(Our Australia-based contributor Tør is back with us today, providing a report on a show in Melbourne last weekend headlined by Psycroptic and Rivers of Nihil. He also provided a lot of good photos that we’re also sharing with you to help commemorate the experience of a great show.)
I almost miss the entire show because of a longer-than-usual day at work. By the time I arrive at Max Watts in downtown Melbourne, locals Growth and Sydney’s Slaughtercult have already finished most of their sets. As I get my wristband and descend the stairs to the main stage, I catch the final seconds of Slaughtercult. The room is already charged. I head straight to the bar, grab a beer, and make my way into the crowd.
Then Rivers of Nihil take the stage.
The room changes immediately. Their progressive death metal is massive, layered with enough atmosphere and melody to give the music a sense of scale without ever diluting its weight. Crushing riffs give way to quieter, almost surreal passages before the band pull everything back into the darkness. The saxophone cuts through the mix in unexpected places, adding another dimension to an already expansive sound.
From the photo pit, it is even more striking. Lights tear through the haze as the band move between precision and chaos. Through the viewfinder, everything seems to fall into place for a split second — silhouettes, strobes, smoke and movement — before disappearing again.
Then The Silent Life hits, and whatever restraint the crowd had left is gone. The room erupts. They also deliver two of my personal favourites, Water and Time and Where Owls Know My Name, the latter carrying that strange combination of melancholy and enormity that Rivers of Nihil do so well.
Then Psycroptic take over. The band’s new album, The Pulse of Annihilation (Metal Blade Records), just dropped last month.
There is no build-up or warning. The Tasmanian veterans simply launch into the set at full speed. Joe Haley’s riffs come flying out with machine-like precision, David Haley attacks the drums with such violence that the kit looks like it might not survive the night, and Jason Peppiatt stalks the stage, delivering each vocal like he is trying to tear through the room.
What makes Psycroptic so devastating live is that beneath all the expert musicianship, the riffs still groove. The drums hit with frightening force. Everything is intricate, but nothing feels clinical. It is controlled chaos, delivered with absolute conviction.
By the final stretch, the whole place is drenched in sweat, smoke and noise. The crowd is completely spent but still hanging in there. One last assault comes, then the lights finally drop.
I head back upstairs and out into the cold winter night, my head still buzzing from the sheer volume of it all. The people outside the venue are strangely quiet. You know that annoying chatter that usually follows a show? Nowhere to be heard. It’s as if the entire crowd has had its soul exorcised out of its body.
The streets are quiet. Even the ride home feels strangely subdued, like nobody has quite recovered enough to speak yet.
I sit back, watching Melbourne slide past the window, still re-living the show in my head.