[Gig Review] NERVOSA & Supports @ Northcote Social Club, Melbourne, 19.04.2025.
Intro, Announcement & Some Thanks:
Before I kick off this review, I’d like to give some advance shoutouts to a few stakeholders involved on the night.
First, HUGE props to both Nuclear Blast Australia and Hardline Media for facilitating a last-minute opportunity to review this gig. Myself and intrepid lensman Richie Black just about jumped out of our respective skin(s) at the chance. Massive black-shirted thanks on both our behalf!
It’s my hope that my own humble and completely thought-disordered penmanship pays due credit to both organisations above, as well as our evenings’ hosts in Northcote Social Club, the staff, crew and of course - the bands!
A brief announcement about gig-review-related content, whilst Ive still got the few of you haven’t been swept back into the omnipresent flow of reels and the like.
Given how much high-quality photography has been slung our way by numerous great gig photographers we’ve worked with, I’ve made a decision to incorporate additional gig photography into separate gallery-style posts. Eyes peeled, as there’ll be one out shortly after this review!
Nervosa (& Future Gig Reviews) - Additional Blog Photography Content:
Like any good creative endeavour, photography is one that is easy to vastly underestimate/be unaware of with regards to the time, energy and input required for crafting the final product.
If I’m to act with integrity about the values of this podcast/blog (i.e. supporting all walks of creativity and their communties/industries), then I can’t but feel a lingering sense of onus to provide additional coverage and support for their work. Remember, the key word here is work.
I’m sure our resident visual artiste Elodie will approve of the sentiment, even if she doesn’t read this review. (On that note, Elodie is our resident arts expert by default, what with her fantastic canon of artistic product via Into The Weird Blue Yonder).
Happy Easter, and I hope that things are going okay. If they’re not, that’s okay - you’re still valid and your presence here is always welcome.
And please, if you’ve got your own thoughts/feedback around the Melbourne show and/or other dates, don’t hesitate to drop a comment on this post or our socials! (Links top-right/bottom of post).
Peace, Love and International Thrashing ‘til Death Takes Us xoxo - Brady.
NERVOSA (Brazil): ‘15 Years of Nervosa Australian Tour 2025’, 19.04.25.
Image Credit: HardlineMedia.net
Date: 19th April, 2025
Location: Northcote Social Club, Melbourne (AU)
Supports: RESISTANCE (AU) & MASON (AU)
Touring Agency: Hardline Media
(Questionable-Quality) Writing: Brady Irwin
(Immutably-Good) Photography: Richie Black
My Neck: Comprised of Dust From Gratuitous Headbanging
Having received confirmation about media coverage at a very narrow juncture, I’d say it’s less that I messaged our gig-snapping compatriot Richie Black, and moreso bashed the screen wildly in a panic.
It’s on! We’re on.
It’s also two hours’ drive from my front door, Easter Saturday, raining and Between The Venue And Me (I’m nothing if not a production-line of terrible puns…. like and subscribe?).
Shit. Shit. Shit.
After some deep breaths, I unfurled my sedentary derriere from the beanbag acting more as a depressive cocoon than loungeroom accoutrement. Car keys? Swiped. Pockets patted two hundred times, just to check the earplugs, wallet, phone and keys are there? Okay. Quick message or two, in the car. Bam.
[Insert Spongebob Squarepants ‘Two Hours Later’ narration here].
Power-walking to the venue, unfit from aforementioned depressive-brain and vaping alike (I know), I might’ve been one of the few feeling relief of all things, by the time myself and Melbourne’s keenest pit-fiend Sammy (of Musolegion admin-team fame) were met with the familiar throng of black indicating doors were, in fact, not open yet.
Taking a minute to centre myself again, or some variation of pop-psychology nomenclature related to calming your wound-up post-Melbourne-driving arse down, there was nonetheless something permeating the very space around us. And it wasn’t just the
Like a field of static sightlessly weaving arcs of stoke on the High St corner, there was a palpable aura of excitement building about the place.
Normally, waits such as these quickly enshroud the punter-line in a growing veil of irritability. Gruff comments, stubbed-out cigarettes, arguments from someone’s vodka-kissed mate with the bouncers to please just empty that clearly-not-water-bottle-out,
Thrash? Nah, folks. Thrash is different. There is a collective ADHD-coded sphere of energy, excitement, aloof playfulness and hype that follows the genre everywhere. Borne from a thuggish amalgam of punk and metal, it’s the musical embodiment of that one guy in school spending as much time out of class (probably chasing something outside, at that) as he does inside it.
For such a self-deprecating, self-parody and astutely mischevious subgenre, thrash metal nonetheless often sports adherents who bring a far, far deeper appreciation of the craft than perhaps even the average metalhead.
Finally, finally, the sermon’s initial ritualistic act began. The meagre single door inconspicuously housing an equally-intimate space within swung open.
Like a rat pulling a lever, that visual cue signified an immediate wave of relief, eager anticipation and, a new word for an otherwise pensive and dreary review thus far - joy.
Image Credit: Richie Black.
RESISTANCE:
I can honestly take it or leave it around decisions whether to drink or not at gigs. Living regionally now, as I previously had done growing up and into my late-20’s, I’m well-accustomed to bailing out the door having gone full Ian Mackaye on the free waters, as opposed to my otherwise Peter Griffin-on-the-piss energy when the opportunity arises.
This would have been one of the former off-nights, but I mean ‘cmon, dude. C’mon man.
It’s thrash. Clerical doctrine mandates I must, broke as I currently am, imbibe at least one glass of spuriously fruit-juice-adjacent IPA-something, as indeed - thrash.
It was halfway through sharing my respect (and advance comisserations) to the rad and also-Morbid-Angel-loving bar-staff that I heard it. That sound.
(And you, Dear Reader, sigh exasperatedly with joy and residual irritation, realising ‘he’s finally getting to the bands’).
Oh, that sweet sound, though, Dear Reader! Oh, that joyous and beautiful muse which hath ensnared me in a wreath of perpetual hyperfixation for decades.
The aforementioned static field of energy had been harnessed, its’ form now material. As the pre-emptive jeers and howls of audience applauded whilst mid-turn, I was already sporting my own exultant howl of verbal “O fark-yeah!” riposte, glass raised.
Our most precious deity had descended. And tonight, she would be present with a ferocity unlike anything an entire pantheon of gods could hope to equate to, to provide, to match.
The Riff.
The gnarled, corrugated-iron rasp of a bassline, a scraped clack of metal atop a planet-cracking thwomp. Seriously, opening at Resitance’s bass tone was on point so finely you’d need a microscope to discern any deviation from chef’s kiss (a common unit of measurement in physics, and totally not sarcasm).
O, but to hear such crisp clack in the mix o’er the speakers! And without any compensatory loss of thunder! Praise be unto the sound-guy gods and their equally proficient lighting apostates at the Social!
As a fellow bass-Neanderthal, my previous weeks’ myriad concerns were melting away faster than self-respect on a Gold Coast weekend. We were seconds into the bands’ set, and already I could feel the Nordic savagery of my inner thrasher beating, howling, cloying for more.
The trundling march of toms adjoined the noise, ensuring the venues’ patrons heads were firmly squared towards the low-slung stage.
Feeding off this reservoir of latent energy like an opportunistic sap of a charged battery (or perhaps more realistically a plutonium rod), openers Resistance exploded with a sense of such urgency you’d be forgiven for thinking they were performing at gunpoint.
As a well-recognised/also-often-well-mulleted (skulleted) figure within the city’s metal scene, Riley Strong (Guitars/Everyone In The Band Is The Vocalist)’s personal grin met those of the eager flock. As the first power-chords rang out, he provided us a simple prelude to the sermon:
“We’re Resistance from Melbourne, and we hope you like d-beat!”.
As those unfamiliar were learning moments into the set, there were little to no risk of one’s d-beat inclinations majorly hampering the booming cheers that accompanied each of the (fast, riff-laden and numerous) tracks on offer.
Besides that - when the bands’ three-member roster includes an intimidating curriculum-vitae (i.e. former/current membership of Destruktor, Remains, Fuck…I’m Dead, Abraxxas and many others), you’ll shut up and like it. And like it, we did.
For a band touting themselves as crossover meat-and-taters, these disparate influences were clear as day. This was no throw-together from some kids still learning guitar from the beater Dad got ‘em last Christmas - the experience showed.
Sharp, caustic barks of melodeath/black-metal inspired upper-register shrieks then resound from a mic to my left, courtesy of fellow low-end-enjoyer Slick Rodgers - a namesake befitting his writhing punk-rock performance.
Equally grasshopper-esque in ambulation to the right, Riley joins the fray.
Not only that, he’s doing so whilst embellishing the rhythm-sections’ frantic pace with an encyclopedic demonstration of riff creativity. Power-chords and decidedly thrashy palm-mute runs? Death metal tremolo right from late 80’s/early-90’s Florida, or indeed frostbitten Scandinavia? Yep, tick, tick and tick!
Rounding out the writhing pairs’ a-capella punk-rock choral delivery, not to mention exhibiting similar subgenre fluidity, maniacal drummer Jay Allen pulls a goddamn Furor/Malignant Monster also starts belting out his own vocal delivery over tried-and-true d-beat bludgeoning, too. Who gave the Bee Gees cocaine and denim? Don’t care, this is fantastic.
Track after track belted out in quick succession, an endless cavalcade of riff-artillery shelling us eager sadomasochistic souls mere feet away from the low-platformed stage. Sharp chokes and hi-hat thwacks accenting the one-two rhythmic swing, with everything up-tempo all the time, save for some veritably beefy chunks of groove.
Parlaying us with sheets of zero-carb riff efficiency, from the post-hardcore inspired intro of ‘Death of A Salesman’ and distortion-choked punk-riot ‘The World Isn’t Changing’ through to a thoroughly well-paid live homage to Discharge with a ripping cover? Yeah. Guys, if you’re into the Venn Diagram sphere of overlap into punk, crust, d-beat and even blackened thrash, these guys are a safe bet both on disc and in the live format.
Wrapping things up with a brief statement, Riley affirms with a final papal decree:
“Thanks to each and every one of you for coming out early and supporting us, and supporting the scene. Melbourne is the heavy metal capital of Australia!”
Oath, mate. Not even our venue-wide unified punk-rock call-response of '“LIE, LIE, LIE! DIE, DIE DIE!” as audience members can dilute such a claim.
After a short punctuation of hoots and affirmations to such spiritual truths, the man with an iconic hairdo provides a statement of veracity around the band’s DIY status - self-production with everything from the album through to their own merch, like any true punk-adjacents.
Hell yeah, brother.
Hell. Yeah.
It’s at this moment that I realise something.
Were I to give a shit about them (I don’t), I’d almost feel sorry for whichever gatekeeping elitists out there are too busy whinging to Mum at home about Metal-Archives.com to see bands like this.
This little intermission is a reminder to a) not spend too much time chronically-online, lest you devolve into one of said troglodytes and b) get down to shows early - particularly if you’re unfamiliar with the lineup!
Some of the best sets are enjoyed completely cold and unprepared.
Speaking of cold - we continue, with a venue that was physically and metaphorically warmed the hell up.
MASON:
Whilst comprised of very experienced members, Resistance are a comparatively more recent entrant to the scene.
Second act Mason. however, are a thrash staple of the Melburnian live-show circuit. Institutional enough to warrant no explanation or introduction to any local, and classically thrash-as-hell enough to be understood from the first chord strummed. Engraved as firmly into the collective black-shirt unconscious as Blood Duster, avoiding piss on the bathroom floors at The Bendi.
Emerging from a relative period of slumber as though nothing had occurred, the local thrash mainstays opted for the more traditional metal procession. Ah, yes, going the Roman Catholic route and honouring metal-tradition proper.
Black curtains obscured our view momentarily, a requisite clean-guitar intro serving to stir the pot as much as to provide an atmospheric introduction. One curtailed with the same simplistic rhetorical questioning of their stage forebears just prior:
“MELBOURNE! We are Mason, what the fuck is up?!”
And that’s all she wrote. It was on like Donkey Kong for young and old, from this point. Things are about to get hectic.
Betwixt all of that was a performance I’m going to personally opine as some of the most energetic and furious I’ve seen yet from these guys. And like many of those in attendance, this ain’t my first Mason-rodeo.
Between tapping the fretboard like he’s Liam Neeson and the kidnappers just hung up, churning out a maelstrom of floored-pedal riff-work and headbanging (naturally), frontman/guitarist James Benson had time enough to make multiple verbal calls of appreciation, commentary about the Melbourne scene - and half-pleaded calls to action for circle pits, moshing and generally increasing the ambulatory motion (or lack thereof) at his feet.
Now, this is something I’ve wanted to bring up.
Tonight was one of few gigs I’ve been to at the Social and, comparative to pretty much everywhere across the city, it’s a venue where folks seem really averse to moshing. Or, at least, folks take quite a long time to warm up to it. It could be the confined space, it could be the cramped room. Who knows.
What I do know is that aforementioned Mosh Lord and myself looked like a couple of Irish folk-dancers shoulder-barging in a two-man circle pit here and there, so if you a couple of kooks circling each other like fighting crabs? Probably us.
Not to say the crowd were completely still and inert - anything but, actually!
Assailed by a relentless procession of dime-turn thrash-metal riffage by Benson and fellow axeman Daniel Packovski (who I might add, was equally histrionic and technical in his lead-guitar tradeoffs throughout), the beastly rumble of one of Melbourne thrash’s upper crust (i.e. Kane of Pizza Death fame, slinging no less than five chonky strings) and ultimately round-house kicked into our faces by skilled skinsman Nonda Tsatsoulis.
After the relatively grounded overall tone of Resistance’s rhythm section just prior, it’s Nonda’s playing that I felt added a level of fury verging on extreme metal. Indeed, whilst the band plies technically proficient thrash metal, the sheer ferocity and frenetic aplomb the band extolled as a unified writhing mass damn near elevated the heaviness knob into death-metal territory.
Indeed, the Cannibal Corpse/Slayer styled chokes and hi-hat thwacks early in the piece for ‘The Afterlife’ seemed to act as the final detonation pin to finally set things off in the pit. Ah, there we go! The rise of classic-melodeath/Maiden style duel leads from this moment caught massive jeers and howls of appreciation, silenced suddenly in a room where everyone seemed far too busy headbanging fast as possible as the track exploded into breakneck riffage.
With an apostolic conviction, James’ reiteration to “Keep banging your fucking head! That’s it!” was paternal encouragement enough, necks aplenty (my own included) rent in collective arcs of motion like physical wrecking-balls. The doomy, dissonant chugs ringing in the first few bars of ‘Martyr’ offered slight repose, albeit one both wrought with more of the technical and flashy dynamic playing, and naturally also sheperding us into another round of breakneck head-swivelling.
Ever the practiced thrash frontman, James introduces title-track off first LP Warhead with “this one’s my Mum’s favourite!” and some hope that the Social bar-staff “brought plastic cups, ‘cause this one’s going to get wild!”. And wild it got indeed; finally, the spillover of tense reluctance gave way to a swarming throng within the epicentre of the crowd.
There aren’t really much more additions to the above that needs being added, I feel. The band ply a brand of thrash metal that, whilst certainly time-tested and familiar, projects a level of technicality that their relatively-benign moniker betrays. It’s my hope that there were at least a few folks in the audience who were duped in this sense - ‘cause my vantage point by the front-right foldback oversaw what looked to be nought but a writhing sea of eagerly banging heads.
Mutual cheers and comments of grateful appreciation resounded the end of the bands’ set, grins cutting across rows of humans like a scythe through corn. They’re back and by extension, so too is the Melbourne thrash metal scene.
NERVOSA:
Loudly nasally exhaling by this stage, we we? Took a while to get to the headliners, did I? Well, too bad - you’re reading a thrash gig review from a certified thrash-maniac.
And said thrash-mania was now a congealed mass of its’ own. Not a spectre, but a gelatinous, bandroom-shaped cube of excitement you could slice through with a knife, right there in the air.
Sidling up to the drumkit after our final intermission, there was several ‘huh!’ remarks nearby as the relatively small-framed Gabriela Abud strode to her kit, ready to play breakneck and unrelenting death-thrash - in a long dress. With two sticks aloft in Christ-like crossed iconography, what ensued from the moment the wood hit those skins was an unholy maelstrom of thrashing death metal with punk-rock spirit.
Which… sigh. Okay. Dudes, bro’s, fellas, PR reps ready to milk this review for some quotable ‘Girls Rock!’ phrasing. You can all just stop right there. Let’s just start and finish with the plainly obvious, as the bands’ performance is the key factor for analysis tonight. Yes, they’re an all-female band, no, they weren’t hard on the eyes.
And yet, from the brief clean-guitar intro right into the devastatingly gut-wrenching riff, the bands’ demographics faded into immediate obscurity. Sure, both Brazilian and Australian culture is steeped in masculinity and machismo, doubly so when you’re playing in the dude-iest of dude-metal, thrash.
It mattered naught. All notion of gender norms were put fiercely and savagely aside by a monstrous, relentless and universally headbang-inducing feast of pure, unadulterated riff.
Not when skilled performer Prika Amaral immediately slung her head into a washing-machine of wind-milling that’d get a hearty thumbs up from George ‘Corpsegrinder’ Fischer. Not when, too busy hurtling a veritable avalanche of labyrinthine riffs, making eye contact with as many punters as possible, snarling like a demon possessed, she whipped between the equally-frantic Helena Kotina (guitarist) and Emmelie Herweigh (bass).
The former, with axe slung low (aside from a myriad of air-slicing with said instrument in all directions) pummelled out an endless procession of blistering solos, some duelling leads with Amaral, all atop dime-stop riff changes with a hearty early-The Haunted/Skeletal Remains influence. Threatening to outdo most men, let alone people in general, the amount of heft and motion with which Herweigh was flinging a typically-cumbersome instrument in wide arcs through/across the stage, air and self only proved to make the entire unit even more imposing.
Brandishing an appreciative grin to accompany a thorough examination of eyes across the audience, Prika and co were immediately full of gratitude with the raucous applause of the first track, semi cut-short by an immediate follow-up track. The lack of fanfare only got the crowd more and more worked up, with time seeming to compress into faster, tighter spirals. “There you are! Now you’re ready!” Prika briefly comments, satisfied with the churn that had now started amongst the rabble.
Call and responses of “Yeah-YEAH!”, multiple fist-pumping “Oi! Oi! Oi!”’s and more were omnipresent through the second song and, indeed, the remainder of their setlist. Anyone hoping to stand still-necked/otherwise still during a very interactive, gang-chant-filled run of tracks would be sorely disappointed; it seemed every 30 seconds or some corner of the room broke out into another fist-pumping round of “OI!”, atop blistering duel solo’s, clattering kick-heavy drumming and pounding basslines.
Nowhere else did this playful venue-wide apropos to punk-rock take more overt form than during ‘Death!’, the chorus of which is right there in the track name and resoundingly boomed front-to-back by all and sundry. To see this many metalheads gleefully chanting like they’re in a Dropkick Murphy’s film clip as extras, is testament to the crossover appeal found onstage both musically and performance-wise.
Circling back for a bit of candid respite, the cheerfully-imposing frontwoman takes a more serious stance. Announcing the next track being an affirmation of survivorship, validity and strength for those who have experienced abuse, the resounding cheer and subsequent pit-energy for ‘Kill The Silence’ was a position statement of unity. This clarion-call erupted into sheer chaos with Prika’s penultimate scream of positivity, “Don’t give up hope! You are not alone!”. Embedded within the song thematically and lyrically, the pit abjectly swarmed with headbang-enthusiasm as atonal chords quickly distended into machine-gun riffage and double-barrel double-kick blasts.
Like the band Skeletal Remains mentioned prior, on a live front, Nervosa provided demonstrable evidence that death-thrash can be some of the most sonically and physically brutal experiences on a live stage. Of course! How else could this be the case when renditions of caustic bangers like ‘Venemous’ are coated in a thick miasma of riff-work owing as much to crossover as it does to technical thrash, death metal and punk?
Said track culminated in a massive breakdown and, after a near-endless procession of palm-mute and tremolo riffs until this point, the brief shift to big ol’ groove territory swirled the body-cauldron around me into a wild mass. Oh yeah. This is more like it! Not to say the technicality was left behind with the rest of this track. Nay, if anything the axewomen employed an even more frantic and vicious cheese-grating to send it off, four hands trilling on two fretboards with feverish speed.
‘Masked Betrayal!’, a track I think everyone innately knew would go off without one iota of a hitch. Indeed it did, in much similar means to the chaotic maelstrom I’ve ascribed to their set thus far. But I do think we paid due compensation and gratitude to Amaral’s anecdote about the track containing a riff declined and rejected by a prior potential bands twenty years ago.
Their mistake, it seems. A massive one at that.
With yet another pastiche of faster-than-light riff’s-n-rhythm, you’d be forgiven for reflexively shielding your face at some point. Specifically, in case the instruments being flailed like medieval maces mid-battle threatened to break from the hands of their deft players. Seriously - even if I was physically fit, which I’m not, I wouldn’t even try to match the gargantuan stamina through which Nervosa’s set was delivered.
Matching inhuman technicality with equal levels of performative prowess through numbers such as ‘Kill or Die’ and ‘Guided By Evil’, Nervosa ultimately didn’t so much ‘finish their set’ as ‘leave the undercroft of the Northcote Social Club a devastated, smoking crater’.
Usurping every single joule of total available energy from an already electrified room, by the time the band finished up to incredulous, booming applause and later, a decent amount of time meeting with us bewildered fans individually, I’d like to modify the aforementioned tropey saying.
‘Girls Rock’?
Girls Fucking Thrash, Dude.
There you go, there’s a line.
Thank you, Nervosa, thank you. I went into the Social with a mild air of anxiety and gloom and left a refreshed, rejuvenated, sore-necked and happy man. Doubtless any other number of gobsmacked devotees were similarly feeling their mana-bars refrehsed again, filled with caustic thrash energy and ready to face the world once again - but with gusto.
We celebrated 15 years of Nervosa as a band tonight, but it’s my sincere hope they’re back as soon as possible. To see these Brazilian thrash-mongers live when tour again isn’t a question, for me - it’s a mandate.
DON’T ACT NERVOSA - YOU KNOW YOU WANNA CHECK THEIR LINKS:
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That said, here’s a laundry-list of guilty parties suspected of aiding and abetting the current review:
Spirit City: Lofi Sessions (PC/Steam title - very handy and fun for the Pomodoro Technique! Flag for future review).
Caffeine. Naturally.
Absu’s pivotal 2000 blackened-thrashterpiece LP, Tara - LINK HERE.
Motivation to express my undying, infallible love of thrash metal.
If you’re feeling generous, there’s by no means any obligation but we have set up a Ko-Fi profile HERE - a couple of shekels will help fund the ongoing operational costs associated with ISC, caffeinate myself into doing some more bloody work instead of procrastinating, and more!
As Always,
Peace, Love and Grindcore xoxo - Brady.