[Gig Review] TESTAMENT w/ HIDDEN INTENT @ Northcote Theatre, Melb (AU), 21.06.25.
EVENT: Testament (US) Australian Tour 2025 (with Supports Hidden Intent (AU))
LOCATION: Northcote Theatre, Melbourne, AU
ORGANISER: Metropolis Touring & ThePhoenix.Au
(BARELY-COMPREHENSIBLE) WRITER: Brady Irwin
(SKILLED) PHOTOGRAPHER: Richie Black Photography
AUDIENCE FACES: Molten Into White-Hot Slag (RIP)
(refer to artist/stakeholder links throughout & bottom of article).
[brings crust-laden car full of death metal, grindcore and thrash to a screeching halt]
“Woah-woah, there!” Easy now.
For those of you new to the lobotomized-doesn’t-even-begin-to-cut-it levels of typed verbiage that is a Brady Irwin ISC review -strap in, kid. This ain’t likely two stops on the 86, So Hungover quick-read. Other outlets for that; no shade, envy the brevity.
Wouldn’t be a good social worker by trade if I didn’t act in the interests of online mental health now, would I?
[ushers familiar ISC followers through, whispers thanks for returning]
Now, don’t panic. Hey, if anything - you’re in luck.
You, unwitting and confused reader who simply just wanted to Get On With It, are lucky!
I’m slapping the first official ISC Brady LONGBOI Warning on this article.
It’s Testament, it’s thrash metal, so you’ll understand why I’ll a) dispense with any of my usual overcompensatory apologies (it’s thrash, dude) and b) treating titanic overlords of a sacred genre and their keen understudy, requires a bit more word-count than your usual.
Okay, with that in mind, crack on.
Peace, Love And Death Metal Human Blood Somehow Riddled With Billions of Microscopic Thrash Riffs, xoxo - Brady.
LONGBOI WARNING (™️) - It’s A Detailed Review, To Say The Least.
Caption = Instructions for context, if required. Also, big words make words from head sound good!
Help write-man obfuscate da underlying executive-functioning deficit but-good! I like pretending it’s a solid, safe bet!
GIG REVIEW
NECESSARY THANKS
LINKS - USE THEM.
BRIEF (FOR ONCE) PROLOGUE:
Wracked with a combination of white-knuckle, low-frustration-tolerance for traffic, “bloody-Melbourne-drivers-mate” rage and incomprehensible Google-Maps-time-management-bum-steering, I finally secured a park somewhere more than a few blocks away after 30 minutes of Mariokart-flavoured repetitive circles. Head similarly spinning, veritably spinning. Dysregulated.
Literally sprinting from the Subaru-branded mecha-chariot which always faithfully gets me from an undisclosed location on the Bellarine Peninsula to Melbourne’s numerous concert venues, once-again muttering a variation on “Two hours, Google Maps? My arse”, I’m nonetheless calmed like a Hindu cow as I approach the flight of stairs into Northcote Theatre.
Wow.
Woah.
Dude!
Let’s throw in a linguistic trope: She’s a beehive of activity, mate (Australiana Reference: We often feminise inanimate objects; wish we paid as much respect to the fairer-sex and those identifying as same).
First band and even flippin-freakin’-fuckin’-goddamned foyer of all places, is the most packed-out I’ve seen it in the relatively few gigs I’ve seen here (Municipal Waste, Cavalera, et al). Next-level.
Having just brushed swiftly past High Street’s throng of upper-middle intelligentsia busy enjoying some tucker (cuisine/dining fare) likely currently outside this thrasher’s current income bracket, it’s my first of many workmanlike “How-ya-garn, cunce?” (Aus/Eng Translate: “How do you do, expletives?”). Phew. Made it.
Oh my sweet-stars. I’m a drawlin’ Southern Belle about to pass out with relief. Pass me one of those fancy fans as I nearly hit the wooden-floorboarding (again - went backside-over-breast spectacularly for Municipal, earnt a splinter in the lip, solid pit).
I stow it with the crippling content-creator-perfectionism, and remind myself it’s mere minutes and I’ve got plentiful time left of our sole, brave, mere-mortal Melburnian thrash supports to enjoy as tasty hors’d’ouevers.
Chill out Brady; you’ve been a Senior Editor and have unfortunately seen writers phone it in with a paragraph re: headliners’ set and call that insult a media pass dutifully covered.
She’ll be right, mate (Australiana Reference: Universal declaration of compassionate reassurance).
Cause first up, we’ve got:
HIDDEN INTENT:
Got to give these guys some leverage.
They may not be on my regular listening rotation (owner/editor of a podcast/blog with an inconceivable amount of promotional material to sneak-peek/also not going to blow smoke up arses?), but they’re as dependable and stoically-local as an empty bottle of Uzo surely lying in nearby All Nations Park. I can go six months, two years, forever between gigs and, like any localised punter, know exactly what to expect. That is, a safe and solid bet.
Oh Hidden Intent.
Oh, my sweet summer child.
Lawd-Jesus Thrash-Dancin’ Christ, Y’all.
Yea, sacrificial lambs unto the altar of expectations are thee. And yet, who better for the bill than a band as classically Melbourne-scene as this local institution?
I lock eyes with with the fearful and brave, hard-working bar-staff a few people back (then a few more, weird amount of line-cutters in the beer-line, but ‘kay) and opt for Your Guys’ Toohey’s New On Tap, I Guess (New South Welshman; fear not, my lack of motivation for Sydney as a place to inhabit far surpasses yours, I promise). Carlton’s a solid drop, I’ll take it over XXXX [har-har, Queenslanders can’t spell beer, eye-roll] or that pestilential green tin myself and late-adolescent Coffs Harbour crew were weirdly fond of quaffing - alongside Fruity Lexia, ‘course.
Chris McEwen of numerous Melbourne bands’ fame proclaims tonight’s “Not just about getting pissed with your mates, it’s about social justice!”. Rad. That’ll knock the socks off a few oh-my-dear-stars pretend-centrist libertarians in the room.
Dig it. Sorry, cunce [Aus-English - expletive]; thrash metal was born of punk-rock, and they’re about that. Take your “*sniff* UwU, but Mwister Bwady, I’m Powiticawwy Neutwal!” shit and scram. You and your neckbeard aren’t wanted. ‘There Is No Business To Be Done On A Dead Planet’, flog.
‘Breaking Point’ is reached both musically and, it seems, with the capacity of this goddamn venue.
It’s veritably stifling in here; an enlarged open-plan expanse that is already a teeming mass of shoulder-barges and intent forward fixed-stares. Our bassist-vocalist gets a shoutout right here and right goddamned now for fingerstyle-bass thrash AND vocals (you don’t know until you’ve tried, respect). Barking out a purposefully-monotonal, punky, gruff vocal range acceptable in the thrash space. It’s as much a percussive instrument in the genre as it is a lyrical oratory device. Meh. I’m not reviewing the Wiener (snicker - also Fahrt, freaking loved that city) Staatsoper (Viennese Opera) I accidentally walked into whilst earnestly lost in as an ADHD backpacker. Very funny for patrons up the back, less so me. Likewise, this set is light-hearted but the cramped conditions are uncharacteristically getting to me a smidge. Music soothes the savage sensory-overwhelm beast of a man from near Geelong. One who needs to be improve his human-being dose-response tolerance of late, not just post ISC from home and go to gigs (very important context for later commentary).
Galloping, melodic licks with a Testament blues lean from palm-muter Phil Bennett. A guitarist sporting both a devilishly domestic how-ya-garn (Aus-English: “How do you fare?”) grin, and a bright-green axe currently getting the full cheese-grater/CIA documents treatment.
Pink-strap to really the clear the house of/emasculate boringly-cererbal, sneering patrician elitists.
They won’t be missed, and likely avoided getting snapped in gore-soaked halves by us thrashers. C’est la vie mon amie, off you hop to whinge on Metal-Archives.
We’ve got heads to bang, dweeb.
Seriously, word-play’s fun but brother’s chops blast half the local scene dead out of the water. Serious upper-tier noodling. And that’s saying something, because Melburnian lead-guitarists are forged in the fire of elite-tier competition. Blah blah evolutionary theory, etc.
Never one to be a terrible bassist myself, nor dispense with “cover the vocalist and guitarists” bare-min standard, I spot Paul (Lewis, drummer) set off to the stage’s left. He’s in an honestly-cool BADBADNOTGOOD/The Nightcat funk-rock position. Not out of pretentious prop-placement but ‘cause the headliners’ kit alone takes up half the dang stage. It’s cool, it’s Melbourne, it’s both as nouveau-chic and hysterically-bogan (redneck/chav) as the near Frenzal Rhomb Australiana with which this band has plied a decidedly Dead Kelly-esque trade.
The shtick works, the cunce are up for it mate.
“Who’s heard of our new album Terraform?”, poor bastard Chris screams to honestly/temporarily the most unenthused thrash metal crowd (it was seriously weird, bro), losing not one iota of cheek or confidence to quip back to the limp-wristed silence with a fuck-ya’s-then (“I spite thee!”) rapidfire combeack:
“Aw yeah? All 10 of you’s? Fuck yeah! This is off our new album Terraform, this is the title track!”.
I sound hyperbolic about crowd energy, but there was a strange vibe about the place tonight, something I’ll detail a bit later. Every Local Metalcore Band Ever On Facebook-coded: We Have Things Coming.
Nevertheless, the refinement and dynamics across the board with the newer material - splashes of death-metal-style tremolo not unlike their stage superiors up next, tasteful smatterings of supreme-pizza (death? heh) drum fills there, tensile thread quivering between Discharge, Clutch and The Haunted, Phil smirking as he outdoes himself.
They’re quiet and docile even two-thirds back. Towards the stage, I’ll give punters that. To borrow from Swedish esoteric philosopher Jens Kidman of academic institute Meshuggah: transfixed, yet eyes glowing with delight.
Chris?! I mean, I know and Youtube tutorials/Reddit exist - but in this moment? Dude. Teach me. The clack coming out of that thing is treble-laden, crisp crunch plied by a man slung low, windmilling and sounding like he’s sporting a thumb-width pick of polonium. Jagged, cutting shards; piercing arrows through all metalhead pretence into my soft, wistful thrash aorta.
That fingerstyle-gone-batshit-good-tone’s occurring as Ol’Mate Phil darts across the Ru Paul’s Drag Race-coded runway stage to check in on Paul. Yep, oath mate (Aus-English: “I concur”), solid job, cheers mate.
As calmly as the first sip of a Bushell’s-on-smoko (tea during union-mandated short-rest), this absolute beast peels off virtuosity and histrionics through that track wholesale. Then, relentlessly-Australian ‘Dropbears Are Real’, which finally wrenches the pin out of the claymore… and sets the pit right off. My chest relieves on their behalf.
As many of us shark-biscuit bodyboarders hollered to Esky-lid riders atop wave-crests back-home: “Farken CHARGE IT!” (Aus-Eng: “Approach this task with ruthless and virile ferocity”! And the pit indeed did. That’s the very last I even visibly caught of the pit for the rest of the night; this place is nearing piss-take for the first band. By the by, some of the most comprehensive turnout I have ever seen for a thrash opener. Don’t care if convenience is a variable, absolutely stellar lived-experience mosh consumer representation amongst local thrash advocates.
A breakneck thrash-ripper preceded, I must say, by the line of the entire fucking evening. Just the best quote, which ironically I may be slightly have misheard a word or two. Already working hard to strain attention whilst being knocked about by crowd-bargers.
Chuck Billy, brother you had some clangers but c’mon: “Shit ?turd-balls (maybe I misheard that last word - it’s funny so I’m leaving it in for self-sabotage) outta the tree, because Dropbears Are Real!”. Not pictured: gullible Midwest American tourists wide-eyed and shooting daggers at the eucalypts.
The morticians around me are momentarily stirred back to life (it’s a thrash gig, guys, you’re supposed to be a kook?! These the same mob who just go to Good Things and call it a year?! Stone the flamin’ crows!).
Pointed looks of disgust as I, an ADHD feral thrash-goblin from near-Geelong amongst Melburnites, snap off a quick couple of kookaburra’s hoot-laughs of appreciation. Disproportionate but personal space invasion and irritability got things but farrrrrrrrrrrk-me (self-astoundment proclamation) if I haven’t felt this Australian since my last Bunnings snag.
Desperation (”Come on! Let’s get that circle-pit actually going!”) gives way to relief (”That’s more my speed!”) and all’s well in mine and Chris’ thrash-worlds.
Better still.
(If you haven’t garnered it yet, dudes/dudettes/dudefolk - not a family-friendly blog/podcast, plus it’s Hidden Intent):
“Cheers, cunts! Get a fuckin’ dog up ya!”
Mate. MATE. No translations, I’m nationalistic for the first time since primary-school education.
Look.
Guys. Melbourne.
Might be from Broadmeadows-by-the-ocean (sorry to throw you under the bus Coffs Harbour, love you), but I’m also pretty Melbourne-y in ways. I’m a globalist SJW anarcho-syndicalist social-worker lefter-than-red crust-punk.
But that line?
That goddamn clarion-call, that rousing cry to have your head blown off by a Turkish sniper, all for some fog-breathing imperialist’s meat-grinder for colonial suckers back in the 1910’s?! In that moment, I’m heraldric goddamn pride. I’ll shame my mother forever, go full-Cronulla-aye with the Southern-Cross-Glen-Benton forehead branding for I am, you are, we are Australian.
Lot of words so far for one support act. Lucky Hidden Intent, huh? They’ve got like three/four bands’ worth of exposition real-estate to be filled.
I’m just celebrating the international spirit of heavy metal, ‘kay?
Plus I have inattentive-type attention hyperactivity deficit disorder, of which overinclusive speech (layman’s: talks/thinks/writes/speaks too much), so shut your yap. Certainly not about to clamp mine shut about thrash, evidently.
Shut mine I did for once, though! ‘Cause these kaaaaaarnts-aye [respectable gentlemen] blew the roof off their own set with a freaking searing, nearly-extreme-metal barn burner that they absolutely chose as a penultimate number in ‘Reaper’. And the crowd holistically roars like we found Harold Holt’s quiet cave of lamentation after all these years through sheer happenstance.
‘Addicted To Thrash’ does exactly what it says on the tin, iconically classic-thrash and deliberately cultivated as a very wise book-end to the set, finally garnering them a deservedly monstrous, bellowing applause at the end.
We’re invited to the merch desk, but we’re also minutes off the place being almost too tightly-packed for kidney health and use of urinals. Seriously. Hope no one peed on the floor, which would be characteristically thrash I guess.
VIBE CHECK/INTERMISSION:
Longest two-band review ever, and I’ll try not to mince words or wax too lyrical. Recently I’ve been adding in a vibe-check to gig reviews, just to add some sensory dressing to the descriptive pallette. Great, you mutter impatiently. Noted, soz [sorry].
Vibe check, for the first time ever for me in any gig review (I’m unusually egregiously optimistic about gig reviews, it’s where I poured all of that from the mental health bucket) - nah. I was fuming. More and more as we went.
Context: Aforementioned lack of people-tolerance, multiple DSM-V diagnoses, various pew-positions taken that were possibly less than tactical.
Was it the confinement of so, so many people? Lots, and lots, and lots of people just straight shoulder-barging, elbowing, pushing, clawing, no “’scuse me maaaaaite-cheers” (“my thanks to thee, kind sir”). Just barrelling, gunning through. Not in that half-sloshed forgiveable silly-lout here and there. That always gets a pass from me. Lots of people just steamrolling through everyone, really taking the mickey. I also get open-mouth coughed on, in the worlds’ most locked-down city, three times.
To rule out extraneous variables, specifically for this review, I experimented. Swapped out a few places. Yeah, the thoroughfare was pretty rough, but I’ve not seen people truly that out for their own at a metal gig in a very, very long time. Perhaps it’s layout - egress is via narrow left-right hand funnels compared to the vast open expanse housing the crowds’ majority.
It’s a thrash gig so crew are on the booze, but I’m not sure that accounts for it.
Worst of all, I cop some prick clasp a hand on my shoulder, slowly and deliberately, thrusting me aside with a slam right into the edge wall. A quick reflexive snip at ol’-mates’ shoulder-blade back with an open-palm. Dude, what the hell? Knave, were this not a metal-journalism gig, pacifistic and glass-jawed as I am, a decade-plus from my last unintentional self-defence trade of blows in Fortitude Valley, can’t say hands mightn’t have been thrown.
I checked in afterwards with quite a few other punters. My experience wasn’t universally shared, but it wasn’t uncommon.
I’m going to be empathic, rather than spitting chips like I honestly was. Anxiety, confinement, a layout requiring a significant haul through many tightly-packed people. Architecture’s no fault on the brilliant staff, but I couldn’t begrudge many social-anxiety not-enjoyers who would’ve had even more hellish experience with all the thankless pit/foyer-charging.
Outside of that? Faultless. Classic service by the most embattled persons on earth not in military conflict = venue staff at a thrash metal gig. Really, sincerely, top-notch work to everyone drawing the gig-calendar short-straw on beer-starved thrashaholics. Bless!
Organisation? On a dime, Fear Factory accuracy. No layabouts, no clowning. Spot on.
Don’t take my location-specific woes and grumpiness about it as a reflection on the venue - apples and oranges with past packed-out Northcote Theatre experiences.
That said, I know it’s probably jolly-japes - to whoever cleanly plucked the beanie clean off my head and disappeared (? Hilarious! I actually laughed?), that was $5 at Kmart. I get it bro, cost of living crisis. I kookaburra-cacked it to myself quietly. Honestly, that low-key lifted my spirits a bit. 2025, what an absurdist experience.
Vibe check done, and 98% of those in my analytics can stop feverishly hammering Page Down or breaking smartphone screen-glass in thumbed desperation. Testament. We’re on. To quote hardcore frontmen after the drummer’s stopped rolling the snare?
GO.
TESTAMENT:
I’m still ropeable, honestly, as, Beastie Boys’ Fight For Your Right To Party is a clear indicator it’s about to go. Thank god for mindfulness techniques, praise Satan for Testament and dear sweet Buddha, I could kiss you on your triplet-tickled thrash tummy. None of any of that matters for naught, now. Literally nothing matters to any punter in the room, ‘cept thrash.
Relief, us mere apostates but witnesses to Satan’s masters striding the stage to tinnitus-level applause. I’d say ‘a Challenger Appeared!’ but it’s Testament and up against anyone before them, based on their set? They’ve won that wholesale. Metallica, Slayer, Anthrax, Megadeth? No way, they’d still ‘ave been smoked.
Steve Digorgio. The bass-man himself. My bassist heart is aflutter, throat legitimately choked watching that iconic and limitlessly versatile low-stringer prowl astride the stage. Man holding it down on so many of my favourite albums, which I’ve spent many hours apishly thumping nowhere near as well at home. And again, he’s here. My guts nearly drop out, and it’s not just this cram-packed space and inability to naturally fan the elbows. Bassists the room over swoon in unison, irrespective of gender or partner preference.
It’s Steve, those locks, you get a pass. And also those tree-trunks he’s calling instruments. Serious heft!
The Man is up next! Not your boss, thankfully, but the personified essence of axemanship. The lead-master, histrionic provocateur of Jeff Loomis-quintupled (felt like that last night, if hyperbolic), harmonic-shred/quantum-physics capability, Alex. Mother-flippin’. Scolnick everybody. Goddamn, but the absolute veracity with which this man was plying his trade via harmonics, pick-slides, bluesy vibrato-white-knuckle face-melt shred, Big Chungus riffage. Both like it was so routine he could do it comatose, and like even near forty years into this career, his life absolutely depended on showmanship with every, Freaking, Note.
Just as spry as a day-old lamb too, fitter than this vape-afflicted millenial. Don’t vape kids, it’s a menace. I thought ciggies (cigarettes, naturally) were tough to boot. Really, really bad for pit-fitness, take it from wheezing-me. #PSA.
Aussie openers got a writer typing unwise and not-PG crass Australian linguistic fare, why not continue? Chris Dovas. I’ll churn some drummer-butter into the track-by-track further on but also kick off the relatively recent band entrants’ performance with one word.
It’s the only word that needs to be said of his ballistic chicanery atop a monster-kit that’d make Mangini and Haake sadly shrug and say “fine, you win”:
FUCK.
You’re welcome.
Gotta give it to the true heroes of thrash metal’s heaviness, drummers. Hard as that is to admit as a bass-ape, as funny as it is to me re: every guitarist reading this and harrumphing. You know. Sincerely, it’s the drumming that propels these guys through decades of relevance too, a rhythm-section that never once sheathed it’s steel, and Chris could’ve just as easily been at another gig making death metal drummers cry from sidelines. Stellar, stoic, flavourful, fast. And that drum solo?
Here, have a jerky YT Short from Yours Truly (lots of elbow being knocked about, savvy):
A Short is worth yet another thousand of my words.
Eric Peterson, a man kind enough to grace my second-rate sub-Costco-Kirklands indie podcast with his demigod presence? Undefeatable rhythm guitarist. The champion. You haven’t even picked up Player Two’s controller yet? No need, you’re knocked out buddy. Take it home. Meshuggah’s an equal analogue in terms of rhythmic battery sniper-accuracy. Got a fair measure of us bass players flogged too, I’ll wager. Think he’s done there?! HAH. More emphatic and prolonged ADHD grindcore-crust-punk-kookaburra hoots from me, but for about a minute straight.
Brother, he was ripping his own strips of lead-guitar drywall off that shiny axe with furiously bluesy, harmonic and entire-music-degree’s worth of technique playbook. All whilst holding it down like he’s the poor kid at the end of Akira squashing an ant underneath. Go on. Have a crack. Challenge the man. I won’t.
God-tier musicians all. A pithy throwaway that we often use on regular routines after so many good bands, but this is with sincerity. Not big-noting myself, rather disclosing my addiction and empty wallet over years:
Thrash? Seen ‘em all. Sincerely some of the cleanest and most dynamic, technique-flitting mastery you’ll see from the genre. Not an easy call, yeah? Not made lightly. Everyone in attendance will agree, or needs to book in with a hearing specialist and an eye doctor.
CHUCK BILLY.
My second Testament rodeo, luckily, but even then: WTF.
I have to swear again, there really are no words: what the ever-loving, Kentucky-fried, eleven herbs and spices fuck was that, Chuck?! I’ve seen these guys once before at Soundwave. This was Pantera, it was ‘A New Level’.
Hence as I hope’s clear thus far, the immeasurable, transcendent and resplendent gratitude at the monolithic headliner setlist. As soulful as the man’s voice, as diverse as the whimsical tirade your office battery-farms’ People and Culture pretend to have about organisational hand-holding in webinars that should’ve been emails. Showcased everyone’s infinite adaptability, but I’m giving the night’s crown to soon-birthday-boy Mr. Billy.
I just… Christ. Dude. Jeez, man.
Bellowing, howling, crooning, death metal roaring with a ferocity that should have Corpsegrinder himself close to defecating his trousers within earshot. Under legal and contractual obligation at that.
Brutality, soul, swagger, harmony, range. If it was any other band, he’s immediately the secret sauce, even if all my favourite musicians are in said hypothetical arrangement. But they’re not, this is Testament, ‘Practice What You Preach’ is a swirling beautiful firestom, my skin’s electric, the lighting’s on-point (SO on point, brilliant work thoughout) and Melbourne is exploding. There’s the thrasher spirit. YES.
Propping one arm and calmly striding across the room like he’s there to MC a midday matinee for Accounts Payable [enjoy that, knowledge-workers], our vocalist has literally no need for embellishing with sleight of hand or interpretive dance. No tricks are needed, just simplistic mic-cups, gargantuan strides and the fire of Prometheus.
He physically, spiritually, occupies god-freaking-damned space. Commands it to will.
I’m as autistically-reductionist about life and the universe as they come - no gods, no masters, no ghosts, life’s meaningless except what we apply.
But, as he later recants with the most sincerely I-fucking-own-this-statement in his booming ancestral-pride preamble for ‘Trail of Tears’ later on… even as a Caucasian, there is undeniably the presence of the Wurundjeri, the Wathoroung, my home-town’s Gumbaynnggir (shoutout, #2452 is still theirs) Chuck’s First Nations ancestors, elders and leaders. I’m not throwing this in as a “oh my god, so Melbourne, so inclusive, babes!” - nah man, you felt an otherworldy force that us convict-cred Aussie fair-skins won’t be able to access anywhere ever, except when channelled through this man’s power.
Important: I was so thoroughly inspired by Chuck’s performance and particularly just the drip of sincere soulfulness that exuded from every pore on the night, but particularly his verbal homage to his and our First Nations peoples, that it subsequently kicked my arse into gear to finally (gods) write up and post our Welcome To Country, which I think out of respect for both the night and said Nations, will be an ongoing stickied/featured post here. He/they deserve no less.
Not here to pump that promo just to, I don’t know, win the affections of some woman in a bar in Brunswick just trying to read her book, drink and mind her own goddamned business. Nah, sincerely Chuck. Bro - I’ve already pestered you on socials, and I don’t know if you’ll ever read this review, that’s fine - but to reiterate, YOU were the final impetus, the grenade-pull linchpin for that. You got this white-fella off his backside about and in turn, have participated in Australian praxis in our small but meaningful way. BIG UPS.
If that’s not an argument again the bored PMRC/Reagonomics-era trope that heavy metal is negative, evil and Satanic and whatnot, truly don’t know what to say.
This whole review’s hyperbolic but with every, last, tiny, shred of sincerity and integrity I possess in my entire body? The best, and I mean best, thrash metal vocalist out. I thought that at Soundwave in Brisbane, a million thrash gigs since and think it right now. Got to be. I had to really expand on Billy’s performance, thanks for the umbrage. Thank Satan COVID didn’t take him when that came up on the news early 2020’s. Don’t know if it could; sing half a song and he’s probably annihilated that sucker.*
*-not empirically tested, please don’t.
We’re one song in. I promise the review accelerates. Had to really, really paint a painfully studious picture of this performance; I’d hang my head in Sword of Damocles driven disgust if I just gave a cursory line. These guys are top-dog. They’re elite. Masterclass. God-tier. Some may have realised it too late before they chanced at the events page, eyes widening in horror halfway through the discog. Next time, smash it at 9am on day-of.
Chuck baits us: “It’s been a long time, and you know what? I get asked a lot, where’s your favourite place to play? And I say Australia.”
Well, a man of such earthen stone is incapable of insincerity to thrashers, but he continues with the rationale. Beautiful. the ‘au’ half of my severely brain-dead auDHD brain is pleased, its’ symptomatic need for clarification met.
Reminding us of the laidback, sunshine-soaked links between Californian and Australian culture, even in the horrific late-stage capitalist hellscape that is 2025, such a simple assurance just adds to that cross-cultural globalised brotherhood that only a real devout fiend of the thrash metal arts understands. Truly, nothing feels more bonding than thrash. Shows like this and frontmen like that? Yep. That’s why.
‘The Pale King’ scoffs at all the nerds on Discord servers who post nothing but Mick Gordon and call it a metal day. Noting that, it rips, it tears indeed. It shreds apart, slices, dices and even juliennes! (TM). Histrionic, palm-muted, thuggish, cerebral, skilful, humbly thrash, like all numbers tonight. It’s everything. The technical and harmonic diaspora on display here takes one look at Dream Theater with a pouty, smug frown of mocking and an “Nawwwwh, babe”. Get the hell out of the way Petrucci, take your fan with you. Myung can stay, he’s thrash.
“I’m feeling better, can I hear you Melbourne?!” (of course we hoot and throw a sea of horns).
Hey, sound-guys? 99.99% freaking bang-up job. That splice of reverb on Chuck’s voice transported me to a time before I was even friggin’ born, off to a matinee in the late 80’s. Every note on the guitars a delectable wafer of tone crunch, distorted/ clean/otherwise. The drums? Refer to the F-word above. Small gripes but also me being selfish; I was admittedly gagging for a little more bass in the mix. Initially. But heck, you even rectified that later. I spotted that quick head-flick and couple of words from God-Steve and it was right. Efficient. Nice. Ugh, Steve, I am not worthy.
Death-metal coded outro off the second track finished, and my body’s almost in revulsion. I’m ignoring the fact the probably-anxious but definitely-attentive others around me have their heads strangely still for this so far. I’ll give ‘em this; the cheers at any opportune moment could’ve collapsed us all under kinetic weight. That, and no one’s neck remains still tonight. To do so means not operating within the naturals of sound, science or physics. And you’re in Testament-space there, bud.
Eric Peterson’s formally introduced, throws us a promissory anecdote that the promoter themselves queried what the favourite city to play was. They’re sincere blokes so I’m calling true… but who cares when your city’s name gets announced with the most American Mel-BOURNE you have ever heard from all these guys respectively tonight? It’s charming and endearing. Doesn’t have to be Mel-BUN.
As is the anecdote about being teens, sneaking out of Mom’s house to go smoke bongs (thrashers, man) and like those Consumer Affairs Victoria lies they call claw-machines in arcades, we’re nipped by the neck and slung straight into grilled-steak searing via a harrowing rendition of ‘The Hunting’. I truly adore the semi-discordant duelling of the guitar-work on the early material. It doesn’t feel young-kids/first band, it feels purposeful, and the blistering panoply of note-heaven from back then shows they were born for this.
I can pontificate on every track, but I’ve written goddamned War and Peace about two bands.
Again;
a) Specifically 0:58-1:02 in godawful, not-worth-hyperlinking 2010’s AWOLNATION anthem ‘Sail’,
b) Thrash Metal, Most Sacred of My Music Hyperfixations,
c) 11 years since and d) it’s Testament. Quit your whinging and pay homage, brat. It’s Testament. Stay Gold’s down in Brunswick, go do some spin-kicks there. We’ve got a real mosh and headbang to muster up in here.
Now, I’m saying “WAR!” with bloodcurdling Gaelic blood-thirst from the Irwin clan (no seriously, apparently they used to raid the Saxons, based ancestor) to our shaman’s instruction:
“When I say RAAAAAAIIISSSEUP (bad spelling to emphasise that unique warble-rasp), you say-he-e-ey (little sing-songy trill, man’s full of tricks)?!”.
Us/Backing Vocalists: “RISE UP!”, “HEY!”.
“Oh hell yeah, its going to be a kickass time tonight Meeeeeeeel-BOOOOURNE!”. You got that right, kemosabe.
And kick-ass it was.
‘(D.N.R.) Do Not Resuscitate’. Sure. Haha, okay. Yeah? Just casually drop that on us. It’s only one of my favourite Testament tracks ever. Seems to be a collective statement, considering the sheer degree of shit = lost. This is the band turning their discography’s dial severely closer to death-thrash territory. The Crown doesn’t go to Scandinavia, not tonight. Pick-scrapes in a punishing breakdown after incomprehensible soloing, an act that tells the entire NWOAHM who was and is boss, also to make it intercontinentally ‘go on, try us’.
Of ‘Native Blood’ (I’ve really taken exhaustive freedom of this media pass, I’ll be curt) Chuck proudly subwoofer-booms:
“We’re going to play you more off that album. I’m Indigenous myself, so this one means something to me. This goes out to your First Nations, and mine.”
He continues with a screed that produced little dryness in the eyes of punters, surely mine. And they absolutely blast, and the aforementioned spectral wounds of those we’ve treated/treat with such contempt now but for a moment, wrapping us in universally human arms of forgiveness. Only for tonight, mind - we’re a lacking bunch of interloping arseholes by virtue of our forefathers. Privilege less ‘checked’, more floodlit on stern display. Time to get to business after we rock, huh?
Custodial stewards? Noted. Terra Nullius? Lies. Floor beneath me? More than commercial lease needs paid. Close The Gap. His heart-to-hand with every refrain of '“My native blood” has a cushy, soft level of loving warmth that pierces the grossly-clinical black-band-shirted toxic-masculine exterior of Australian machismo in a single fell swoop. Nearly wept; don’t bedgrudge a single person inside who cracked and indulged. That, by the way my friends, would be an act of true metal right there. Tuck that in your bulletbelts and spandex, emotionally-shielded posers. True thrashers feel, posers repress.
Shoutouts then given to the 11-year gap between Aussie gigs, a time-span that feels like chronologically more like Rose at the end of Titanic in terms of events past. A spat to the bug that hindered our collective plans to do this April 2020 (oof, lmao).
“We’re here now”.
Damn straight you are chief, you and this shamanic tribe of thrash-elder royalty. ‘Trail of Tears’ follows on with a comment about Billy’s observed severity of our “that real football rivalry I can goin’ on” via Sydney, in response to booming resounding boo’s at your usual which city’s better-banter. Such an easy card to play.
We love Australia, but banter between overcrowded capital cities is as local as NRL and AFL respectively. Assured we “kick Sydney’s ass so far”, my Mid North Coast memories of summer-time swarming from the south are vindicated to ball-tearing S-tier thrash.
Noting ahead of time (and now) their intent to play a more dynamic set and use of slowness, meanering bluesy-cruise, Skolnick on clean guitar tones and wistful croons from our chieftain. Damn, it hits just as hard as thrash, sincerely. Myself and the room are the most astutely attentive of the whole evening. Eric, my man! Those clean vocals are just as on-point as the backup screams and growls from yourself, Alex and Steve.
Which, naturally, leaves us deliberately (and eagerly) awaiting sheer adrenaline, soreness and fun.
This not-intermission cleanly breaks into a stellar salvo of up-tempo earth-scorching metal, punctured, stabilised, toyed-with, decimated, drum-soloed and otherwise launched high atop the drumkit by Chris’ disgustingly skilful performance. Big cheers for raising him into the stratosphere where he belongs; a god on high raining relentless drumming death-showers like countless kilotons of failed foreign policy on others’ soil back home. Here, it’s a happy but no less savage bombardment.
‘The Formation of Damnation’ - sheer, guttural brutality from within a modern thrash template. It takes real, bona-fide skill to remain squarely within the thrash domain without ‘Creeping Death’, sub-genre wise. But they do it!
“What a contrast! How’s it feel?” - cheers everyone for screaming for me, I’m speechless.
I could write another article of this length, no cap as the Gen Z kids said before I cottoned on it too late, about Digorgio and the bass-justice that is that wickedly technical flashy brilliance in ‘Souls of Black’. Death, Sadus, all of it, it’s all channelled through the blonde-locked wizard and I’m spellbound enough to take fistfuls of joyous d100 psychic damage. Floored and spellbound, and that caper continues as it has done, fretted or not, throughout a set of bass-arcana.
Must go in the review: Steve gave a really sincere musician’s nod to the articulation, intonation and other dynamics owed to Alex’s songwriting at large. Rare moment where we use a bassist-speech to heap even more praise on the lead guitarist, but no one’s earnt it more.
“My serenity, right here in Melbourne tonight!” - ours, shared owned.
Look.
I really am so, so tempted to continue a more extended playbook per-track to ‘The Ritual’ (dead, just dead, soul leaves my body, ascending), ‘The Electric Crown’ (worn onstage by deified men of steel), the hilarious first-video-clip Alcatraz sneakout anecdote behind utterly-decimating ‘Over The Wall’, and absolutely zero fucks given as an entire pantheon of godhood reaches the final apex. ‘Into The Pit’ indeed. Oh, there’s walls of death and circle-pits in there. For the first thrash metal gig in forever I’m not even visually privy to them. That’s fine. Despite feeling compressed like carbon fiber, had a freaking blast the whole night.
You can take my mild gripes about discomfort at points, tell it stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. I certainly did, and any residual beating-heart distress was irradiated from my body with thermonuclear force by virtue of the bands.
Thank you Hidden Intent. Thank you Testament. This was a Real One.
I wanted to remain fiercely unapologetic for the length, but I’m mindful not everyone has time to read a burnt-out neurodivergent retype the Bible. Thank you, Dear Reader.
And hey, before we go - Richie Black of Richie Black Photography, everyone.
I’m annoying insistent in my photographer-love but man’s not a footnote. We didn’t get to physically catch up but we were linked via the spiritual-tesseract that was everyone in the venue. Staff, punters, techs, all awash in the power of magi.
But apropos to skill and hard work: Photographers have to eat, and it’s a thankless-ish job for such stellar visual stimuli. You Queenslanders and Kiwis might wear togs (chuckle) to the beach, but everyone rep and respect our ‘togs.
Cheers for dazzling this madman’s screed with your brilliance brother, mad rescpect. Got Alex here for from your own camera to tilt the axe and nod his own grin of appreciation for ya.
Peace, Love and Feverishly Tearing Up Terra Nullius with Searing Thrash Metal, xoxo - Brady.
LINKS FOR BURNT-OUT BRADY-READERS:
TESTAMENT:
ISC Podcast Ep. 48: [Interview] with Eric Peterson (Article/Video/Audio-Only)
HIDDEN INTENT
Image Credit: VACCA, who could certainly use any support you can muster. Links below.
Normally, I’d pop in a link to our Ko-fi page, where you can consider a donation to an owner and team of hardworking, voluntary staff all. No Gods, No Masters Advertisers. No product placements other than literal press releases we get and post for free.
But you know what? No.
Not important. Not after tonight.
Instead, if you really want to pay the rent to the Wurundjeri peoples of the Kulin Nation, get your praxis, donations and real-world, on-site, physical/financial gumption over to this list of First Nations true heroes.
I’m not talking out my arse off a quick Google search; I’ve worked with them directly during my tenure as a social worker and vouch for them from a highly-regarded professional backing. And I’m adding the ones with which I’ve had direct case-management work done and successes observed alongside ATSI/First Nations clients, so that you know I rate it. There’s many more I’ve worked with, which speaks to recompense at least slightly paid by the Victorian State Government, in having lots of supports in the community. They’re under-funded, strained, under-staffed and whole embattled though. Don’t treat them as immortal, not in this socioeconomic climate.
Nationwide, per the Voices of the People Project initiative, refer to your local National Aboriginal Community Controlled Health Organisation, which you can search for here.
And don’t just nod and click. Frankly, that’s poser bullshit. You’re a thrasher; really want to be a poser?
Do something with this information. Something practical. Please and thanks.
Please note, the websites below may contain images of deceased Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Persons.
Websites Of The Virtuous:
Wurudjeri (Kulin Nation - Naarm; Stolen Lands on which Elodie, Mal, Richie, Hamza & Dean Reside)*
*Note: Many of the following services are Naarm-based, but provide statewide coverage:
Djirra - Women’s Family Violence/Legal Service
https://djirra.org.au
VACCA - Victorian Aboriginal Child and Community Agency:
https://www.vacca.org
VAHS - Victorian Aboriginal Health Service
https://www.vahs.org.au
Aborigines Advancement League:
https://aal.org.au
VALS - Victorian Aboriginal Legal Service
https://www.vals.org.au/home/melbourne/
To quote a Testament song title itself?