[Gig Review] POISON THE WELL (US) + Supports @ 170 Russell, Melbourne (AU), 11.06.26.
Writer: Brady Irwin
Photographer: Richie Black
Artists: Poison The Well (Miami, US), Haywire (Boston, US), Iron Mind & Ends In Tragedy (Melbourne, AUS)
Organised By: Destroyalllines
(See review/end of article for relevant above links)
The irony of the first band’s name being Ends in Tragedy isn’t lost on me as I’m shuffling down the darkly-lit stairs of 170 Russell. My usual name-drop to get past the ticket desk ends up with myself contacting and coordinating a few different folks to get my name past the front gate. Between that and some hiccups with a few folks ahead of me and their tickets (or lack thereof), I spent almost the entirety of our poor openers’ set upstairs!
(At the time) hopeful that Mr. Richie Black had gotten in with his equipment intact, I’m finally confirmed and unrestrained with enough time to catch the band on their final two tracks. Better late than never! And honestly, I was pining for the visual experience whilst stood on those stairs. My ears perked up on arrival, keening to the very jagged and metal-inflected hardcore these young bucks are plying. With just a couple of EPs in hand so far (Angel Wings In A Violet Sky (2024) and last years’ Beauty of Death EP plus a recent split with Dance called, well, A Dance: A Tragedy, the troupe are sounding far tighter, meaner and bolder than their relative recency to the scene.
Nice little Vedder moment right here!
They’re a great pick for Poison The Well, honestly - Stevie Hadj (Guitar)’s riff-work employs a lot of the same mix of brutal, crunching palm-mute and arpeggiated, jagged shapes. I could sign a lease agreement for and comfortably live inside the clacking, piercing tone of Denholm Stevanov’s bass, too - always love it when a hardcore band brings their oft-subdued instrumentalist out for a tear on the sonic forefront. Underpinning and embellishing all of this with some slick flourishes between the pit-moving kicks and snare-thwacks, Shem Glasscock’s drumming keeps an already-packed floor bustling from early on. And goddamn if James Balletta can’t scream - those are some seriously deep-fried, seared and sandblasted vocals!
All in all, whilst only able to catch a portion of the band actually writhing, squirming, jumping and thrashing about the stage, its’ testament to these dudes that the energy was still so high upon my dash towards the stage. At times it feels like a lot of hardcore bands with younger players just finding their feet can be a little more reticent on the movement front - not these guys. Effectively the hardcore-band version of watching a pit of enraged snakes. I am definitely keeping an eye out for future bills where these guys are involved. Colour me impressed (even if primarily from an auditory point-of-view this go ‘round).
Ends in Tragedy - Artist Links:
Having caught a brief reprieve in the rush to get in, get my thumbs stabbing at the screen to take notes like I’m writing my own forlorn lyrical prose, I start taking in surroundings a bit more. Plugs still in ears (kids, wear plugs - I can’t sleep without fans/noise due to permanent tinnitus, not to mention 5% hearing loss in one ear!), even with the frustratingly muffling foam version, my ears feel assailed by the incessant din of a LOT of people packing in very early on.
Whilst I could attribute that to convenience of location post work knockoff, I know the reality isn’t that simple. More than anything, it speaks to the keenness of the hardcore scene to get on in and celebrate the lineup in full, early on. I spend the majority of my time at metal gigs, typically more extreme stuff to boot, and there’s far more of the total share of tonights’ packed-out patronage already cloistered downstairs and outside in the very Scandinavian-black-metal-coded weather.
Descending back down after a refreshing puff or two of flavoured cancerous vapour particles, the throng in attendance jostle tightly with little wiggle-room available. And we’re only on the second act!
Next up on the bill for tonight - Iron Mind, a band that is Melburnian in name and nature, but could’ve just as easily have been temporally ripped from CBGB’s and the 90’s New York hardcore scene. Full brodown tough-guy antics, just the way the genre’s heavily-tattooed and bare-chested punk-cousin forefathers intended.
For someone so up their own arse about the latest progressive death metal this, the weirdest new autism-hyperfixation experimental that, I’m also one who loves getting his brain-spice neuron wiring flattened and smoothed out with simply crushing, bare-knuckle fare too. Iron Mind delivers hugely on that front, performatively and musically about as Madball/H2O/Biohazard/Agnostic Front as you can get whilst still asking “how could Dan Andrews let this happen?!” either ironically (or not) on Facebook. Or, I don’t know, deconstructed lattes and other Melbourne-y tropes.
A warm synth warble begins the set, a sampled eerie quote riffing everything from life’s ongoing struggle as a baseline to “pandemics, floods, fire, war - it never stops”. Naturally, this is the best place to start, and IM kick off with immediacy and little fanfare, already applauded on entry by a knowing audience.
Frontman Sam Octigan is an absolute livewire. Seriously? My meds wore off hours ago, I’m basically hopping from foot-to-foot in unmedicated ADHD hyperactivity myself, but just watching the bloke in motion is fatiguing for a comparatively unfit vape-huffer as myself, even if I get all the fidgety sentiments.
“From the back to the front Melbourne - show me how you get down!” is a clarion-call that leads to exactly what you’d expect - the first of many melding pots of two-step, push-pit, headbangs and raised fists. I couldn’t tell you how many ‘core gigs I’ve been to already in my short life, these guys included, but there’s a constant bunching-up near the stage as a healthy conduit of gang-chanters give choral shouts back at the band, clearly knowing the material back-to-front.
I had this guy clocked at least in my peripherals the whole time - everyone did. Flexing, shadow-box style flits between legs, arm raises, fist-pumps, sprints across the stage, the works, all very Cro-Mags’ heyday in its’ unceasing hyperactivity. Not to mention the absolute “yo, bitch-ass” half-Brooklyn-ed intonation of his sneering shouts mid-motion rising up into some damn throaty barks to boot. Hardcore/metalcore bands plying a more traditionalist take on the genres often live and die by their vocalist, yet I think Sam’s got enough internal battery power for a small city. They’ll be right.
And right the rest of them were, indeeed. Putting a frenetic squirrel in front of your band so you can kick back and stare at your shoes is the performance version of lipstick on a pig. Neil Bloam and Asa Akahira might be sledging out a barrage of primarily thick palm-muted riffs, but they’ve got all those gnarly little hardcore thumb-tacks in the lead/riff back pocket too, and both are pinwheeling and headbanging furiously whilst doing so. Daniel Collins is no miser either, snapping out of the eternal hardcore-bassists’ imprisonment via root notes with some tasty, stabbing fills that align very nicely with the stoic, fast and tight drumming of one Josh Barclay. Altogether, they’re about as still as a gorilla on sub-lethal amounts of cocaine, and equally as fearsome.
Kicking and running on the spot a-la Harm’s Way, Octigan is cutting octagons with his feet through the first two tracks, repeatedly requesting for he and his crew to be shown “how Melbourne hardcore gets down!” as endless breakdowns snap necks into wide spiral arcs, legs akimbo in the pit. Personal bias, but shout-the-hell-out to that fun little trilling bass solo bit in follow-up ‘Guilt’ which garners Collins healthy applause, right before they Bring The Riff Back But Slower. Oh there’s a lot of that tonight, and it’s gurn-and-cheer-inducing every goddamned time.
Lads are that no-BS that it takes four songs for them to even introduce themselves. “What’s up, we’re Iron Mind - good to see some old faces and new faces. We’re stoked for Poison The Well; let’s keep this pit moving.” And move they did. Move pretty much everyone did, in fact. It’s a brand of hardcore mostly orbiting a mid-tempo in ‘Assuming The Ultimate Form’, but hot damn if the gargling, roaring dual/triplicate gang-chants and call-and-response vocal barks with the crowd don’t elevate the adrenaline. There’s a splendorous moment in between snare thwacks where Sam snaps a quick “Melbourne - move this shit!” and the resultant breakdown feels thick enough to tear that damn pillar obscuring half the back-left side clean off its’ foundations. Barrelling through a couple more tunes of not-too-dissimilar metal-infused hardcore thuggery, it’s the very very ‘Criminally Insane by Slayer’ flavoured cymbal hits that perk my ears right up afterwards, a little slice of what feels like old-school death metal home.
“Let’s hear it for Ends in Tragedy!” Octigan roars to a huge cheer. “One of the hardest working bands in Melbourne hardcore.” Sam divulges his deep love for our headliners and their innate capacity to meld so many styles with passionate, meaningful and thoughtful lyrics - chum for the sharks and obviously earning a huge hoot from us all.
“Even if you do or don’t know it, Melbourne - I want you to move!” he barks with sudden urgency, as a new level of crowd participation both ambulatory and vocal overtakes the pit through ‘Calm Before The Storm’. Including a very Pennywise - ‘Bro Hymn’ raucous section of word-for-word chanting by the audience. I’m almost self-conscious about my comparative lack of homework, but mostly I’m just having too much fun watching sheer beatdown hardcore in action.
None other than cult leader and mass murder Jim Jones warbles some of those eerily-philosophical final thoughts before the infamous Jonestown incident - a damn good introduction to a blistering, faster-paced final track. 170 Russell doesn’t feel warmed up by the time these Mexican jumping-beans in hardcore-kids’ bodies exit the stage. The place is literally and figuratively roasting, sweltering and engorged with the heat of many sweat-riddled bodies. Damn, kids are really getting into it for a Thursday huh?
Iron Mind - Artist Links:
(Webstore, Merch, Bandcamp, Media, Streaming Links)
Now these guys - these guys were clearly a massive pull pre-tour, with socials lighting up like a motion tracker in a Xenomorph hive on announcement of their inclusion. With my reviews, I generally play about with it: I’ll either studiously pick apart one/some/most/all bands’ discographies just to get prior appreciation, or I’ll go the novelty route and see what happens.
That decision turned out to be bittersweet not long into Haywire’s set. I thought it was packed before? Apfsch. If you check out the footage on our Youtube channel, my pew on the first standing floor upwards was as good as you were going to get towards these guys. The rank-and-file is a black-shirted phalanx, folks muscling and jostling and ‘scuse-me-ing past in an unrelenting stream.
The giant fightin’ four-leaf clover was no surprise, these guys being Bostonians and all. What was a delight was seeing a hardcore band give it up for their current turf with a pretty goddamned faithful cover of The Angels’ ‘Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again’ (complete with requisite Aussie/Haywire “No-way-get-fucked-fuckoff” chant). Piped through a rendition from an American hardcore band, the beefy tuning, gear and setup give this ol’ Aussie rocker a newfound breath of life in a place I surely wasn’t expecting. Yeah on that alone, I was sold on these dudes.
And then - the set starts. Jesus Christ. I don’t think I’ve been to big-time pop gigs, arena-rock events like AC/DC or Foo Fighters and heard about this much vocal participation from a crowd. It was nigh surreal, and demonstrates the working-class/everyman Chumbawumba-goes-hardcore-punk ethos of these blokes. By the end of catchy hardcore cruiser ‘Hang Up The Telephone’ even myself and other mumblers are proudly belting the choral line with a crowd threatning to outdo the amps. If you saw The Descendents recently, and how booming/choral the crowd volume was there? Yeah, folks in 170 nearly had that beat tonight, and with fewer in tow than The Forum.
“Repeat after me - ‘Summer nights in the city’ (Crowd: “Summer nights in the city!'“)… wooooah-oh! (“WOOOOAH-OH!”)”.
‘SUMMER NIGHTS’ features a chorus that is as unashamedly 2000s-post-hardcore in its’ sweetness as it is pure Van Halen rockin’ hedonistic enjoyment of the warmer months. Austin Sparkman lives right up to his name, another relentless stage prowl/jump/hop/fist-pump/jumper, who also loves himself a good ol’ lean-in up the front, a crowdsurf and spends considerable time amping everyone up from stage left, centre, right, back to front. Again, I find myself not even halfway through the speedy, almost poppy hardcore punk track before I’m joining in the hundreds-of-punters-strong choir. Bodyheat notwithstanding, it’s legitimately a warming experience and brings a little pang for the sunshine back to an otherwise miserable, blustery night outside.
Augmenting what amounts to a gritty street-punk shanty singalong are the band, who are equally enthusiastic, grinning and gurning as they move from showy smiles to focused consternation with the high-octane musical backbeat. ‘Get To Steppin’ does as it proclaims on the tin, the crowd joining in with a bouncy air-punch in unison. I specifically made note at the time on my phone as a reminder - this damn show feels like I’m in the thick of a packed-out industrial dispute in front of some disgruntled leering managers. It’s Dropkick Murphys shoulder-charging Sick Of It All headlong as both of them take a strong shot of Jameson’s, and it’s fun as hell.
Austin keeps the vocal education up on the next track by getting us to harmonise an intro bassline - “repeat after me: dada-dahhh, da-da-da-daaa!” Once this is repeated and we’re done cheering past the bassists’ entrance into full punkish swing, the bands’ back off to trading places like the floor is lava as choral refrains from punters feel loud enough to be heard back at my place on the arse-end of the Bellarine Peninsula, some 90 mins away.
“This is our first time in Australia - anyone seen us live before?” our frontman asks to mostly-crickets. “Alright, this one’s for all five of you the back!” he jeers. First and certainly not the last of some great quips, self-deprecating moments and heartfelt recollections strewn between tracks.
True bandception is then realised when it’s noted “this next one’s from the album Haywire, it’s from a band called Haywire, you might’ve heard of them, this is a little track called…. ‘Haywire’”. Well, turns out there’s something to a name, and that name is a now-shirtless and pit-lunging, crowd-surfing frontman and a thrash-metal level of freneticism from those still up onstage. Woah-oh’s, oi-oi-oi’s, fist pumps, and enough folkish hardcore from the room to make this one and follow-up ‘Poser Disposer’ send the room into full goddamned ruckus. I’m fully that I Have No Idea What I’m Doing meme-dog right now, but my fists’ raised and they’re catchy enough I can get away with pouring my own vocal addition by the end of each song.
On and these guys continue, and despite the kinda-wholesome mispronunciation of “that band, what was the first band? Age of Tragedy! This goes out to Age of Tragedy!”, Austin’s full of community love, encouragement for building and supporting the local scene and a man who knows both how to raise rabble (such as the personalising of ‘Boston Boot Boys’ to “Mel-BOURNE BOOT BOYS!” to hooting call-and-response) and be vulnerable, tongue-in-cheek and aloof at the same time. Us scrappily-jointed elder millenials, Xers and up are given a few nods and jabs in the same breath he’s talking about supporting friends in the throes of addiction - that, or finding new friends. Plus, you’re always going to score millenial brownie-points with this reviewer (specifically seeing as I grew up nearish to Byron Bay when Parkway were coming up, eons ago) by asking to “turn this place into a 50 Lions pit”. Cheeky but relevant, I’ll pay it!
It ain’t all sunshine and roses, though. This is hardcore, so our frontman’s insistence that one track in particular is about how one should “Never kick a puppy, ‘cause you never know what dog that puppy’s going to grow up into, and one day - it might just bite you” during a particularly fast number. Honestly, both out of respect for your time, my incessant waffling and the in-the-moment enthrallment with just appreciating the sheer, utter vibe, I’d lost track of… well, tracks, time and place. The phone was down, the fist was out, I was just far too busy grinning from ear to ear watching this spectacle of pure fun unfold. The heartfelt unity emanating through the acoustics of this inner-city cavern were undeniable during the next-tier chanting that accompanied both ‘Love Song’ (complete with the Fallout-lovers’ fave, a sample of ‘I Don’t Want To Set The World on Fire’), the hard-hitting ‘Like A Train’ (hits like a train, ga-hyuck!) and the ludicrously ship-full-of-pissed-up-Boston-pirates spectacle that was ‘Always By My Side’.
Honestly, just so impressive to catch a band on their first ever Australian tour and have an entire crowd this vocalised, mobbed with crowd-surfers, calls to hug the friend and the person next to you (a legitimately sweet and heartfelt bro-moment for many of us) and a pure, street-smart punkish hardcore sincerity that could’ve only ever come from a crew who cut their teeth listening to Poison The Well, sneaking into shows underage and punching on with locals.
I mean damn, son. All you have to is check out Richie’s pics right here and now - every frame that includes an audience member has at least one person scrunched up in some form of happy, emotive expression, and that also extends to the very participatory backup vocalists on respective fretted instruments, too. Cheers all round!
Another band I am definitely making sure I give a second viewing the next time they tour; far too fun a show to risk missing again!
It’s been an interesting back-and-forth so far tonight, from the gritty metallic hardcore of our first two openers, through to Boston’s hardcore-punky/gang-shouty best. Effectively one choked fish in the tin of sardines that is this packed-out venue, even the denouement of the first three acts and the brief repose between doesn’t dampen my spirits or excitement one bit.
It actually came as a slight existential shock to recall when the hell these guys last toured - that was when I was prepping for my interview with Poison The Well’s nutcase riff-master, guitarist Ryan Primack (see here for Episode 80 of Inner-Strength Check Podcast for said interview in audio-only + full video versions). Just about goddamned fell off my chair in realising not only that it was seventeen years since the fateful 2009 Soundwave lineup (and PtW set) that completely blew my 20-year old brain apart… but also the fact that some of the younger sprites kicking about in the pit might’ve only just been born not too long before then.
The demographic spread in the room’s actually a much more even keel than just us salt-and-pepper-beards or the fresh-faced put jackals, and with good cause. Both the album of focus tonight (The Opposite of December) and subsequent tracks weave an emotive, sincere and introspective, influential history right through hardcore, post-hardcore, punk and metal. Everyone in attendance tonight just about will have been impacted by the band strongly, be it through their forward-thinking and boundary-pushing early melding of styles, the adaptive and fluid use of heaviness, melody and counterpoint, or just the most passionate screamed lyrics this side of a Shai Hulud album.
I’m going to start my review of Poison The Well’s set good and proper, and with a little bit of French in there for good measure if you don’t mind. What the fuck’s up with people claiming Jeffrey Moreira’s rough vocals especially ‘aren’t what they used to be’ online? Maybe that’s people conflating the more mid-tempo and alt-influenced stylings of their latest album, Peace in Place, with a reduction in raw output.
‘Cause Jesus Christ, folks - far as I can tell from the imposing bald frontmans’ first of many guttural, harsh barks, deep gruff gurgles and sonic-piercing shrieks (not to mention the man’s soulful range of croons, breathless/desperate sounding spoken-word, et al) right here and now? He’s not only ‘got it’, he’s more ferocious than ever. I’ve plain forgotten how truly heavy ‘Botchla’ is, but with that barrel-chested frontman slinging those stabbed-lion roars at me? Yeah, I ‘member. Cutting endless jagged lines and shapes from across a panoply of encyclopedic riffs, arpeggiations, chords, solos, tremolo and more for the evening, lead-guitarist Ryan Primack’s songwriting genius is just as on display as his sheer thrash-metal bodily stance and relentless headbanging. Throughout, the guy looks both laidback, uncomfortable and skeezy - a real hang-back lean that is almost limbo proportions. Vadim Taver’s no slouch, either, and although difficult for me to physically catch the guy from the sea of heads and pillars (and complete lack of room to resolve either), every moment I catch the guy he’s a blur of hair, headbang and full-body swing, just as gnarly with his feverish, choppy but stoic rhythm-guitar excellence.
Pinioning the lot of them about on an endless buffet of dime-turn stop-starts, brutalising breakdowns and all manner of other rhythm-section chicanery, there’s no stop to the driving motions of bassist Noah Harmon or the fill-happy skinsman Chris Hornbrook on drums. With all the tech-death and chin-stroking metal in my typical orbit (as well as, admittedly, a heap of far less tidy stuff like sludge and grind), these blokes don’t look one day off a professional touring gauntlet. The only person in the room not chopping an instrument at us like trees are food and they’re hungry chainsaws is the singer, and boy howdy does he give us hell in his own right.
‘Botchla’, definitely a personal and fan-favourite, ekes out into feedback as we boom with raucous applause at another level of veterancy, of old-gods guardianship from a very canonically important band. Yet, despite their influence, the band are mostly dressed in simple casual wear, as comfortably minimalist as the monochromic shades of red, green and blue dousing them during their performance for quite some time.
‘Zombies Are Good For Your Health’ is a great excuse for my hours clocked on Steam with both Left 4 Dead 2 and 7 Days To Die (coincidentally could also be great beatdown hardcore EP names). More importantly, it’s also a fantastic slice of metallic post-hardcore, and another shot in the arm of it after 17 years is like a refreshing summer beer after a day of hard yakka. From the fast, martial pacing of the snare in the intro through to the crowd-participation/call-and-response chants, staccato breakdowns rain like single-minded slabs of palm-muted mortar fire, only to break out into Primack’s jagged chordal tones. Cupping the mic like a precious artifact once stolen from a king, Moreira barks through two pointed elbows into the crowd as though he’s trying to spray the front with shotgun pellets. Load those vocal cords into a gun and you’d probably get the same projectile power; dude is sounding immense and raw as hell, prowling left to right like someone’s going to cop a head-kick if they don’t cut the crap.
He’s not mad, though. If anything, he’s as reverent as us. The soft crooning and bunched-up facial expression during the above tracks’ brief spoken-word/clean-sung segue is a tell, in that respect. ‘Slice Paper Wrists’ - oh GOD how I love this song, amirite chat? - starts off with that discordant late-90’s ‘core skronk to more applause, dropping into sections that feel like the textbook notes every metalcore band in the 2010’s was desperately trying to mimic by way of Meshuggah, but most never reached. The mixture of rough barks and clean croons, often within the same couple of measures, is an impressive vocal-switching feat here and elsewhere. Sullen backing croons and some proggy arpeggios highlight the more haunting side of this track before snapping breakdowns tear it back into heavy gear.
Speaking of proggy and the latest LP - ‘Thoroughbreds’. I personally felt this one was one of the best from the latest album, so to see its’ inclusion tonight feels on-point. The whole song follows this nicely-satisfying bell-curve, swelling from a very alt-prog meandering through to cascading, brutal midsection, tapering off almost whimsically by the end. The ensuing silence after four straight punches to the head without a break cops them a tsunami of hollering, claps and cheers under flashing lights.
“Thank you, thank you” Jeffrey humbly bows. “Holy shit - there’s so many fucking people here,” he says whilst gazing broadly over the sea of punters, “we’re Poison The Well and we’re very fuckin’ excited to be here. You guys having a good time or what?”
Not even a temptation to sarcasm. A sonic, screeching boom of affirmation from us indicates job well done so far, boys.
‘A Wish For Wings That Work’ incites so many things at once - exclamations from me to Random Guy Next To Me of “holy SHIT Wings!”, a candles-by-carol-light sea of smartphones, more than a few crowd-surfers and an ever widening, gaping circle-pit maw sucking in the unwary. “Keep this energy up!” Moriera screams, himself putting a full-on death-metal worthy level of grit, grunt, screech and scream into this dissonant, hooky, chaotic hardcore favourite. My voice is almost raw by the end of the track, surprising myself with just how firmly attached and ingrained their lyrical material is to my psyche (I lost my voice by the end of the night, and I’m damn sure I wasn’t alone).
‘12/23/93’ is snappy, snarky, metallic and quick as a flash, and both the pit and bona-fide on-point lighting swells and ebbs in perfect unison together with this clacky number. From the feverish pace of this little blaster, we tread on to find ‘Everything Hurts’ (especially our ankles, by this stage) but we’re nonetheless all awestruck by the bands’ tightness, and just how sonically huge the mix is sounding. There’s a chef’s-kiss blend of smoothed-out and distorted grit overall, tones ringing through like guitar and bass-song. The drums are thudding in my chest on every kick, eyelids twitching on every snare. Perfect. That’s my kinda stimming.
‘To Mandate Heaven’ begins with that choppy, gnarling, uber-pissedoffness that infests early Poison The Well material, a caustic and cathartic string of pummelling riffs that see the band writhing like a jar of worms. The switch to and from from rough/clean vocals, clean to distorted guitar/bass, lilting drum fills to pummelling d-beat and double-kick, it’s all nearing sensory overwhelm. Which honestly is a huge compliment from a guy who basically listens to extreme metal to doze off. This is all sounding heavy, huge, gnarly and tight.
An eerie interlude, the lights washing monochrome with the bands’ logo flickering behind them. A sample-quote about not being mean to one another, never must be mean, drifts lazily in the air. You’ve never been to a hardcore or metal gig before if you don’t know what’s coming next (pit-chaos), but the rest of us thankfully were able to at least brace ourselves somewhat.
‘Letter Thing’ acts as a clear rationale for why Haywire especially were brought along for the ride. Much as I’m a fan of the guys snappy, adaptive flow between different vocal styles, it’s always super fun to listen to (and now witness) that urgent, near-breathless cadence that comes with the very hardcore-punk territory in this number. A more focused string of fast-beating riffs gives the rest of the band a bit of breathing room to hop up on foldbacks or just kick back and headbang hard. Not even headbang, really - backbang? Oh god, that sounds bad. Look, dudes were pivoting their whole bodies hipwise from upright to floor, that’s all you need to know. And despite all their little japes about being oldheads, they’re making this 37-year-old feel physically and chronologically older than them comparatively.
Heck, from my hazy memories of Soundwave 2009, I’d deign to say they’ve got even more energy and fury in their live performance than when I caught that RNA Showgrounds set in Brisbane years ago. The return from hiatus and new material has spurned them on, clearly, as you can see from the bleed into the emotive but impactful metallic-hardcore statement that is ‘Artists’ Rendering Of Me’. With some cool, droning passages that remind me muchly of Kurt Ballou’s southern-fried sludgy style in Converge, the track’s otherwise a fiercely defiant and passionately fast one - right up until the mother of all gang-chant moments: “I could! Never! Swallow your false ideals!” [hangs mic out to audience, hand cupped to ear] Crowd: “Of-A!/Lifeless-happy ending!”. Oh man, the mix-and-match call and response during this section over the drum and bass. Chills man, chills. Peak. A whole room of fists in the sky. Chris’ tribalistic, Roots-era-Sepultura-coded drumming raises the hardcore-caveman factor by magnitudes, earning a huge applause from us brutes on conclusion.
‘Not Within Arm’s Length’ is a great followup as it brings a lot of Ryan and Co’s metal sensibilities to the fore. There’s some serious death-metal riffage at play here, more pronounced and savage tremolo amidst some very classic-thrash riff stylings. I spot the biggest bassist-gurn I’ve seen in a long time, enough to make mention of it in a review anyway, as Harmon trades knowing looks with both guitarists during a very two-steppin’ riff (even indicated by the singer -’C’mon! Right now! Two-step! Two-steppers!’ he yells, to the chagrin of metal-elitists in the room). “Change my colours and change myself” is chameleon lyrics for chameleon songwriting, and sure enough, both explode from crooning and arpeggiation into crushing discordant breakdown riffage over blinding strobe-light.
Like Haywire before them, perhaps the prospect of a long-awaited/first sojourn to Australian shores has absolutely busted some cap of raw kinetic potential that only passionate musicians seem able to tap into. The medley continues on, ‘Wax Mask’ also titular appropriate as it gnashes with a rabid, chaotic energy like young Dillinger Escape Plan.
“I’ve been talking and thinking a lot about friendship” our frontman introspects, during a rare lull between tracks. “I feel lucky, we feel lucky, being a band as long as we have, to have come back after a break, written a new album. I want to give sincere thanks to the guys onstage with me - I want to give thanks to them for giving me life and to you, big thanks from us.” No grandstanding or elongating the speech out longer than needed (kind of like THIS REVIEW, BRADY) - just thoughtfulness, sincerity and passion. Kind of unsurprising what flows out of these guys in lyrical, musical and performative output. They’re just the real-deal. Working dudes with kids and other various life-paths who’ve worn hearts on sleeves, through decades where doing so in traditionally hyper-masculine music scenes could present real and present threats like exclusion, ostracism or even physical harm. Yet here they are, and here’s a packed room loving it and them.
“Couple more” he briefly notes.
Now look - this has gone on quite long enough, and as much as I could bleat forever and a day about the performance and how much the band mean to both myself and a lot of fellow punters in tow? Time is money, after all. Thus, you can count on there being much of that same discordance, harmony, gang-chanting, cleverly metal/alt/prog infused hardcore songwriting, and many bruising, brow-beaten riffs that send the pit into crowd-tsunami. The run from ‘Ghostchant’ through to ‘Parks And What They Mean To Me’ and ‘The Mirror No Longer Reflects’ is poignant, emotive, crushing.
But holy hell! A stipend at the end of it all, this marathon in cleverly produced metallic hardcore, is a sneaky duet that brings one final measure of punk-rock family and togetherness back into the evening, right at the end. Fan-fave and Opposite classic ‘Nerdy’ sees an appearance from none other than Austin from Haywire on vocals, who’s encouraged and egged on to surf as far and wide as possible - and he does, belting out screams of raw fury alongside Moriera’s bear-like growl for an insane dual-vocal attack to one last hardcore hurrah.
It’s not that anyone’s forgotten what Poison The Well mean to them - a 17-year absence is hard to recoup from as both band and listener. However, walking out into the frigid Melbourne air with a head full of sheer dumbfoundedness, I’m secretly hopeful in a selfish way that this is far from their last hurrah.
Let’s just not make it another seventeen in between, ‘eh guys?
inner-strength check:
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