Your typical pro-forma for a gig review write-up often follows a predestined path at times, it seems. Essay-style, begin with a broad sentence/paragraph about the night as a whole, follow up with ‘local band/s played, pretty good I guess’, longer spiel about headliner.

Ehh - I’ll sort of follow this rubric, but in honesty, life’s too tough right now to be too serious about ourselves. And who in the world really is more self-conscious about presenting Very Serious, Brooding And Deep than your average metalhead?

Corporate hacks, idiot influencers and Big Tech shills would call it ‘subverting expectations’ (pardon me, just throwing up a little), I call it opening this review honestly.

Fun fact - I got about 20 minutes away from my house and was filling up the car at the good ol’ local servo (service-station, or gas/petrol station for confused international readers), feeling the grit of cement under my feet before realising ‘oh Christ - I’ve forgotten my shoes’.

So yeah, folks, professional journalism here. There’s a very small but also non-zero chance I may have made it late to the gig after presenting to The Corner sans shoes.

Fortunately, the gifts bestowed on my run up from the arse-end of the Bellarine Peninsula were those of Australian binge-drinking culture, and the behavioural changes bestowed on drivers by threat of double-demerits. That is, the quietest and least sardine-packed I’ve seen the Werribee > West-Gate > CBD of an afternoon in a while. A good omen? Fortunate portents.

This uncharacteristically stress-free drive through the guts of Melbourne (I only had to give the Fat Pizza “Ahhh, ya farkin’ malaka/stooge/etc!” dismissive hand-flick at a few wankers this time) was marred by the thronged masses out in the sun for the latest tennis-ball/sportsball thing I’m not privy to as a dungeon-dwelling troglodyte.

Thinking myself so much cooler and more individual than all the ambling tennis-goers, like one of the Goth Kids from South Park, I’m nevertheless feeling the time-pinch as half of Melbourne seems packed in around the stadium grounds. I bust through the door just as our openers shout a hearty, blokey ‘Straya welcome, fumbling for the notes-app and gathering one evidently discombobulated self together.

Less ‘sipping’ than ‘inhaling via oesophagus and stomach’, the beer I ordered magically transmogrifying into cider somehow, as the night’s first detuned chugs and lead wails adjoin one of many talented rhythm-sections I’m calmed somewhat, but still off-kilter.

Chapter I: Neomantra

Speaking of off-kilter - that’s a perfect way to describe gig-openers Neomantra from Perth, Western Australia. In stark contrast to my own unbalanced executive dysfunction, this is a deliberately-crafted act of mental jaggedness, plumbed straight through the air-pipe into that mmm-tasty part of the auditory cortex. If said doesn’t have a part it needs one, particularly for metalheads.

Honesty is the best policy, right? To that end, the first few measures didn’t exactly have me gripped. I’d attribute that both to my plate-spinning mental status at the time, and also the heavily Machine Head-inspired, thick grooving riffage of the set introduced proper.

I think that as a metalhead, if you’ve been to enough gigs in your life, there’s unfortunately a sort of classically-conditioned dissociation and/or higher-tiered impetus to shrug off an opening act plying groove-oriented songwriting. It’s kind of its’ own trope really, a self-made meme perpetuated by endless swathes of vaguely Pantera-by-way-of-Maiden starter acts.

No need to go full Dennis Reynolds from It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia and rage on me just yet, though. Like the Land Rover purported to be submarine in nature by Glenn Howerton’s avatar - these guys very quickly spin those tired tropes on drier, sure-footed ground.

With more hints of playful discordance, a fuller riff-palette soon emerges. And emerges. And emerges. Revealing itself like an onion, our opening act slowly peels off the shackles of preconceived notions to reveal all manner of prog-devilry. On top of that, there’s a self-assuredness baked into the bands’ songwriting that reminds me of many other Perth/WA-based acts. They’re a mob who can prog it out with the rest of the Deep Thinkers down here in Melbourne, but also aren’t afraid to play a little more in familiar tempos, tones and song-structure writ large.

Knowing this is both a support act for Swallow The Sun and a farmer’s pick from Your Mate Bookings, both those thought-challenges had pretty quickly shut down those opening-band cognitive heuristics. From the increased looks of surprise and ‘oh hell yeah’ appreciative nods/headbangs in the audience, I’d say we’re all learning this at a collective rate. That is, pretty damn quickly.

See below for ‘Astral Prison’ video, from latest EP Paranosis:

Anyone who’s been in therapy and/or around the broader mental health discourse orbit will likely have heard mention of The Body Keeps The Score. Well yeah, our neurobiology can hamper us in some fairly tricky, shitty ways - doesn’t take a Masters in Neuroscience to intuit those mind-body connections.

Speaking of intuition and said connections - applying the same logic to a more positive thing, a great band will often induce physical sensations before the mind’s consciously registered what’s up. In the current bands’ case, the busted-up executive suite of my brain hands down summary-judgement. I dig it!

Yeesh. Goosebumps on the skin already, and it’s only the first track from the first support act. More good omens.

“How the fuck are ya’s? Are ya’s ready?” proclaims our bearded and already sweaty guitarist/vocalist. As with the rest of the band, he’s an onion. What do I mean by this? Well…

As the first gruff barks resound through the small room, I can’t help but think Shrek wouldn’t have had half the problems interlopers on his swamp, had he possessed the snarling, gravelly but dynamic range of Royce Zanetic. (I think a lot of stupid thoughts like this; most are omitted from reviews but hey, why not a freebie). So there’s that.

Nay, as with onions, ogres and fellow axe-slingers Jarod Callow (Guitar) and Lee Afentopoulos (Bass), alongside the embellishment of stick-smasher Greg Turner, I can’t help but feel there’s a certain deliberateness to the extra intricacy that just keeps unfolding through this set. And just like that, I’ve joined a resounding chorus of small but dedicated punters in booming appreciation for an interpretation of modern progressive metal that both fits many Karnivool/Leprous-ian melodic tropes, but also frankly doesn’t care what you think and is just at ease mining Burn My Eyes as heck, teensy little influential takes from places such as Cynic’s Focus, et al.

Don’t know about you guys, but I certainly don’t see any trite In Flames/Unearth Verb The Noun-titled genericore openers pulling clever little prog-stunts out of their arsenal. Nowhere near as many, anyhow.*

* - No shade on bands of that ilk, horses for courses and all that. I’m just a product of my time, ergo a big scene-kid who overdid it on the local-metalcore-matinee front late-00s/early-10’s. Who’s playing on a stage and who’s writing about it anyway, huh?

There’s a quiet but powerful confidence about these dudes, and that’s something I’ve seen time and time again with Perth bands. They’re simply happy to ply their trade and dig into the groove with a heck of a lot of subtle embellishments and flourishes. Enough for you to pin a prog badge on the lapel, confident in your stride as you size up your keyboard-warrior opponent on Reddit re: genre semantics.

Just don’t tell ‘em I sent you - I’ve got way too many emails to respond to.

Instead, you can direct them to this brief but highly-professional slice of gig-floor smartphone videography, which I’m absolutely sure will outdo hate5six. In a sarcasm-free way, too. Bonus - it features Ash from Musolegion and his mug:

Shit-eating grins and perfunctory applause in moments of silence erupt into resounding cheers, with more than one heckle in the vein of "Oh shit, you guys are actually fucking good!” from the crowd. Indeed.

From the Fear Factory-esque clanking industrial electronica tones opening the track, ‘Astral Plane’ (“This one’s about impending terror from an out-of-body experience!”) suddenly drops into a frenzied run of choppy breakdowns and jazzy guitar-skronks, all up emanating its’ own air of Chaosphere-era Meshuggah. Bit thrashy, bit groovy, bit mathy. It’s nice, it’s different, it’s unusual, yes.

Announcing the availability of select tracks heard tonight from latest EP Paranosis very conveniently located in this same room via the merch desk - afterwards, I’m more than sure had a few such copies were readily scooped up by an absolutely rapt audience on the sets’ conclusion.

I mean, when you’re in Melbourne, Melbourne for Christs’ sake. and there’s some old-mate in the crowd who lets out a thunderous “That was faaaaaarrrrrr-kin excelleeeeeeeent!” which sets off a whole secondary round of applause in the break, you know you’ve done a bang-up job. Nice one boys, colour me impressed.

*Seamus the Pirate from Family Guy voice: “How you likin’ these terrible OC memes?”*

Having been thoroughly won over by Neomantra, I’m off to a good start. Feeling more mindful, locked in and more distal from the confusing slop-infested neoliberal jungle outside these very doors.

Like the first band, what transpires next onstage is so antithetical to slop that I reckon Oxford could plug ‘em into the dictionary.

Enter, a second challenger in:

Chapter II: Mammon’s Throne

Honesty being the best policy, and apparently I like repeating myself.

But I do have to make mention of the fact that I damn well near burnt myself out on these guys on the live-front, particularly during my time still living in Melbourne post-lockdown when they were on a tear through various venues. Oh, what the hell - when aren’t they on a gigging circuit? Blokes just don’t stop, and I’m for it.

I wouldn’t say I’m sick of the band now, quite the opposite. Last time I saw these guys was in 2025, and I hadn’t self-sabotaged my enjoyment of that set via my own over-exposure. Dean Underhill’s review of the Inertia Cult LP launch for Ghostsmoker was particularly high in praise for Mammons’ energy, style and crushing heaviness. And yeah, my far less tangential writing-friend, you’re on the money.

These guys started with a solid live show - nowadays? Man, who hurt them - they’re more intense than ever before.

They’ve always been an expressive, energetic and animated band. Physicality is as written into the bands’ neurology as the endlessly-bouncing legs I’ve got anytime I’m seated more than 30 seconds (as in now, whilst writing).

If you want to talk semantics, being a metalhead and all - sure, maybe it is easier to work in so much kinetic energic when plying more of the Carcinoid old-school-local-death element in your sound than say, the slow-burn caustic crawl of other local-heroes Religious Observance.

I’m taking a bit of time here to really reiterate the point that I have seen these guys maybe more times than is sane or healthy, and it’s my belief the recency-effect is not in play when I call tonight’s set as their heaviest and most energised yet.

Did Blayney (YMB) sneak some local rock from the streets of Richmond into the rider as a joke? Did they actually take up an eshay-lad on his offer of bum-bag/’fanny-pack’ goodies on the corner or something? ‘Cause these guys are ten hyperactive-type ADHD primary-school kids on gallons of red cordial come lunch-break. Not just a few glasses - gallons.

Take frontman Matthew Miller, easily the most theatrical/zestful physical performer of the night. Helps not having a guitar awkwardly imposing on your person, sure, but let’s give this metal-Thespian credit where due. He’s channeling Sam Dillon (Hadal Maw/Lo!), but eschews the latter’s bug-eyed snarl for a real shut-the-fuck-up-in-this-library-and-quieten-down sneer. It’s cold enough to send bushfires packing, but it’s warmed considerably by upper limbs that can only be described as ‘exceedingly Italian-uncle’ in their grandiose sweeps, arcs and flicks.

There’s the surefire Metal Guy hits - that gnarled, wrist turned inward, half-open curled hand of eeeeeevil; horns held aloft like the hands’ carefully balancing several dinner plates; that iconically rockstar semi-lunge forward stance. All there in dramatic flair, save for moments of going full Centapod and straight curling into a headbanging ball of a person.

Append all this to the freakishly downtrodden riffage, blazing lead intrusions and leviathan drums/bass, played by a bunch of long-haired meerkats? You got yourself some bottleable energy up there, and a chorus of punters desperately trying to follow suit.

Perhaps the show’s not intended for us, or just us, though. Perhaps all this is just an elaborate ruse for one frontman’s yearning to show his vocal prowess to a certain, special audience member. An inanimate one, but special no less.

Remarking on this love now requited, Miller notes “This is our first time playing The Corner, and I’ve spent many years dreaming of serenading that Pole!”. (Important context, he wasn’t staring at any crotches at the time. Pitchforks down).

Well, friend - were it that thing wasn’t thankfully providing structural support against collapse, I feel the inanimate pole-bastard would be just as lovingly-locked into your set as the unified throng of heads bowing ceremoniously to thy death-doom beat.

Speaking of love - I’ve been a bit Matt-centric, and need to circle around to the remaining Throne-guard. ‘Cause an animated singer alone does not always equate to an energised set, and boy-howdy don’t our instrument-peddling crew know this as fact.

The lot of them are renowned for stage-ballistics, but tonight the ‘Throne musicians are less siege equipment and more Full Donkey Kong.

It’s literally hard to keep in step with them, they’re swinging and flailing that hard. That is NOT an easy admission for someone who basically mainlines thrash, huffs grindcore and snorts death metal just to get through your average day, but I’ll admit it much the same.

Especially the case is the perennially head-banged, ever-swinging mop of guitarist Amesh Parera, a man flailing and flinging like you fed aforementioned eshay-lad’s street-shard to a zombie newly infected with the Rage Virus from 28 Days Later.

John Hurt from a very specific scene in the original Alien movie - but it’s riffs that are bursting out, not ribs. Thankfully.

Over to Amesh’s far-left and less ‘Playing doom bass fingerstyle’ than ‘Hewing a tree in half with left-hand/Kidney-punching the strings like they owe him money with the right’ is bassist Sam Talbot-Cannon and by extension, rhythm-guitarist-but-not-really-cause-he-can-show-off-too sensation Johnny Chammas. Fretted players and future best friends of chiropractors all, the trio swing hard both on their own and with the vocalist, but they don’t stop. They’re flinging out quite a bit of lead/arpeggio trickery whilst doing so, too. It ain’t easy ‘cause it’s all open-note slam - there’s a lot of fret-trickery afoot here.

Bashing a thunderous wall of drum-artillery behind them, Nick Boschan doesn’t have to move his butt a goddamned inch. A man possibly of dwarven ancestry, like this hypothetical lineage he is planted firmly, arms swinging stick-hammers down on the tom/snare forge as though behind on a shipment of drumming sword-billets. If you don’t like that, volunteer to stand under him some time while shows you a decent snare-thwack. That’ll friggin’ learn ya.

Refrains such as “My will be done!”, “See beyond!” and of course, eternal conservative Christian family picnic favourite catch-cry “Drink The Blood! Drink The Blood!” in epic closer ‘Nosferatu’ get an extra helpful sonic-booming from backup vocalist and punters alike. Heck, audience participation has shot past doom-gig territory and landed squarely somewhere in the Slayer realm. No static necks to be seen.

Spinal/neck surgeons present would’ve either driven home in disgust or started handing out business cards. I’m sure one’s got their eyes squared hungrily on the Mammon’s boys and their wallets, judging by THAT set.

Chapter III: The Eternal

Having been fully sated on death-doom fury as the penultimate support brought the Finnish headliner’s yin? Well, now it’s time for Australian prog/doom metal institution to unfurl their melodic but powerful yan. “Phwoar, THESE GUYS! Haven’t seen ‘em in yeaaaaaaars, mate!” - a sentiment about the place and one I share. The ‘phwoar’ especially.

Like any number of special acts from the Australian scene in the 2000’s, they’re a band I’d hear vicariously about in terms of endless live show announcements. Indeed, many classic lineup announcements were made to an envy-filled teenager recording Costa’s Three Hours of Power/ Haugy’s Full Metal Racket on Triple J late of a Tuesday night (to bring to school and piss my friends off with ‘omg dude THIS BAND’ - not much changes). So many of these early bills included The Eternal, you’d be forgiven for thinking they were in fact a multi-entity Easter Bunny incarnate.

Having then caught these guys twice prior early/mid twenties, it’s confession-time once again in the Roman Catholic wooden box of guilt that is this review. I enjoyed them, sure, but I don’t think I appreciated them anywhere near as much as I should’ve at the time.

Their placement on the bill as the final local send-off seemed to finally work it’s magic on me. That and our brains don’t finish synaptic pruning/neural development until around age 25, so maybe I was just a bigger idiot then than now.

It’s all speculation and irregardless, for the third time in a row this evening - I’m pleasantly surprised and fully-engaged with another support act.

Melodic, sombre and frankly quite beautiful (uh-oh! Quick! Revoke this heathen’s Man-Card at once!), there’s a distinctly Damnation-era Opeth tinge to their Euro-flavoured, Aussie-interpreted prog-doom. Quieter in mood but no less measured in their confidence, the penny is set to finally drop on this smelly crust-punk thrash addict. Indeed, the set as a whole is indicative of just how and why TE can slot themselves on any flavour of lineup, copping no backlash for having done so.

Imagined with the same slow forward-lean, sarcastic mock-surprise and evil grin of Emperor Palpatine, of The Eternal’s set I say the following:

“Ohhhh… I’m a-fraiiiiiid the doom-metal heaviness will be quite operational when your melodic prog-friends arrive…"

I don’t have to sneer out an evil cackle, though. TE have their own trip-ups for smug grindcore crust-punks like this black duck in store.

Take the blazing, shit-hot lead-work of guitarists Richard Poate and Mark Kelson (also on vocals) for instance. Scaffolded under the post-rock-like crescendo-building abilities of bassist X and drummer Y, monolithic lurching riffs that really put extra gut-punch into that clean, melodic but damn powerful vocal delivery. It’s a nice reminder to the crusty goblins infesting my own brain that indeed, heaviness doesn’t always require blast-beats and gurgles. Sometimes, it’s the melodic stuff that hits hardest.

Heck, I’m alienating myself from even more of the reader-base (as well as myself) by throwing these guys one over the aforementioned Swedes. Opeth are brilliant live, hence having seen them ten times and preferencing death over missing a tour ever. But god damn if these guys don’t know how to retain a baseline sonic weightiness through even their most lilting, clean moments. If it’s not a subtle thud of the toms, it’s a whole-note bass drone. Again, you don’t have to go maximalist to deliver the doom-goods. The Eternal know this, and we know they know.

From ‘Endless Dawn’ from Rise of Agony through to classic cuts such as their namesake (‘The Eternal’, if not already obvious) from The Sombre Light of Isolation and beyond, it’s a setlist quite temporally diverse yet free-flowing and coherent. There’s a risk in being consistent like that, of feeling interchangeably same-y and formulaic. I call it The Amon Amarth Effect, even though I dig a huge portion of their discography. Definitely not a factor here.

Nah, this is more melodic prog-doom tapestry in motion than powerviolence plug-and-play sameness (which is fine when the mood’s right).

And why not? Why, not when the crooning frontman just casually drops a reminder that we’ve got none other than Jan freaking Rechberger of Amorphis behind the kit? Of course that gets resounding applause (not a hard link to draw from them to the current headliner re: crossover appeal), but it’s announced later in the set and after the man has already laid his skilful chops bare. Actions do speak louder than words, after all.

To play within slower tempos, really feeling out accentuation and flair in the sombre moments, then pushing hard when it’s go-time - both are skills hard enough on fretted instruments, but it’s a new challenge when you’re acting as timekeeper. Assisting in this smooth and dextrous blend of chronology, on a bass both fanned in fret, 5-stringed and chef’s-kiss in tone, Niclas Etelävuori is a reminder to all us metal-bassists that judicious use of groove-lock and flavourful fill is another skill-set of its’ own.

Now. Here’s where I piss off every metalhead in Australia and publicly have a metalhead fatwa called on me by the investigative arm of metal’s Cool Police. Ready? Okay. In thinking about whom Mark Kelson’s vocal delivery reminds me of regarding a just-right splendid mix of light-touched gruffness and powerful projection? Dustin Kensrue of Thrice, of all people. And I think that comparison likely informs my enjoyment of the vocals, toasted with just the right amount of alt-rock styled gruffness. There, I’ve committed metal-Boomer heresy. You can send for my Manowar pants in the mail, just pay us postage.

Like The Contortionist, Bell Witch and so many other bands before, The Eternal are yet another live melodic-metal bitch-slap to the face of metal’s overarching notion that one requires harsh vocals for their band to truly be heavy. If you know what you’re doing, tune it appropriately (some extra strings on those instruments, I see) and perform with skill and gusto, the rest will come.

Chapter IV: Swallow The Sun

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Bandcamp (Shining LP Order)

Yes, traveller.

Like the arduous march of bums on seats that are our Suomilainen headliners, you can unfasten seatbelts, have a stretch and grab your bags. We’re here, they are here.

Taking the temperature of the room overall, it’s clear that the contrasting dark/light, heavy/soft dyad of tonight’s support acts is an unsubtly deliberate primer, and it works well.

Sure, there’s a few glass-clinkers asking variations of “So mate, how y’garn? How’s your mum’s chooks?” [Australian: How have you been lately, friend? Also chooks = chickens]. Residual beer-banter begins to drown out pretty quickly when our collective metal-moth brains are drawn by the unfurling curtains to a cosy yet icy blue, backgrounded by a stencil-styled forest pattern behind the stage.

It’s both so characteristically metalhead and Australian that a bit of bantering through a headliners’ protracted intro can be expected. The verbal claptrap (i.e. mine) is shut down and shut up reasonably quickly, replaced with the raised fists, hollers and horns of appreciation to our hooded Suomi headliners skulking slowly but confidently astride the stage.

And this is where, mindful as I am that I’ve Brady-ed this review with FAR too much text already, I’ll still pull up for just a wee second. Blame My One Of Two Braincells (ADHD) for the length, blame Braincell #2 for a desperate need to seek and or info-dump further context. I’ll try being brief about it.

You see, I’ve always been a big fan of this band. Always have enjoyed their work throughout since my inception as a listener in the early aughts. But they’re one of those bands with which said fan-relationship is more like a really great friend from school than a current best-bud. A bond that never truly breaks, but just seems to drift with the years as life does its’ thing. Especially life right now, huh?

And believe me - with the sheer number of incoming new releases hitting our inbox every single day, keeping score of old-faves versus inhaling even a fraction of what’s torrentially flooding into the earholes? It’s a tough game to even take pause enough with your most closely-held nostalgics, at times.

For me, Swallow The Sun were introduced in a pretty grim but ultimately realistic aspect of Scandinavian life.

I’ve tried searching and cannot for the life of me remember specifics, something on both Finnish heavy/alternative music and the reality of the nation being perpetually prone to disastrous mental health outcomes. Throw in The Morning Never Came and my painfully, disgustingly edgy adolescence (as well as a nascent interest in psychology/mental health, like many metalheads) and you’ve got one hell of a brooding, cathartic and times intimidating introduction to death-doom’s more funerary, bleakly realistic end.

It wasn’t all Khanate/Indian-coded vitriol, though, and those wonderfully European leads were absolutely right-place, right-time.

Consider that autobiographical detour pretty fundamental to my experience of the review. Like the harshest bellows and flightiest high cleans, our Finnish doomsters have ensured an appropriately atmospheric introduction that clicks to the end of The Eternal’s set like Lego.

Sure, they’re hooded, but again it’s not anywhere near approaching the spiritual pomp of Batushka, or even the braying black-hooded robed anonymity of, say, Uada. Plus, you Victorians are freaks and wear hoodies/beanies at pretty much any time of year or temperature, so it’s an aesthetic befitting a Melburnian stage.

If anything, Mikko Kotamäki (Vocals - p.s. aren’t Finnish names cool? It’s such a cool language) is a staunch figure, looking more like he’s about to rip into a Bleeding Through set and make demands of “All you motherfuckers out there in the fuckin’ pit tonight” than croon so whimsically at us. Staunch, tattooed, he grips the mic with both hands in a gesture shared by acoustic singer-songwriters and metalcore brutes alike. An almost sensitive but sure-footed embrace.

No less imposing in stature (what are they feeding these people up there?! Must be the healthcare system) isn’t two copies of The Mountain from Game of Thrones! It’s in fact similarly Ent-sized guitarists/keyboardist Juho Räihä and Juha Raivio respectively. Out struts a smirking Matti Honkonen, confident the sheer bloody size of his fretted weapon will suffice as the low-end cudgel in the equation, adjoined behind by Juuso Raatikainen.

Man, if Suomilainen wasn’t actually way more difficult than what these cool names imply, huh? What’ve we got? Bruce? Yep. Anyway…I’m reviewing bands and not name choices, but in that vein - Swallow The Sun is a perfectly appropriate moniker. You get exactly what you were expecting - a didactic melding of ever-present summery melodic twilight with subterranean, ancient, growling, wintry death-doom from the pits of seasonal-affective despair.

Being the height of summer here and just off the back of The Eternal’s melodic flair, the band opt for shorts-and-thongs (flip-flops, for you Yanks et al) in a musical sense. Withholding the usual tactic of an opening bombardment, the band instead send ‘Innocence Was Long Forgotten’ as an olive-branch invitation.

Now, Shining was a pretty polarising album in the online discourse, but down here in the real world we’re much more open-minded and appreciative. How can you not be? The Damnation-era comparison is rightfully apt for this soothing track, however doesn’t do the emotive, impactful swells towards the songs’ latter half enough justice. I’m used to seeing a little bit of passive punter-protest in less celebrated material, a relative quietening compared to tracklist-darlings.

Such passivity or even hints of reserve are nowhere in sight throughout the set, unless of course you’re conflating half the audience’s ‘transfixed with dumbstruck awe’ pose. Seriously, it’s like Medusa had cut sick on some of these people - turned to stone by sheer live-music mythos. Unlike poor Ancient Greek saps reportedly turned to stone, the emotive caterwauling both between tracks and within them is indicative that these positively-petrified individuals aren’t just surviving, they’re thriving.

Take yet more poor-man’s hip-fire recording (featuring the love of Mammon’s vocalist-life, Pole) as example. This is the first ninety seconds, a reasonably subdued and melodic opener and yet - the response! (Maybe headphone warning - I get a bit yeeeeeew-y here):

‘Descending Winters’ also trips up the usual format a bit. Instead of the fastest and most unruly track as is metal-band fare, they opt for a relatively leashed yet powerful intro to the ‘death’ side of proceedings. To the first of many fist-pumped “Oi! Oi! Oi”’s of the night, naturally.

Bellowing deep into cardiovascular depths only mined by certain vocalists and maybe elite athletes, the sheer fucking centrifugal force that is Mikko’s throaty, acid-drenched sub-register death-growl is something for the ages. There’s something Akerfeldt-ian about the sheer brutality and contrast these meaty vocals lend to the song structure, as though played through a second bass amp and a pedalboard packed with HM-2 pedals. Our vocal friend here just has the X-factor in his vocal performance - I really can’t sum it up any other way. And the sound! Damn! Props to the engineers tonight, Corner is sounding crisper than a leaf of hand-picked lettuce, which really adds atmospheric weight.

‘New Moon’ doesn’t piss about, and we love it for that. Here is where you get that immediacy, the sudden lurch into the bands’ more forlorn and aggressive territory. Mikko’s voice tumbles like a dislodged mighty oak, barrelling over the steep falls provided by Matti Honkonen and Juuso Raatikainen. Without want of extending the review into forever-land, you can effectively merge all the complementary comments on rhythm-section above with these two. Stoic, powerful, ever-present and yet skilfully yielding to negative space with dime-turn precision.

Weaving throughout the crash and fall of this force of Finlands’ forested lands, Juho Räihä and Juha Raivio ensure sonic space is weaved with an endlessly intricate of subtle yet noticeable leads, warm tones and moments of flashing, shredding insight. Multiple band members elect to swap turns standing on the foldbacks, instruments held aloft in rockstar pose. Yea, traveller, these are indeed bards of a place long forgotten to chest-beating bravado, but they know how to work a crowd.

Contrast this metal-ness with the slight Enya vibe that introduces ‘Under Sun and Moon’, and the additional sheen, that melodic brightness is weaponised further in heavier moments. I don’t like Enya all too much, overbearing keys and backing-tracks in my live music far less, depending on whose playing. Well, StS are an example of ‘whose playing’ - restrained but shining over the death-doom throughout, the ambience really adds volume and atmospheric fullness without crowding aural space. It’s excellently woven.

‘Don’t Fall Asleep (Horror Pt 2)’ teleports me straight back. Straight back to 2009, my undiagnosed ADHD arse nearly weeping at the laptop trying to befuddle my way through a Psychology degree’s second year - one which decided to skip the roguelite progression and place me directly in endgame-boss level stress. I was also intuitively aware of but not seeking help for some pretty serious mood disorder issues at that time, and this is a track that brings historical self-prescribed music therapy right through to the present. A sombre title befitting a beautifully lilting and gigantic death-doom one-two punch, I’m physically choked-up now. I’m sure there were many in attendance who have similar emotional links to the material on offer, ‘cause that’s the intended effect. Reflective, open-minded, unhurried yet idiomatically Finnish in its’ quietly unwavering sureness.

It’s about here that Old Mate Mikko utters one of his few sparse inter-track phrases: “Thank you”. I imagine bats overheard smacking into telegraph poles, their sonar thrown out of whack by yet another baritone sound-blast. Part of me wishes for cybernetic augmentation to be a thing, so I can plug my Cort 5-string into the guy’s larynx.

“It’s great to be here in Melbourne.” Again, iconically Finnish. There’s no American/Australian need to murder silence with words, to speak at yelling volume. That’s what the tunes are for, innit?

And tunes they are.

Unlike many 12-minute-plus prog-epic analogues, Swallow’s humility and groundedness also extend to track length. Thus, in far quicker and completely immersed time-blind fashion, we’re transported through a myriad of discographic moments - ‘Sombre Wings’, ‘November Dust’ and more. A nod and vocal performance given to our dearly-departed Gothic god in Peter Steele, Mikko has his own baritone inflection that pays massive homage to the Giant Goth Upstairs.

Hence also, why I’ll give pause both to my slightly-ridiculous track-by-track note-taking and pull up stumps to rein this long-winded review in. Like recent Your Mate Bookings experience via Batushka, there’s a massive portion of this gig that has a specialness, emotional weight and deftness of execution that could turn every individual track played into a separate review.

Which is why I’m so impressed with these guys. Not just because they’re both astonishingly precise and comfortably relaxed, not just because they move mountain ranges with barely the amount of notes your average tech-death band has in the back pocket for one shred-filled measure. The current set isn’t lacking for shred or tasty early Dark Tranquillity esque leads, nor for painfully protracted wailing lead mourns that make me want to lie down, put Dismantling Devotion on and cry happy, cathartic tears of emotional release.

That’s why I’m impressed. They’ve confidently and proudly eschewed so much of their contemporaries arms-race - notes played per-minute, being the proggiest kid on the block, releasing an album in 2026 and it not being about cosmic extradimensional entities. Heck, they led the show with a melodic track, and finish to great applause with both clever crescendo and unapologetic abruptness.

Sometimes you don’t need 120bpm (or, in doom’s case, 40-60), endless reels of white-hot tremolo, shred and the nastiest brutality out there, just to make significant emotional impact. In the afterglow of the show, I’m bathed in your usual soup of high-charged, “brooo that was so fuckin’ good brooooo” wild-eyedness and a cooler, calmer, deeper sense of real contentment.

Passing the poor saps stumbling past who weren’t privy to such a performance could have me sniggering with ‘sucked-in idiots’ metal-elitist energy. But no - I’m just smiling to myself, walking back to the car with a deliberate slowness that is unusual post-gig.

Thanks Swallow the Sun, Neomantra, The Eternal and Mammon’s Throne, thanks to the staff of both Your Mate Bookings and The Corner Hotel. Truly a special experience from a band far more iconic and precious than those who skipped this first time ‘round might’ve realised.

If nothing else, hopefully my deluge of literary waffle spurs you to highly consider taking up the next tour. You won’t regret it.

Your Mate Bookings:

YMB - Official Site

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