METAL THRASHING MAD

ANVIL

CATHOUSE, GLASGOW

23.06.11

(8/10)

METAL ON METAL ON METAL ON METAL: CANADIAN PROTO-THRASH LEGENDS CONTINUE TO BUILD MOMENTUM, 34 YEARS ON

CRASH! BANG! WALLOP! KAPOW!

9pm. A muggy Thursday night in Glasgow. Another drunken payday, the streets awash with boozy punters and middle-aged women lost on their way to Take That. In one of the city’s darker rooms, Steve “Lips” Kudlow is throttling his guitar with a vibrator, pulling slitty eyes at the audience (part of an extended intro to 1982 classic Mothra) and headbanging just as hard as anyone in front of him.

Anvil may have come a long way in the past few years but it’s refreshing to see they’ve not outgrown their roots: the exuberant juvenility and cartoon vibrancy that marked their appeal in the first place still burning brightly well over three decades into their career. Performing with intensity, commitment and defiance, there’s a sense of abandon to tonight’s show; a gleeful freedom to finally do what they want – on their terms – without having to worry about the social or financial repercussions.

Their celebrity notoriety may be at an all time high, but the songs hold up too; whether rolling out the inevitable brazen simplicity of Metal on Metal, the crunching atmospherics of This Is Thirteen or anthemic, back to basics new track Juggernaut of Justice there’s never less than overpowering volume and a remarkable sincerity – not necessarily in terms of outlandish subject matter but rather in that lasting confidence in metal as a genre. Powered on by the thrust of Rob Reiner’s pounding stick work and “perpetual new guy” Glenn Five reaching hard to live up to his introduction as “the best bassist in the world”, these are not the songs of a band looking to cash in on past glories or a more recent fifteen minutes of fame, but rather evergreen statements of intent from men that live to play and be heard – whatever winding path life leads them down.

Perhaps Anvil did push their luck, clinging on in elongated dry period – this is, after all, only their third tour of these isles – but as bastions of metal as escapist fantasy there’s not a soul here tonight, whether diehard fan, next-gen blow-in or curious movie convert, who’d dispute their credentials. It’s not just a show, it’s a feel-good experience and after almost two hours, drenched in sweat and grinning just as hard as when he stepped onstage, Lips is quick to salute the crowd for helping his fantasy come true. But he’s drowned out, rightfully, by fans new and old happy to acknowledge that – 34 years in – he’s already given so much more than he’s ever getting back.

Sam Law

FRANK TURNER – ENGLAND KEEP MY BONES

(Epitaph)

(8/10)

ENGLAND’S FOLK-PUNK LAUREATE FINDS STRENGTH IN FRESH PURPOSE

IT’S DIFFICULT to believe that Frank Turner is a mere 29 years old. Four records into his solo career (not to mention the two released with Million Dead) and what already seems like half a lifetime spent on the road, you’d be forgiven for thinking this is a man who’s already peaked.

He hasn’t done himself many favours in this respect; a canon of disenchanted laments and road-weary travelogues doing little to break the illusion of an artist as creaky as his instrument. Even here we’ve got posthumous instructions (One Foot Before The Other), historical ballads (English Curse) and the kind of soul-soaked rabble-raiser that’d have you believe he’d seen the rise and fall of rock n’ roll (I Still Believe) but, crucially, this is the record on which Turner finds the drive, purpose and patriotism on which to build the lifelong career he so clearly desires.

Working through brass-led intro Eulogy to both full-band and acoustic numbers, the sound is handsome throughout; there may not be quite the same stylistic coherence as on Poetry of the Deed but the looser experimentation ties well with the sense of freshness, the occasional sprung-step and the overall energy of the piece.

It’s an energy that pulses through the flesh of the music but it seeps, initially, from the bare bones

First and foremost, Turner is a songwriter. The tale to tell or point to make is the prerequisite hook on which everything else hangs. Attack the vocal shortcomings, attack the simple sounds, attack the Etonian, silver-spoon background; as long as the words are enough to hold a room rapt – with only the help a microphone and an acoustic guitar – the songs will be bulletproof.

While the collection at hand isn’t perfect – there’s no Long Live the Queen here – there is a newfound purpose. Whether singing the praises of his country (Rivers) or his hometown (Wessex Boy) – so much for ‘the road’ being home -  or composing contemporary humanist hymns (Glory Hallelujah) there’s a real sense of belief in his causes. That belief’s a crucial, heartfelt keystone – one that’s certainly never lacked in Turner’s songwriting before, but it’s great to see it steeped in positivity. For a man percievably incapable of reinvention, rejuvination will do; spiky sounds and spikier ideals (the aforementioned Glory Hallelujah’s chorus of “There is no God” plays like a better-willed but no less provocative Slayer) marking a transition into the big league with feet still firmly on the ground.

A patchwork triumph that stands by itself and hints at even greater victories yet to be won, the true value of England Keep My Bones will be told only by the passing years, but for now – with a huge Autumn UK tour already announced – The Road beckons once again.

Sam Law

IN FLAMES – SOUNDS OF A PLAYGROUND FADING

(Century Media)

(7/10)

GOTHENBURG LEGENDS GO FOR BROKE

TEN ALBUMS in and many would argue that change would be good for a band.

Yet, for In Flames, change has never been a unfamiliar concept. Following their creation of the Gothenburg death metal subgenre alongside At The Gates, the Swedish five-piece have never been afraid of an organic progression of their sound. From the earthy acoustic interludes of The Jester Race through the millennial, synth-seeped likes of Cloud Connected and Only For The Weak right up to A Sense Of Purpose’s almost commercial bombast they’ve had a constant, fleet-footed creative freedom that’s allowed them to make broad tonal and stylistic shifts without completely compromising their credibility.

In Flames 2011, however, find themselves a founding member down, facing a potentially jarring, forced shift in personnel and style. Giants at a fork in the road, they can either plough on with further reinvention – running the risk of tainting their legacy – or, like ATG, they can retire to the festival circuit, fading slowly into obscurity as a frayed, thumping nostalgia act.

An explosive – if at times reluctant – maelstrom of fervour, skill and self-belief, SOAPF is the resounding evidence that In Flames will follow the former, higher road right to the end. Burning with neither the outright brilliance of their early classics  nor the stylistic diversity of their reactionary releases during the nu-metal era, this still manages to hone several already fine-tuned elements to perfection while thrusting onto the front foot with a pounding directness and sparse touches of original flair.

Many have remarked on this as a consolidation of all that has one before; a sprawling retrospective of the progression up to this point through the eyes of an older, tighter, more experienced group of musicians looking to remind us why they’ve been perched on extreme metal’s upper tier for over a decade. In many ways it works: the standard of musicianship is truly exceptional throughout and while much of the album plays like a more restrained, refined progression of what we heard on ASOP – best evidenced by lead single Deliver Us – there are elements – particularly on Ropes and The Puzzle – of the ragged momentum and progressive leanings of their early career.

Still, the strength of every individual In Flames record has been in that absolute individuality. While a composite collection of objectively excellent parts was never going to fail outright, it lacks the moments – the exciting guitar breaks, the sense of creative uncertainty – that have characterized the band’s daring in the past. Without that will to take risks there’s a reluctance to forgive flaws.

Still, the future is unwritten.

As a first run-out for the new line up the conservatism is understandable, it’s just a pity to see such thrusting excellence without the adventure to match. Nonetheless, with time will come confidence and with confidence… well, we’ll just have to see where they go next.

Sam Law

NIVERSE

PLUS: FIVE BAR GATE

IVORY BLACKS, GLASGOW

02.04.2011

(7/10)

BEER AND BEDLAM AS SCOTS YOUNG GUNS FIRE OFF A WARNING SHOT

TABLECLOTHS ON the tables. Lights still up. Even the odd candle burning here and there. Ivory Blacks doesn’t look itself this evening with the remnants of an early-doors jazz gig still scattered about the normally battle-worn interior. Fortunately, it doesn’t take long to find its hard rock feet once Five Bar Gate hit their stride. One overheard punter sums them up as “like Moist only not nearly as pretty”; the label fits their grizzled, groovy hard rock well but there’re elements of other mainstream favourites Nickleback and Creed too. Meat and potatoes metal it may be, but it’s great drinking music and doesn’t scare off too many of the chin-strokers still hanging around the bar. For better or worse, that’s something that can’t be said for Ayrshire’s Niverse. Taking the stage as unassuming youngsters, it’s a blink of the eye and they’ve gone all “Mr. Hyde”. Roaring into life with a full-on metal assault pitched somewhere between the direct technicality of Devildriver and gob-flecked swagger of Children of Bodom their volume alone seems concussive while the crushing likes of Atlas Time point to immense underlying  songwriting ability. They do falter occasionally, veering into blandly melodic territory but when they keep it heavy it’s easy to imagine these boys punching well above their weight.

Sam Law

BRING ME THE HORIZON

ACADEMY, GLASGOW

24.04.11

(6/10)

OLI AND THE BOYS DELIGHT THE KIDS WITH THEIR ALTERNATIVE EASTER SERMON

IT’S EASTER Sunday in Glasgow. The old-firm’s passed off, a non-event nil-all draw without too much chaos. The sun’s out and the city’s sodden. Normally such circumstances would herald a good-willed knees-up at the Academy but tonight the front entrance is packed with kids refused entry without the right ID, industry chancers skipping bands to chat fashion and weary security guards awaiting sugar-fuelled chaos. Frankly, it’s a disheartening scene.

Inside, events are predictably amped-up. The sold-out venue is literally rocking. An exceptional support lineup has loosened the largely underage crowd and while the bars are comparatively deserted, the pit is a pounding, pulsating destruction derby of toothy grins, teenage hormones and the highest ratio of short-skirts you’re gonna get at a gig this heavy.

BMTH have won the day before they’ve ever even stepped onstage. Arguably the most popular extreme band of their generation, through graft and tactics they’ve ascended to a stature where they can not only headline a tour of some of the UK’s biggest indoor venues but where they  sell them out months and months in advance. Glasgow’s always been a friendly city for Sykes and Co.  and on this victory-lap tour for There Is A Hell… anticipation among those who’ve made it in is high.

It’d be desperately unkind to say the band don’t deliver – the chorus of high-pitch screams and boundless kinetic energy on show certainly aren’t the antics of a crowd feeling shortchanged – but for seasoned gig-goers the purity of the product is entirely up for debate. For one, the volume is pathetically weak for this type of gig. Right from opener It Never Ends it’s clear that while the lead-mic is packing respectable heft, the backing instruments aren’t at the races. Sure, the sound mix is clear, but it’s unfortunate that the bass can’t hit harder than the ankle-biters.

Secondly, the ethos of the band is conspicuously “emo”. To see the one-time badboys of the Brit-metal scene repeatedly dedicate songs to anyone who’s ever lost a loved one/felt the world was against them/contemplated ending it all/hit fucking puberty is to see a band who’ve filed down their edge.  Sure there’re circle-pits and walls of death aplenty but they seem more like on-demand metal set-pieces than any mark of real chaos. It’s hard to believe this is the same band who had to be shut down at Wembley a few months back.

Fortunately, the songs still pack a punch. From frantic closer Chelsea Smile to the more recent, studio-centric likes of Anthem there’s not a beat missed. The translation from disc to live arena may not be entirely smooth in some cases but it’s more often passionate than passable. Their growing talent for taking frankly un-musical music into popular culture via any means necessary is admirable and , not to labour a point, the vast majority of this crowd laps it up.

Yet, BMTH simply aren’t the best young metal band in the UK. They’re not even close. For anyone who’s actually hit the club (and pub) circuit this is a blatantly obvious truth. Sure, they do get better with every record and may yet grow to deserve their elevated status but for now they’re really little more than a trendy gateway band for young metal fans. Still, much as with the Easter Bunny, an idea absurd to anyone with the experience to know better, BMTH’s essential status makes for a delightful fantasy of youth; a hype that’s not difficult to get a little swept up in.

Sam Law

WHITESNAKE – FOREVERMORE

(Frontiers)

(8/10)

CLASSIC ROCK LEGENDS GO AGAIN WITH BELTING 11TH LP

“I WANT it all! I want it now!” cries David Coverdale as excellent blues-rock throwback Steal Your Heart Away opens this excellent throwback of an album. It’s a lyric that’d seem unfashionable, out of place on most modern rock records; a suggestion of voracious self-indulgence that goes against current, grounded grown-up trends. But, face it, the band who once released a record called Slide It In were never going to grow up; in Whitesnake-land, the 80s’ heady excess never ended anyway. Sure, there’re some elements of modern urgency here, perhaps a hurriedness to rock while there’s still time. In the end though, it’s a willfully guilty pleasure to sit among a back-catalogue of others; bound to live on in hearts more than minds forevermore.

Sam Law

LINKIN PARK – A THOUSAND SUNS

(Warner)

(8/10)

NU METAL MAINSTAYS TAKE THE PATH LESS WORN TO A BRILLIANT, BRAVE NEW WORLD

WHILE IT’S not exactly easy to feel artistic sympathy for six of the most successful musicians of their era, one can empathise with the difficulty of men trapped between the pressures of fortune and the demands of integrity.

Arguably the band of a generation, it’s been ten years since the genesis of LP’s Hybrid Theory. In the meanwhile the men responsible have developed; evidently somewhat more drastically than their sound. While the mega-success of the notorious first two albums and trendy crossover stylistics of Reanimation suggested the antics of young men drunk with power, Minutes to Midnight was a record made on a knife-edge. Politics clashed with power chords as forces of progression and conservatism drew in opposing directions. It wasn’t so much a projection of tension between band members as between the need to please the fans and the need to progress. The reception was comparatively lukewarm.

Echoing the pre-apocalyptic title of its predecessor, A Thousand Suns is the record Minutes to Midnight should have been. An absolute masterclass in musical modernity, a protest album for the 21^st Century and a logical progression for the men who made it, it panders neither to narrow-minded fans nor to the broader musical community truly responsible for the full house of multi-platinum records. The power chords are gone, arguably that should tell you all you need to know. Frankly, more truly relevant is that so too is the simplicity.

Rather than a blunt, cynical redirection of style for style’s sake, this is a patient, considered record; undersold by a cautious publicity drive but deserving of a groundswell totally separate to the work that’s gone before. There are reference points in Minutes to Midnight, but the complete package is so much more complete. There’s increased emphasis on the rap side of things, with Shinoda clearly more heavily involved this time around, his influence extending to an occasional world-music feel. Guitar lines have been relegated to a textural role but rather than a like-for-like swap with synths and samples, the overall sound is less consistently overpowering. The copious use of segue tracks adds to this expansive atmosphere but at times jars; two at the beginning of the album bleed into the mid-paced Burning in the Skies, while a variety of others punctuate throughout. In truth some of these work remarkably well, particularly the metaphorical Wisdom, Justice and Love, but others like Empty Spaces carry a (perhaps purposeful) sense of wasted air.

ATS is neither straightforward nor perfect, but it is both an accomplishment and the album LP intended to make. While there’s no Faint, What I’ve Done or Crawling here there are several remarkable stand-alone tracks. Wretches and Kings and When They Come for Me break new ground for the Shinoda-led thump, while Iridescent and Robot Boy give Benington the slightly off-kilter sensibility and U2-bothering range he’s been itching for. It doesn’t all come off; Waiting for the End and album-closer The Messenger slip into mawkish territory but even these deserve credit for genuine ambition; attempting to rework MTM ideas without the restrictive restraint.

An album of ambition, purpose and talent; A Thousand Suns is the sound of a band finally jumping for their goals without worry about taking both feet off the springboard. Bound to go down poorly with large numbers of fans, it proves LP as uninterested in growing up while the crowds stay the same age. Most excitingly, it throws the earlier records into an entirely different light; they’re not a new Back in Black or Reign in Blood destined for constant rework but rather the (resounding) fledgling steps of a band bold enough to strive for bigger achievements still.

Sam Law

SABATON – COAT OF ARMS

(Nuclear Blast)

(8/10)

GUTS AND GLORY AS THE SWEDISH WAR-METALLERS LAY SIEGE TO THE WESTERN FRONT WITH ALBUM NUMBER FIVE

“Warsaw, city at war! Voices from underground, whispers of freedom!
1944, help that never came…”

IT’S DIFFICULT to imagine, say, Dragonforce going all straight-faced over the Polish resistance to the Nazi invasion of Warsaw but then that’s the appeal of Sabaton;  storming, anthemic power-metal that manages to be completely sincere without entirely losing grip of its own irony. Walking a thin line – at that, one that’s unquestionably led them to the very forefront of contemporary power metal – the veteran Swedes have perfected the Dad’s Army approach to heavy metal; managing to genuinely captivate their fans’ sense of pride but eschewing the expected solemnity.

Five albums in they’ve mastered the art and produced a record that truly does justice to their specific combination of smashing riffage, chant-along chorus and uncanny historical accuracy. From soaring call-to-arms lead single Uprising (complete with Peter Stormare-starring video, available below) to album-highlight White Death, an almost Saxon flavoured ode to Simo Häyhä (the Finnish sniper famed for killing more during the Winter War than any other marksman in history), one could almost see the record as a concept-album for the entirety of WWII. Along with a variety of interesting song structures and the at times almost narrative vocal style, the suggestions of progressive metal leanings certainly aren’t unfounded but it’d be unrealistic to make really serious comparisons. Not only do most of the tracks on the album fail to breach the four-minute mark, but they’ve the immediate appeal to completely transcend not only the traditionally limited progressive fanbase but the painfully Eurocentric power metal scene too.

Crucially, this is a set of songs that work live. Sure, there’s the intuitive knowledge that a Mohawk-sporting Swede with a faux-metal breastplate shouldn’t be taken entirely seriously, but it’s not until you’ve met him face-to-face and been informed that bassist Pär Sundström “tunes his instrument to H-O-M-O” that you appreciate that this is the sort of artistic abandon that our armed-ancestry fought to maintain. Of course, there is an underlying tension in the musicality that suggests this particular metal machine would love to extend its grip more firmly into English-speaking territory, but on this evidence the po-faced hostiles should down arms and get swept up in a whole other kind of musical warfare.

Sam Law

IRON MAIDEN – THE FINAL FRONTIER

(8/10)

METAL LEGENDS PROVE THAT FACED WITH THE CHALLENGE OF PROGRESS, THEIR COLOURS DON’T RUN

IN THE decade since the return of Bruce Dickinson to the Iron Maiden fold they’ve produced arguably the finest trio of albums from any band in that period.  From the soaring, quasi-futuristic Brave New World to Dance of Death’s sumptuous, fantasy-inspired sprawl right through the throbbing portent of A Matter of Life and Death the reignited genius has never been in doubt. The bad news is that The Final Frontier doesn’t quite measure up to those modern classics, but where they harked back to the glories of yore, TFF adopts a more ambitiously progressive approach.

Although initial release El Dorado pointed towards a solid albeit more conventional return and the eponymous first single came across as a somewhat aimless exercise in progging-up, the rest of the album covers largely uncharted territory. Dropping the pre-released tracks first, proceedings get underway proper with Mother of Mercy; a brilliantly unintuitive marriage of soaring vocal lines and glass-sharp riffage. By comparison Coming Home seems quite mawkish. An unashamed love song from Dickinson to his pilot’s license there are some clever double entendres with the loose sci-fi theme but it’s too slow to really take flight and it’ll never trouble Saxon’s 747 (Strangers in the Night) in the aeronautic-metal-classic stakes. No such problems for The Alchemist; a zippy throwback to the band’s punkish roots, utterly packed with whipping guitar lines and featuring Dickinson on fine, lyrical form it’s the most straightforwardly accomplished song on the record. At 4:29 it’s also the shortest and marks the transition point (excluding the title-track’s elongated intro) into truly epic territory.

From Isle of Avalon to When the Wild Wind Blows, the final five tracks average out at around nine-minutes apiece.  From men who effectively made their name as a singles band, this should really seem quite rich but that it doesn’t is credit to the transition from the occasional proggish gallop of the 80s (Powerslave, Phantom of the Opera) to the towering sweep of their more modern work. Building on the expansive structures explored in previous releases (The Talisman even cuts a little too close to AMOLAD’s The Legacy with its lilting acoustic intro) they’ve fully embraced the broad swathes of time that allow the triple-guitar setup to work their magic. This ambitious embrace, however, is also where the album falls down. As with the final three tracks on Dance of Death these five lack real characteristic individuality and listening to the album in one sitting it becomes difficult to separate one from the other. It seems as if the songs lack the individual identity and motifs that have always marked the maiden songwriting but on closer listening it becomes apparent that the really juicy bits have just been padded out with less distinctive guitar parts. From a prog perspective this would be absolutely fine, but it’s difficult to see these connecting with live audiences with the immediacy to which maiden must be accustomed. That the strength of the motifs and lyrical themes aren’t as potent as in the past must also shoulder some of the burden but it’s a pity that where there are a wealth of really iconic parts here they’ve lapsed the quality control to let the rest be padded out with mere interesting ideas. In fairness Wild Wind… does see the band produce one of their most compellingly bleak ballads but it would’ve been better placed a couple of tracks before the end to break up the more lyrically abstruse earlier tracks.

Still, this is Iron Fucking Maiden and a recording of them arsing around in the rehearsal room would still make absolutely essential listening. As it stands, TFF will most likely become a cult fan favourite; the musicality here features elements from all past three records but rightly sits somewhere between Brave New World and Somewhere in Time in terms of a base catalogue thematic. Naysayers will undoubtedly claim they’d have been better sticking to what they know best but it’d be far more appropriate to stand up and applaud these true metal figureheads taking the (flight) controls and leading from the front.

Nicko McBrain has recently put paid to the speculation that this 15^th Iron Maiden record would be their last and while that’s a good thing in that this is a band with the resurgent quality to deserve to go out on an all-time high, there’s patent promise here that they’ll be able to do so without simply rewriting the classics of metal’s past.

A great record, but more a new beginning than the expected journey’s end.

Sam Law

SONISPHERE 2010

FRIDAY 30 JULY

AN ODD festival, in that it’s located within commuting distance of London, Sonisphere lacks the pre-fest excitement of the likes of Download, Bloodstock, Oxegen and the like, but once Friday hits and the crowds really get rolling, the drink begins to flow and there’s not a lot of waiting for the action to kick in.

First big draw of the day, Turisas (7) seem oddly cantankerous this evening in spite of playing to what is conceivably the biggest crowd they’ve ever had. Constantly referencing the “Danish piss-water” most of the crowd are happily merry on and refusing to play Rasputin, they run the risk of failing to capitalise on a great opportunity, but by the time they roll out Battle Metal everyone’s drunk and itching to mosh and that final note of folk-infused power is enough to see the shortcomings forgiven. Over in the tent, Bigelf (4) fail to make such compensation. While on record and in front of kinder crowds there’s plenty of interest to be found in their psychedelic stoner-doom, they lack the energy and immediacy to affect reaction from a crowd twitching for some spring-loaded “choons.”  Europe (6) and Black Spiders (6) are running almost head to head next, and while the performances are comparable it’s difficult not to be more impressed by the latter; their continued upward arc yielding more promise than the former’s inability to wring real excitement from even The Final Countdown.

Sylosis (8) continue to be one of the best young bands in the country; their tech-thrash racket drawing in a real crowd and whipping up an absolute storm.  Teras ignites some of the pit action of the day and the keener members of the crowd maintain “they sound like fucking Slayer” but as impressive as this showing was, you’ve got to believe this is a band who are just going to grow and grow.  Meanwhile, Gary Numan (8) is laying waste to the criticism of his high billing on this otherwise metallic festival.  Performing with twice the Reznor-esque industrial heft that NIN managed last year, he even heavies-out Cars; for the audience it’s a partially poisoned chalice with many old-school fans clearly disappointed by the new direction but, in honesty, there are just as many newbies switched on to Numan’s new direction.

Band of the night, by some distance, 65daysofstatic (10) are utterly breathtaking from the off. Captivating the relatively small numbers in attendance and deftly sidestepping the potential problems of an instrumental festival set with a performance rooted in commitment and élan, it’s a performance that nearly defies definition, but as a reference point, the closing brilliance of a truly beautiful Radio Protector is a moment that will live long in the memory.

Dual headliners Alice Cooper (7) and Terrorvision (8) unsurprisingly lack that same depth, but while Cooper continues to depend more on (not-so) shocking visuals than actual musical ability and Terrorvision appear to have made little progress from the mid-1990s, they’re both headlining with good reason.  To see a man in his 60s being mock-executed three times in one show and unfurling School’s Out at the beginning and end of the set may be cheesy but he sends both the old rockers and the youngsters into near-hysteria when he rolls out the hits. Terrorvision don’t quite manage such a cross-generational appeal, but with songs like Tequila and Perseverance to keep the thirty-somethings happy it’s difficult to pick holes in a set rooted in flagrant nostalgia.

SATURDAY 31 JULY

FESTIVAL HANGOVERS are in full flow by Saturday morning and this reviewer would be lying if he didn’t admit to a little Hair of the Dog on the way into the arena. It’s all good though (and totally not alcoholic) as Sabaton (9) are on hand to provide some proper entertainment for the semi-inebriated masses. Unlike Turisas the previous night, these particular battle-metallers know the negative value of putting the crowd on a downer and resolutely drive in the opposite direction. Joakim Brodén may have all the vaguely homoerotic characteristics of a metal Freddie Mercury but fortunately he’s got the late Queen frontman’s stage presence too. Evile (9) find themselves on at a ludicrously early hour considering the absolute mania that greets them. Bolstered by numbers pouring over from Sabaton a couple of songs in, the crowd is at fever pitch throughout. From the loose-necked forehead smashing that greets Thrasher to sporadic chants for late bassist Mike Alexander to the circle-pit that simply doesn’t let up, it’s a celebration of metal in its purest form and it’s one that damn nearly bring the tent down with it. Still, in terms of all-out mayhem, it’s nothing compared to what meets Soulfly (10). Playing with familiar comfort in the midday glare, this is a band who recently headlined the Graspop festival in Holland alongside Kiss and Aerosmith. That they’re on the supporting bill of the second stage here is one of the great shames of this British metal summer. They may not be original-lineup Sepultura, but they’re the closest anyone’s getting any time soon and with riot-anthems like Primitive and Eyeforaneye standing alongside classics like Roots Bloody Roots and Refuse/Resist to fuel a spectacular, ever-expanding pit, they lay solid claim to set of the festival.

Anthrax (8) open the main stage proper with a set pitched between jubilant nostalgia and fist-in-the-air defiance. Classic after classic roll by, broken only by an eerily perfect Dio impersonation from Joey Belladonna as Indians segues into Heaven and Hell, but Scott Ian still bounds with the vitality of his youth. Unfortunately we can’t help but be reminded of the full big-four experience received throughout Europe yet absent here, but still, minus the ego-wars the most underrated of the big-four  enjoy their space to shine. By comparison, the reunited Fear Factory (7) come across somewhat flat. Cynics would point to the mysteriously reformed lineup, at each other’s throats one moment and onstage (fee in pocket) the next. A more broad-minded view would be that Fear Factory simply never made the initial impact to have either continued relevance with the current generation of young metal fans or true nostalgia appeal. Nonetheless, for those of us who do remember them first time around, the likes of Powershifter and Demanufacture still pack a mighty punch. It’s a different kind of quasi-nostalgia for Papa Roach (6), and somewhat remarkably, towards the end of their set some of the most potent of the whole festival. Of course, most of their newer material is completely disposable, but for many twentysomethings From Angels to Insects and Last Resort still evoke fond memories of simpler days.

The day’s beginning to wane as Kellermensch (10) take the stage, but there’s absolutely no sign of the musical quality flagging. Denmark’s finest newcomers stun the limited numbers in attendance with a set pitched somewhere between stadium-pomp, indie style and hardcore energy; all within a very small tent. It’s a remarkable showing, showcasing a sound that’s genuinely difficult to do justice to in writing. Still, it’s quite brilliant and it’ll only get better as the stages (and crowds) get bigger. Corey Taylor (6) is performing in a much larger tent to a more generous crowd but he’s nothing if not self-indulgent. It’s difficult to begrudge the vocalist behind many of modern metal’s most chaotically brilliant moments some quiet time with his acoustic guitar but a less po-faced set and maybe an acoustic People=Shit would go down a treat. Upcoming Glaswegian metalcore heroes Bleed From Within (7) and Brit-rock mainstays InMe (8) close out the day’s activities on the Bowtime stage, the former snapping ferociously at the big-time with Pantera attitude and new-school heaviness while the latter simply seem happy to celebrate their own deserved longevity in front of a piled-in crowd happy to forego Gallows and Motley Crue to join the party.

Well and good as that celebration may be, it’s still absolutely nothing compared to the mayhem going down in Bohemia as Gallows (10) rip Knebworth a new asshole. You’d think it’d get tiring waxing lyrical about “the best live band in the UK” festival season after festival season, but with showings like this which features a circle pit going out one exit and back in the other, both frontman and wheelchair-bound punters crowdsurfing the breadth of the tent and a closing snarl-along featuring members of Rolo Tomassi and Trash Talk, that gobsmacked enthusiasm’s still building. Best live band in the world, anyone?

It’s inevitably downhill from there, but Rammstein (8) still work hard to give you some real bang for your buck. Sure, their reputation may actually have gotten ahead of them to the extent that constant pyro, flamethrowers attached to band-members’ mouths and incinerated stage-invaders actually amount to something of an anti-climax, but tracks like Keine Lust, Sonne and Ich Will are still undeniable in their sonic power. Many who caught the spring arena tour feel somewhat short-changed with a much briefer set (particularly as they finish a half-hour before billed) but it’s to their credit that they could’ve played the same again and still held all 60, 000 in attendance utterly rapt.

It’s back to Bohemia for Therapy (7) who battle persistent technical problems before finally playing Troublegum in its entirety. It’s a special moment for fans, and a proper celebration for one of the UK’s most constantly cutting-edge bands. Still, the album chronology doesn’t quite fit live, with Screamager dropped second-in, and although Femtex rallies the troops late-on, a glimpse of some of the brilliant newer material would have made a more notable close to the set. Playing to an exhausted crowd, Renegades (5) fare poorly. Curious as it may be to hear the Feeder boys do their Nirvana impression on record, they lack the energy to captivate this late-night audience. It doesn’t help that most in attendance would kill for a quick run-through of Buck Rogers; a classic that, needess to say, doesn’t see the inside of a tent tonight.

SUNDAY 1 AUGUST

It’s conceivable that Rollins (9) isn’t the best act to be playing a festival crowd at 11am on the Sunday morning. Still, Rollins has never been a man to back down from a challenge and yet, much as you get the feeling he’d fight anyone who disagrees with him on some of his sterner humanitarian principles, it’s difficult to shake the feeling that this is a crowd he’s won over some time ago. Although having dropped the “Sunday Sermon” tag, Henry’s still preaching to the converted; a tent full of hungover metalheads who’ve hauled ass to be brought together by one of the genre’s greatest figureheads. Futile as his agit-political ranting may be, it’s still a great feeling to boozily cheer along to points of real consequence in atonement for the final-day’s hellraising to come.

CKY (5) should provide the ideal musical Sunday kick-start, but they’re both musically and characteristically off-form. Goading the audience throughout, it’s difficult to tell whether they’re good-naturedly trolling or actually really not enjoying themselves. Whether The Defiled (8) are enjoying themselves is entirely open to debate. Completely trashing the stage through the course of a set of industrial hardcore they completely alienate the sparse numbers in attendance and leave the stage with heads unapologetically held high. Complete apathy in the face of such ragged-edged savagery is somewhat perplexing, and it takes from the show but, once the masses get onside, these guys will be huge. Conversely, Rise to Remain (5) pack them in to breaking point in spite of peddling some very mediocre metalcore. There’s undeniable curiosity value in seeing Bruce Dickinson Jr. joining the new NWOBHM but the group need to work more on performance than inferred Nepotism.

Skindred (9), on the other hand, have worked for every break they’ve gotten. On this evidence they’ve deserved every one too. Getting the entire crowd bouncing, moshing, swaying and boogying like utter fools they transcend the ridiculous in the style of light-end Killswitch Engage. Charmingly, they’ve also placed strategic “pit monkeys” to ensure songs like Destroy the Dancefloor do just that. As if they’d have trouble…

Increasingly divisive in recent years, Slayer (10) apparently don’t command the instant reverence of yore. They should. Inspiring complete devastation in the pit and reducing as many grown men to tears of emotion as cries of pain. Angel of Death, Raining Blood, Mandatory Suicide et al are the best metal songs of time. To see a crowd not taking them for granted visibly spurs the middle-aged legends onstage to wring the absolute most they can from their instruments. Slayer won’t be touring forever, but with shows like this their reputation will last the ages. At the opposite end of their career arc, Bring Me the Horizon (8) create almost as much of a ruckus. Of course there’s something hollow about seeing the ageing metallers replaced by fringe-toting hipsters on the walk from one stage to the other but for the real music fans down the front, the wild eyed sentiment is reassuringly similar. Hell, Oli Sykes even chucks his dad into the mosh-pit mix to ensure it’s a show to remember. After that, the stately grunge-revival of Alice in Chains (7) is almost enough to put you to sleep. Seeped in emotion and wielding remarkable sonic power, the Cantrell drone may soothe the energy-sapped to sleep, but there simply isn’t another band doing what they do this well. Unfortunately for Converge (5), Gallows managed to do pretty much exactly what they did with twice the conviction and ten times the fun yesterday. Sure, you won’t find many bands with the raw abrasiveness of the Salem foursome, but pure friction isn’t always the best way to connect with your audience.

Sweet Savage (7) take the Jagermeister stage to a sparse crowd, but the Irish legends go all-out anyway. Still down to a three-piece lineup and featuring new drummer Marty McCloskey, they play with a more fast-paced almost punkish edge. The biggest cheer is reserved for their trademark closing cover of Thin Lizzy classic Whiskey in the Jar but it’d be to sell these old dogs short to deny that their best tracks are yet to be released. The new album is finally due in October; mark that date. Sandwiched towards the top of an unquestionably metallic bill, Pendulum (8) take the stage with a real sense of glee. Not a band to discount the vital support afforded them by an underground  rock audience, playing second only to the mighty Maiden, they may no longer be anywhere near the underground themselves but they still pulse with the spirit and dedication learned there.

That leaves only Iron Maiden (10). Kicking off the Final Frontier European trek, there’s not an aspect of the live arena that’s unfamiliar to these legends but that isn’t going to stop them pushing themselves to their absolute limits. Mothballing arguably their biggest hits in The Trooper and Run to the Hills and selecting only six tracks over a decade old, tonight is nominally a celebration of the ten years that have passed since Dickinson’s return but really it’s a showcase to prove a point; that they’re as good now as they ever were. Quite frankly, on tonight’s evidence, they’re better. Completely putting that previous nostalgia tour in the shade in terms of emotion and musical dynamism, tracks like Blood Brothers and Dance of Death transform into majestic singalongs , moreover, the band themselves are visibly enlivened to be playing tracks they can actually remember writing. It’s enough to ensure that when the all-classic encore comes it’s merely the icing on an incredibly rich cake. Number of the Beast and Hallowed Be thy Name? Have it. They close with Running Free, but rather than a point of sentiment it plays as one of intent; musically Iron Maiden are running free, they’ve got the world in the palm of their hands and even in their twilight hours it’s still theirs for the taking.