primitively.
‘Regenerate’ next, and tonight’s rendition reminds me why I love live music so much. Genexus admittedly isn’t one of my favourite picks of the discography bunch - it’s one of a couple of Fear Factory LP’s alongside Aggression Continuum and Transgressions that, whilst enjoyable, just haven’t absolutely punctured and pinned me to the listening-wall for ages like other albums have. The live reinterpretation of this track seemed to prove me slightly wrong in even what I thought was my own opinion, though. For instance, I must’ve been familiar enough with it, in order to be crooning and barking every word in tandem with a gesticulating, expressive Milo. The whirling gyration of his frenzied band-mates, the endlessly pumping devil-horns and fists, the insatiable energy coagulating across the stage barrier - just some of many reasons this one gets elevated to newfound hooting appreciation by myself at the songs’ conclusion. Also helps that Silvestro carries himself through so many long, drawn out croons (such as at this tracks’ conclusion), giving it an epic finish.
But Jesus Synthetic Pisschrist On A Mechanical Bull, people. The quadruplicate run of Obsolete material?! You can’t simply just hand tracks like ‘Shock’, ‘Edgecrusher’, ‘Securitron (Police State) 2000’ and the anthemically 90-coded ‘Descent’ in front of a Fear Factory pit like that. Can you? Yeah, I mean… they can and they do.
The pared-back but relentless trundling through the verses of ‘Shock’ (ahem, “SHOCK!”) serve only to have the room booming even more loudly, thrashing more wildly to the melodic refrains. You can forget about the pit entirely, it’s just a chronic mess of pitting, pogo-bouncing and clambering bodies at this stage. “I wanna see one-two-three-JUMP!” Milo roars as the bleed into ‘Edgecrusher’ kicks over into that slamming nu-metal-coded drive. Most of us might be decades out from listening to such heavily groove-laden bands on the regular, but us and our less-than-perfect knee joints are put through serious paces. The crowd becomes an undulating Mexican wave throughout this track - always a fun sight to see us usual oh-so-serious metalheads pogo-ing around the place and waving hands like we’re watching New Found Glory.
The back-to-back choice of ‘Securitron’ and ‘Descent’ feel like a not-so-gentle step-ladder down from the moshpit-insanity peak, with plenty still flinging themselves into the circle-pit vortex. “Concede your thoughts/concede your mind/su-rrender to -au-tho-rity!” - peak moment there as crowd and Milo alike rise in vocal unison from snarky spoken-word style to booming gang-chant, once again injecting a bit of punk flavour into the ol’ industrial blender. And ‘Descent’? Just such a sublime track, subdued drum-and-bass riffing into soaring vocals and an arpeggio that transports me back to Playstation One around the 90s/early aughts. The cooler blue-white lighting and relative restraint of the band seem to signify calm in the audience too, collectively both gathering breaths and belting out vocal refrains at the same time.
That little after-dinner mint was needed, ‘cause it’s time for another run of chaos. “DIS-RUP-TOOOOR!” screams Milo over punchy stop-start riffing, growling with a whole new level of caustic grit. Clashing solidly against his own reverb-laden cleans as the riffs file out in endless procession, it’s an up-tempo that dares to see what we’ve got for the latter end of this setlist. Verbal demands to open the pit back up for a lurching automaton of a breakdown riff are received in kind, late-gig lethargy evaporating under a particularly kick/snare heavy section, a brief death-metal blast before another choral/crowd-participation-infused outro. As with ‘Regenerate’ above, same deal applies - this one’s got extreme-metal legs in the live setting, hitting magnitudes harder for me in Northcote Theatre.
I mentioned pogo-jumping and pop-punk-gig coded energy from the crowd before, yeah? Well yeah, okay - ‘Linchpin’ from Digimortal, everyone. A number bouncier than a room full of basketballs, the crowd resemble much the same as the floor seems to veritably lift and groan with Milo’s “Jump! Jump! Jump!”. This time it’s nearly wall-to-wall, even the bedraggled arms-crossers seeming to give up the ghost and risk shorn cartilege to join in with what’s one of the bands’ boppiest singles yet. That one’s to be expected, though, it’s part of FF live tradition.
What throws a good portion of the house into fits and hoots of disbelief is follow-up ‘Invisible Wounds (Dark Bodies)’ - Dino’s lilting arpeggio and Milo’s alt-rock-leaning croons soaring over a stripped back rhythm-section towards the ambitious, multi-vocal chorus. You can hear the venue-wide murmur/sing-song of everyone following along with the relatively-naked vocals in this one, further demonstrating how thoroughly the discography runs throughout those in attendance. What’s more is that brief heavy riff that rattles the venue around the songs’ median, amplifying the sonic weight of the band only to trail off into yet more anthemic catch-cries between Dino, Milo and Ricky, and a rock-ready clap-out from us to send it off.
Then - blackness.
Followed by… oh you’re absolutely shitting me! ‘Scumgrief’?! Oh HELL yes. Put anything from Soul Of A New Machine on the setlist and you’ve won me over. It truly is that easy. Whilst this one’s a little more restrained overall than other cuts like ‘Martyr’, ‘Crash Test’ etc, the current incarnation of the band does this time-tested classic serious justice. The red lighting, prowling frontman and gritty-yet-clear audio mixing do wonders to modernise a lurching, predatorial mostly-slow-burner track from the bands’ more death-metal leaning origins. I notice myself try to wail “Scuuuuuuuum-grief!” (the ‘dun dun da dun dun dun’ also requisite) but my vocal cords just squeak out a hoarse wheeze.
You think that stopped me or anyone else running out of exportable air in their pipes? Hell no.
‘Demanufacture’ next. Holy Cyborgs On A Carousel. It’s this late into a setlist and you just ram another nuclear-fission battery up our communal backsides with that one, huh? It’s just the title-track to my favourite industrial-metal album of all time, after all. A sentiment similarly shared by many if the clawing, crowd-surfing, hooting and wildly appreciative throng of pit-animals is any indicator. And c’mon, every human being alive possesses enough oppositional-defiance and angst that a roomful of “I’ve got!/No more!/god-damn!/regrets!/I’ve got/no more/god-damn/respect!” goes down an absolute treat, as does Milo’s thunderous death-metal belch at the songs’ climactic, cacophonous conclusion.
“You had enough? You guys fucking had enough or you want a few more?!” Dino taunts us. He then goes on to introduce all the members of the band in succession, finishing up with the fact Milo “who’s part of the Italian Mafia - the Italian Pasta Mafia!” has been Melbourne-side for a few months now.
“One more thing….” Dino continues, taunting us further by drawing Fremantle-was-better heretical State-crossing comparisons to really amp-up a call-and-response refrain of “I DON’T WANT TO LIVE THAT WAY!” from all of us. The rush is immediate. Before the first “H-A!” and staccato riff from one of their most recognisable songs ever, there’s a maddened rush to the pit for ‘Replica’ that I feel from the right-hand wall of the venue. It works a treat, serving to blow any lethargic cobwebs into dust, grandiose choruses clashing with particularly break-neck riffing and a swirling maelstrom of bodies.
The inclusion of their take on Gary Numan’s ‘Cars’ is also a mega-fun and well-received dime-turn amongst all the brooding, introspective lyricism and technical metal of their own tracks. Heads thrashing literally turn to pumping fists and shaking booties as we’re thrown from divebar-chaos to drunk-dads-on-a-cruise energy, swaying with Milo and Co. Amongst the banter, the endless grins, jumping, headbanging and rolling, this penultimate little disco road-stop just serves to reiterate the underlying message behind a Fear Factory show - pontificate all you like, we’re here to have fun.
Alas, all good things come to an end. Even the seemingly endless whirring of a machine eventually gives way to entropy, death and decay. Milo offers a solemn tribute in particular, giving a subdued and emotive thanks to us all as the expansive tones of ‘Final Exit’ send off the night. For a song about death and the inevitable process of having to face one’s demons at the end of life, the track does a decent enough job of making said process feel cathartic and transcendent. In the live setting, as the final send-off to a jam-packed, intimate and fun evening? It’s an emotional rollercoaster, soaring vocals fading as the band thanks us all, bowing in unison.
Dino’s indicated this may well be the end of Fear Factory’s touring circuit, a decades-long imperial reign over the dominion of industrial metal likely coming to curtain-call. For tonight’s experience, I, we are nothing but thankful. Few bands can hope to blend the full spectrum of human emotion into such mechanically-precise, dystopic industrial metal.
To the Fear Factory lads, our local heroes in Body Prison, the beleaguered drink-slinging/punter-moving staff at Northcote Theatre, tour organisers Soundworks Direct and of course you, the audience - thanks so much for making this one as fresh an FF experience as always, even after 35 years of ‘Cybernetic Domination’.
“Well?” the Lieutenant queried their mechanical research servitor, as booms of plasma fire reverberate through the innards of the leviathan machine-intelligence the troupe found themselves in.
If a robot could grin, it’d be ear-to-ear. “Nothing changes with you humans,” Archie chirps sarcastically, “you’re still as wild as ever. Rituals like this? Moments like these? That, human companions, is how and why you will endure.”
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