12th August 2023

The clouds may have lingered this morning, but spirits certainly soared as I embarked on a pilgrimage to the hallowed halls of the Rock and Metal Museum. Fueled by the decadent (and aptly named) “Tiramisu Pardus” for breakfast, I was primed for a journey into the heart of sonic rebellion.

The museum bustled with fellow devotees, drawn to the vibrant tapestry of rock history woven across its exhibits. Walls throbbed with iconic album art, some even whispering promises of ownership with tempting price tags. But my gaze was magnetically drawn to the unmistakable visions of Dan Seagrave. His brushstrokes, like conjured thunder, breathed life into countless metal masterpieces, and I reveled in their visceral power.

Bloodstock, that legendary festival of all things heavy, graced the museum with a unique tradition: a signed poster commemorating each year. Decades of metal anthems marched across the walls, each poster a vibrant snapshot of a bygone era. My eyes scanned the procession, yearning for 2021, for the scrawl of a band held close to my heart – Gloryhammer. And there it was, a glorious, messy echo of their signature exuberance etched into the frame.

A personal connection deepened the thrill. Paul Templing, Gloryhammer’s guitarist, turns out to be a scion of my own family, a distant cousin through Rosemary’s lineage. The backstage pass I dream of holding someday suddenly felt just a touch closer, imbued with the magic of kinship and shared passion.

The day might have begun under a veil of grey, but as I left the museum, the sun had broken through, mirroring the warmth that filled my heart. Rock and roll wasn’t just music; it was a tapestry of shared stories, hidden connections, and enduring legacies. And within the walls of that museum, I had brushed fingers with the threads that bind us all, proving that even the heaviest of genres can weave tales of family, friendship, and the enduring power of a well-timed guitar riff.

So, raise a fist to the Rock and Metal Museum, to Dan Seagrave’s epic brushstrokes, and to the glorious scrawl of Gloryhammer – may their music (and my backstage pass dream) forever thunder onward!

Seething Akira

Kicking off proceedings on the Ronnie James Rio Stage were Portsmouth’s alt-metal outfit, Seething Akira. The six-piece delivered a fiery set, seamlessly weaving their pulsating soundscape with the electrifying visuals projected behind them. It was a potent concoction that had the crowd headbanging and fist-pumping from the outset. Seething Akira, known for their blend of nu-metal aggression and introspective lyricism, have been steadily building a buzz on the UK scene, and this electrifying performance proved their mettle yet again.

Urne

Amidst the swirling mosh pits and the roar of amplified guitars, a brief lull descended upon Bloodstock Open Air. Bands took their well-earned breaks, and festival-goers traded sweat-soaked camaraderie for frothy libations. It was at this crossroads that we witnessed a truly unique sight: a procession of burly figures, clad in leather and fur, emerging from the Serpents Lair and striding purposefully towards the arena. Their guttural chants and booming laughter hinted at their destination – the fight arena

Lured by the promise of carnage, we followed in their wake, only to arrive just as the final blow was dealt. The victor, bathed in the crimson glow of spotlights, raised his battleaxe to the cheers of the rabid throng. Disappointed, we steered our course towards a different battlefront – the Ronnie Woods stage, where a different kind of war was brewing.

There, under the LED lights, stood Urne – a rising force in the London metal scene. With a thunderous drumbeat and a guttural roar, they launched into their set, unleashing a sonic maelstrom that sent tremors through the earth. Sludge-laden riffs collided with soaring vocal lines, weaving a tapestry of despair and defiance. The crowd, a heady mix of leather-clad headbangers and curious onlookers, swayed to the rhythm, fists pumping in unison.

Urne’s music was a stark counterpoint to the Viking fight l we’d just missed – introspective and raw, it delved into the depths of human darkness, yet pulsed with an undeniable vitality. As the final notes echoed through the air, we emerged from the mosh pit, ears ringing and hearts pounding. Bloodstock, in all its glorious diversity, had once again delivered an unforgettable experience. The Norse warriors might have won their battle, but Urne had conquered our souls with their sonic tempest.

Royal Republic

Swedish rockers Royal Republic brought their playful energy to the stage, entertaining the crowd with an energetic set infused with their signature tongue-in-cheek lyrics and infectious melodies. The band, known for their cheeky stage presence and undeniable musical talent, delivered a crowd-pleasing performance that showcased their ability to connect with the audience.

A highlight of their set was a blistering rendition of Metallica’s “Zachary,” which Royal Republic infused with their own brand of rock ‘n’ roll swagger. The crowd roared their approval as the band tore through the classic metal anthem, adding their own unique twist to the familiar tune.

While Royal Republic may not take themselves too seriously, their talent and stage presence are undeniable. They delivered a fun and engaging set that left the audience wanting more. Overall, Royal Republic’s performance was a testament to their musical prowess and their ability to get a crowd moving.

Employed To Serve

A light drizzle cascaded over the mosh pit as Employed to Serve took the stage. The downpour mirrored a certain disconnect between the band’s heavy energy and the vibe of the crowd. While the Woking quintet unleashed their signature blend of groove and thrash, a sense of lukewarm indifference seemed to permeate the atmosphere.

For myself, the rain served as a fitting metaphor for my internal conflict. Had I truly been craving Employed to Serve’s brand of sonic brutality all week, only to have reality fall short? Perhaps the anticipation I’d built up, spurred by a curious listen or two, hadn’t translated into full-blown fandom. Or maybe, the band’s live show simply didn’t ignite the spark I’d hoped for.

Whatever the reason, that lingering question hung heavy in the air, even as the rain intensified. Why, indeed, had I added Employed to Serve to my “must-see” list? Was it a passing fancy, a fleeting intrigue that failed to blossom under the harsh glare of live performance? Or was there, somewhere within the band’s visceral assault, a hidden gem waiting to be unearthed?

One thing was certain: the drizzle wasn’t washing away the doubts. Perhaps, like a storm-choked sky, the answer lay concealed just beyond the horizon, waiting to be revealed at another time, another show. Until then, Employed to Serve remained a question mark, a band yet to fully convince a hesitant listener – me.

Casket Feeder

Guided by Selina’s colleague’s enthusiastic tip, we navigated the festival bustle towards the Sophie Lancaster stage, anticipation brewing for our encounter with Casket Feeder. The air vibrated with the guttural promise of heavy riffs and pummeling drums, drawing us closer to the epicenter of the sonic storm.

As we emerged into the throng, Casket Feeder’s aural assault already had the crowd pulsating in unison. Their music, a potent blend of Swedish death metal’s raw fury and British hardcore’s relentless groove, was an undeniable force, washing over us in waves of sonic brutality. It was clear why Selina’s colleague had deemed them unmissable.

Casket Feeder, a Milton Keynes-based trio boasting a discography marked by EPs like “Venomous Tongues” and “Scalps,” unleashed a relentless set, each track a potent cocktail of rage, power, and uncompromising heaviness. The band, a tight-knit unit honed by years of live fire, tore through their repertoire with ferocious intensity, their music resonating not just in the ears but in the very core of the mosh pit.

By the end of their set, we were left exhilarated, ears ringing but spirits soaring. Casket Feeder had served up a visceral, exhilarating experience, a potent reminder that the power of heavy music lies in its ability to both pummel and uplift in equal measure. They were a revelation, a band worth seeking out by anyone who craves sonic catharsis delivered with raw, uncompromising power.

Knocked Loose

Rain spattered down, then the sun blazed through, a microcosmic weather war raging as we stumbled upon Knocked Loose, a Kentucky hardcore band exploding with raw energy. They pummeled us with blistering riffs and gut-wrenching screams, a sonic whirlwind that left me grinning like a fool – even if my memory, apparently, took the day off.

No scribbled notes in my notebook can capture the primal intensity of these guys. Formed in 2013, Knocked Loose have made a name for themselves with their ferocious blend of mosh-inducing grooves and vocalist Bryan Garris’s trademark bloodcurdling roars. Their debut album, “Laugh Tracks,” sent shockwaves through the hardcore scene, and their 2019 follow-up, “A Different Shade of Blue,” proved they were here to stay.

So, while the specifics of their set at Bloodstock might be lost to the mosh pit haze, the sheer power of Knocked Loose’s performance wasn’t. Their music was a primal scream ripped from the Kentucky soil, a cathartic wave that washed over the rain-soaked crowd. If you missed them this time, seek them out on the next leg of their tour – they’ll leave you breathless, notes or no notes.

Abbath

Abbath Doom Occulta dominated the Ronnie James Dio main stage at Bloodstock Open Air 2023, cloaked in a haze of theatrical smoke that veiled both the blackened metal veterans and the amassed crowd. The Norwegian frontman, known for his corpse paint and Kiss-inspired stage persona, stalked the stage with characteristic ferocity, his raspy vocals tearing through a blistering setlist culled from Abbath’s solo career and his legendary tenure in Immortal.

Emerging from the swirling fog, Abbath’s face, a canvas of stark white and obsidian black, seemed to leer defiance at the sea of leather and denim before him. The band, a tight-knit unit of seasoned black metalers, churned out a relentless sonic assault, weaving intricate guitar riffs and pummeling drums around Abbath’s venomous pronouncements. Tracks like “Olav the Grim” and “Winterbane” drew roars of approval from the bloodthirsty hordes, while newer cuts like “Dread Reaper” showcased the band’s continued creative fire.

Abbath’s Bloodstock performance was a potent reminder of the band’s enduring legacy. Having carved their name into the annals of black metal with genre-defining albums like “Pure Holocaust” and “Diabolical Fullmoon Mysticism,” Abbath’s solo venture has seen him refine his brand of blackened thrash into a potent live weapon.

Lewis Floyd Henry

After the electrifying performance by Abbath on the Ronnie James stage, we slowly meandered back toward the Serpents Lair. The cooling evening air, thick with anticipation, accented by the clinking of glasses filling with beer and cider. It is here that the dulcet tones of Lewis Floyd Henry, a one-man band from the coastal town of Hastings, filled our senses.

A brief aside on Lewis Floyd Henry: He’s earned himself quite the reputation as a burgeoning one-man force in the music scene. The Hastings-born musician inherited his name from his grandfather, reminiscent of the delta blues artists. He readily fuses genres from Hendrix styled rock and roll to grungy deep blues, his street musician charisma adding a freshness rarely encountered.

His unique way of making music involves the simultaneous use of a double-headed guitar, drums, and cymbals, a musical juggling act he makes seem effortless. Lewis Floyd Henry’s deep knowledge and mastery over the sampling technique for rhythm creation takes this a step further, transforming the usual resonance to a mesmerising symphony.

The performance itself was indeed a splendid example of Lewis Floyd Henry’s multi-faceted talent. As the night grew darker, his set continued to provide a rich layered score, perfectly furnished for those winding down with a beer in hand, and looking forward to the upcoming performance by Triptykon.

Triptykon – Tom Gabriel Warrior

Following a blistering solo set from Lewis Floyd Henry, the Bloodstock main stage beckoned with a different kind of sonic force: Triptykon’s homage to the legendary Celtic Frost. Led by the ever-enigmatic Tom Gabriel Warrior, the Swiss industrial metal supergroup delved deep into the Frost’s back catalogue, conjuring the raw spirit of their early black and death metal days.

Triptykon, for the uninitiated, is more than just Warrior’s latest musical venture. It’s a carefully curated sonic assault, weaving elements of doom, gothic metal, and even avant-garde soundscapes into the dark fabric of Celtic Frost’s legacy. Tonight, however, the focus was firmly on the band’s primal roots, with Triptykon conjuring the haunting melodies and blast-beat fury of tracks like “Circle of the Tyrants” and “Suicidal Winds.”

It was a powerful performance, a potent reminder of Celtic Frost’s undeniable influence on the metal landscape. Warrior, a towering figure bathed in blood-red stage lights, commanded the stage with his signature rasping vocals and an undeniable intensity that seemed to defy his years. The rest of the Triptykon trio – bassist Vanja Slajh, drummer Norman Longhart, and keyboardist Lisa M – provided an unwavering foundation of sonic muscle, their interplay both precise and devastating.

While Triptykon’s own brand of dark majesty resonates strongly, there was a palpable sense of reverence for Celtic Frost’s legacy in the air tonight. It was a celebration of music that pushed boundaries, defied convention, and carved its own path in the annals of extreme metal. And in Triptykon’s capable hands, those dark anthems burned brighter than ever.

Trollfest

After the sonic heaviness of Triptykon, the Sophie Lancaster stage offered a welcome palate cleanser in the form of Norwegian folk metal oddballs Trollfest. A departure from the grim and gritty, Trollfest promised a healthy dose of quirky fun to warm up the crowd for the upcoming headliners.

As the first chords of their trademark polka-infused metal rang out, a collective shrug seemed to ripple through the audience – confusion quickly giving way to raucous laughter and foot-stomping as Trollfest’s infectious energy took hold. Dressed in their outlandish troll costumes, complete with prosthetic noses and war paint, the band threw themselves into their performance with unbridled enthusiasm. Accordions blared, cowbells clanged, and lead vocalist M. Spud spouted his gibberish lyrics with gusto, occasionally pausing to unleash a guttural death metal growl that wouldn’t sound out of place on the main stage.

Trollfest’s music is a heady concoction of genres, seamlessly blending traditional folk melodies with blast beats, polka rhythms, and even the occasional operatic flourish. Songs like “Drekka Fest” and “Kaptein Kaizers Død” had the crowd bouncing and singing along, their initial bemusement replaced by pure, unadulterated merriment.

Meshuggah

Leaving the gleeful chaos of Trollfest behind, we ventured back to the main stage, drawn by the siren song of heavier sounds. The crowd was thick, a wall of bodies surging and swaying under the stage lights. Camping chairs, outlawed for the evening, lurked like hidden reefs in the sea of heads, making navigation a game of footwork and muttered apologies. Finally, after some tactical weaving, we secured a spot with a decent view.

Now, I’ll freely admit – Meshuggah aren’t exactly my go-to groove. Their complex, djent-infused brand of extreme metal is, for me, an acquired taste, one I haven’t yet fully acquired. That said, there’s no denying their power. As the opening salvo of guitars ripped through the air, and drummer Tomas Haake unleashed his polyrhythmic fury, even my non-believer brain cells twitched with a grudging respect.

Meshuggah are masters of sonic dissonance, weaving intricate time signatures and dissonant harmonies into a heady brew of controlled chaos. Jens Kidman’s guttural vocals were mere threads of rage woven into the sonic tapestry, punctuating the instrumental maelstrom with primal urgency. It wasn’t pretty, not in the traditional sense,

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