Slayer, Amon Amarth, Anthrax, Mastodon & Hatebreed, Blackweir Fields, Cardiff, 03.07.25 & Finsbury Park, London, 07.07.25
Cardiff, 03.07.25
Hatebreed (8) have been on my radar since teenage years, always present, always heavy, but never quite a personal favourite. That changed on Thursday. Their opening slot was a tight, high-octane wake-up call. Jamey Jasta worked the crowd like a pro, drawing people in with undeniable charisma and hardcore confidence. What could have felt like a filler slot was, in fact, a fun-filled masterclass in precision, pacing, and pit-ready anthems. Tracks like Destroy Everything and Looking Down The Barrel Of Today hit harder than expected, and for a set that lasted just 20 minutes, it never once felt rushed. Infectiously fun and flawlessly executed, Hatebreed might just have earned themselves a new fan.
Mastodon (9) delivered exactly what you’d expect… and then some. A true powerhouse of heavy metal, their 25-minute set fused crushing riffs with a hypnotic, psychedelic backdrop that made the whole stage feel like it was pulsing with surreal, stoner doom energy. Brent Hinds and Troy Sanders didn’t say much, but they didn’t need to, their presence was commanding, their musicianship colossal. The addition of Nick Johnston to the line-up brought a new flavour, and the crowd welcomed him with gusto. Crystal Skull and Blood And Thunder were standout moments, swirling through the Cardiff air like thunderclouds filled with acid and steel. A band that continues to evolve without losing an ounce of weight or depth.
There’s something about Anthrax (9) that just feels like home. Their set was relaxed, seasoned, and joyfully defiant in all the right places. This wasn’t about ego or theatre, it was about connection. Arms were slung around shoulders, fists raised, and every chorus felt like a battle cry shared among comrades. Caught In A Mosh had the crowd bouncing with collective muscle memory, and when Indians dropped, the energy turned euphoric. The triumphant roar-along sent shivers up my spine. Anthrax aren’t trying to reinvent the wheel. They are the wheel, and it rolls over us with every live performance.
Mastodon (9) delivered exactly what you’d expect… and then some. A true powerhouse of heavy metal, their 25-minute set fused crushing riffs with a hypnotic, psychedelic backdrop that made the whole stage feel like it was pulsing with surreal, stoner doom energy. Brent Hinds and Troy Sanders didn’t say much, but they didn’t need to, their presence was commanding, their musicianship colossal. The addition of Nick Johnston to the line-up brought a new flavour, and the crowd welcomed him with gusto. Crystal Skull and Blood And Thunder were standout moments, swirling through the Cardiff air like thunderclouds filled with acid and steel. A band that continues to evolve without losing an ounce of weight or depth.
There’s something about Anthrax (9) that just feels like home. Their set was relaxed, seasoned, and joyfully defiant in all the right places. This wasn’t about ego or theatre, it was about connection. Arms were slung around shoulders, fists raised, and every chorus felt like a battle cry shared among comrades. Caught In A Mosh had the crowd bouncing with collective muscle memory, and when Indians dropped, the energy turned euphoric. The triumphant roar-along sent shivers up my spine. Anthrax aren’t trying to reinvent the wheel. They are the wheel, and it rolls over us with every live performance.
By the time the curtain lifted for Amon Amarth (8), the tone had shifted. What followed was a theatrical spectacle of Viking-sized proportions: towering inflatable statues, a fire-belching stage set, and a gold-horned drum riser that looked like it belonged on the prow of a longship. Visually, they were unmatched. Musically, they brought pure, melodic brutality. Johan Hegg is more than a frontman, he’s a warlord. One of the standout moments of the night came during Put Your Back Into The Oar, where Hegg commanded the entire crowd to sit down and row. Thousands of people rowing on hard and uncomfortable metal flooring to a death metal sea shanty? Utterly ridiculous, and completely brilliant! Amon Amarth know exactly what they’re doing—and they do it with horned swagger and precision.
Then came the wait. The crowd swelled with tension. The lights dropped. A five-minute video montage blitzed across the big screens, a flashing, visceral homage to the chaos, controversy, and carnage of Slayer’s (10) career. And then they were here. No words. No warm-up. Just South Of Heaven, and a crowd that erupted like a battlefield under a red sky.
Being stage left meant we had full view of Gary Holt; a riff machine so precise he could cut glass with his pick. But precision doesn’t mean polish here, this was savagery with purpose. As Disciple kicked in, the pit surged. The chant of ‘God hates us all’ rang out with near-religious intensity as the crowd descended into pure, unfiltered chaos. We were caught in a surge and crush situation and pulled over the barrier alongside others, blood pumping, grinning, bruised, broken in places, and absolutely alive.
Slayer didn’t just perform, they reminded us what absence has cost. The sheer unrelenting, balls to the wall savagery was something we’ve been starved of. Repentless, War Ensemble, Hell Awaits, Spirit In Black, Dead Skin Mask, Raining Blood, every song hit like a sonic warhead. There was no soft landing. No let-up. Just full-throttle fury delivered at biblical volume.
And when my personal favourite, Angel Of Death brought the night to a close, none of us were ready. But Slayer were. They left us in wreckage, and we thanked them for it.
This was a full-blown ceremony of chaos. From Hatebreed’s hardcore stomp to Mastodon’s kaleidoscopic heaviness, from Anthrax’s arms-around-each-other catharsis to Amon Amarth’s Viking war theatre, every set load the foundation for what was to come. And then Slayer happened.
Slayer didn’t just return; they rained blood triumphantly over Cardiff.
Six years off the stage only sharpened their edge, no band matches their ferocity, their legacy, or the remorseless ferocity of their live presence. We came for fire, fury, and nostalgia but what we got was a violent resurrection that reminded us all: there is simply no substitute for Slayer.
Then came the wait. The crowd swelled with tension. The lights dropped. A five-minute video montage blitzed across the big screens, a flashing, visceral homage to the chaos, controversy, and carnage of Slayer’s (10) career. And then they were here. No words. No warm-up. Just South Of Heaven, and a crowd that erupted like a battlefield under a red sky.
Being stage left meant we had full view of Gary Holt; a riff machine so precise he could cut glass with his pick. But precision doesn’t mean polish here, this was savagery with purpose. As Disciple kicked in, the pit surged. The chant of ‘God hates us all’ rang out with near-religious intensity as the crowd descended into pure, unfiltered chaos. We were caught in a surge and crush situation and pulled over the barrier alongside others, blood pumping, grinning, bruised, broken in places, and absolutely alive.
Slayer didn’t just perform, they reminded us what absence has cost. The sheer unrelenting, balls to the wall savagery was something we’ve been starved of. Repentless, War Ensemble, Hell Awaits, Spirit In Black, Dead Skin Mask, Raining Blood, every song hit like a sonic warhead. There was no soft landing. No let-up. Just full-throttle fury delivered at biblical volume.
And when my personal favourite, Angel Of Death brought the night to a close, none of us were ready. But Slayer were. They left us in wreckage, and we thanked them for it.
This was a full-blown ceremony of chaos. From Hatebreed’s hardcore stomp to Mastodon’s kaleidoscopic heaviness, from Anthrax’s arms-around-each-other catharsis to Amon Amarth’s Viking war theatre, every set load the foundation for what was to come. And then Slayer happened.
Slayer didn’t just return; they rained blood triumphantly over Cardiff.
Six years off the stage only sharpened their edge, no band matches their ferocity, their legacy, or the remorseless ferocity of their live presence. We came for fire, fury, and nostalgia but what we got was a violent resurrection that reminded us all: there is simply no substitute for Slayer.
Baptised in blood, reborn in fire. Cardiff will never be the same.
London, 07.07.25
The day after one of the most important gigs in metal history, I found myself soaked, sunburnt and grinning in a field in North London. Because if you can’t get tickets to see Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath bow out in front of a packed Villa Park, their last ever live performance, backed by a who’s who of metal royalty then the next best thing is standing in a muddy London park watching Slayer do what Slayer do best: kill everything in front of them.
That Sabbath farewell was always going to be special. Tickets were harder to come by than a bag of hen’s teeth. And while much of the attention was rightly on Ozzy, lurking on that bill, almost quietly, were Slayer. A band who’d officially called it a day years ago. But they were there to honour the Prince of Darkness and the band who arguably created the genre in the first place. Slayer had no intention of just flying in and flying out. Instead, they bookended the weekend with two of their own shows: Cardiff on the Friday, and this one, Finsbury Park on the Sunday.
It was, of course, raining when I arrived. Because it's the UK. And it was an outdoor gig. And it had been the hottest week of the year. So of course, the moment I stepped through the gates, the heavens decided to remind us who’s in charge. But Slayer thrive in this stuff. They’re not fair-weather metal. And neither, judging by the crowd, are their fans.
Gates opened at midday, and the running order was, frankly, ridiculous. Neckbreakker opened things with gusto. Young, hungry, and making the most of their shot. Hatebreed were next and absolutely took the place apart. Hardcore anthems like I Will Be Heard and Destroy Everything did exactly what they said on the tin. If you weren’t moving, you were probably face down.
Before they even stepped on stage, the screen played a montage of memories, a reminder of what we’d all been missing. The curtain drop didn’t quite go to plan (and if you were at Download for Sleep Token, you know how awkward that can be), but no one cared. Because the second South Of Heaven slithered through the PA, the place erupted.
And from that moment on, it was total war.
Repentless followed. Then Disciple. And with that immortal chant “GOD HATES US ALL!” the crowd transformed into a single, pulsing mass of limbs and screams. Tom Araya, looking like a man who hasn’t aged a day, had a look in his eyes that flickered somewhere between joy and absolute menace. His presence was commanding. The bass thundered. The pit churned.
Kerry King and Gary Holt were on absolute fire, solos ripped out like precision attacks. Bostaph’s drumming? Relentless. Each beat like a hammer strike. It felt urgent. It felt angry. It felt alive.
And the setlist? Just hit after hit: War Ensemble, Dead Skin Mask, Seasons In The Abyss, Hell Awaits, Chemical Warfare. Each one greeted like an old friend and then torn to pieces.
As the sun briefly emerged again near the end, it lit the stage in golden light. Flames shot into the air during Raining Blood and stayed blazing for Angel Of Death, the final blow in a set that made one thing crystal clear: Slayer aren’t just a legacy act. They’re still vital. Still violent. Still necessary.
By the time the curfew kicked in at 9:30, and the stage lights dropped, the park was a swamp of steaming black t-shirts and dazed expressions. A few people howled “SLAAAAAYYER” into the fading light, because of course they did. The Tube ride home was a mess of grins, bruises, and half-dried denim.
Slayer might not have officially returned. But if this was a one-off? What a way to remind us what we’ve been missing.
If it wasn’t? Well, maybe, just maybe, there’s more blood left to spill.
London, 07.07.25
The day after one of the most important gigs in metal history, I found myself soaked, sunburnt and grinning in a field in North London. Because if you can’t get tickets to see Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath bow out in front of a packed Villa Park, their last ever live performance, backed by a who’s who of metal royalty then the next best thing is standing in a muddy London park watching Slayer do what Slayer do best: kill everything in front of them.
That Sabbath farewell was always going to be special. Tickets were harder to come by than a bag of hen’s teeth. And while much of the attention was rightly on Ozzy, lurking on that bill, almost quietly, were Slayer. A band who’d officially called it a day years ago. But they were there to honour the Prince of Darkness and the band who arguably created the genre in the first place. Slayer had no intention of just flying in and flying out. Instead, they bookended the weekend with two of their own shows: Cardiff on the Friday, and this one, Finsbury Park on the Sunday.
It was, of course, raining when I arrived. Because it's the UK. And it was an outdoor gig. And it had been the hottest week of the year. So of course, the moment I stepped through the gates, the heavens decided to remind us who’s in charge. But Slayer thrive in this stuff. They’re not fair-weather metal. And neither, judging by the crowd, are their fans.
Gates opened at midday, and the running order was, frankly, ridiculous. Neckbreakker opened things with gusto. Young, hungry, and making the most of their shot. Hatebreed were next and absolutely took the place apart. Hardcore anthems like I Will Be Heard and Destroy Everything did exactly what they said on the tin. If you weren’t moving, you were probably face down.
Mastodon followed with their sludgy, proggy wall of sound, drawing the first proper downpour of the day, and it felt like the weather had planned it to the second because the moment Blood And Thunder kicked in, the skies opened up with violent precision. It felt apocalyptic. As it should.
Anthrax brought the party-thrash energy in spades. They’re always dependable live, and with a tight 45 minutes they wasted no time. Caught In A Mosh, Got The Time, Indians, Antisocial each one detonated in the crowd like a small controlled explosion. And then came the Vikings.
Amon Amarth could’ve headlined in their own right. The horns, the fire, the statues, everything was gloriously over the top. But the crowd loved it. I saw more people rowing on the floor in the Viking Row than I thought was physically possible. It was glorious chaos.
And then, the reason we were all here.
Now, it’s worth remembering that Slayer weren’t technically “back.” This wasn’t a reunion tour. It wasn’t a festival slot to pay the bills. This was something different. This was Slayer taking part in something bigger than themselves, and choosing to frame it on their own terms. No one really knew what to expect, would it be nostalgic, half-hearted, going through the motions?
No. It was Slayer.
Before they even stepped on stage, the screen played a montage of memories, a reminder of what we’d all been missing. The curtain drop didn’t quite go to plan (and if you were at Download for Sleep Token, you know how awkward that can be), but no one cared. Because the second South Of Heaven slithered through the PA, the place erupted.
And from that moment on, it was total war.
Repentless followed. Then Disciple. And with that immortal chant “GOD HATES US ALL!” the crowd transformed into a single, pulsing mass of limbs and screams. Tom Araya, looking like a man who hasn’t aged a day, had a look in his eyes that flickered somewhere between joy and absolute menace. His presence was commanding. The bass thundered. The pit churned.
Kerry King and Gary Holt were on absolute fire, solos ripped out like precision attacks. Bostaph’s drumming? Relentless. Each beat like a hammer strike. It felt urgent. It felt angry. It felt alive.
And the setlist? Just hit after hit: War Ensemble, Dead Skin Mask, Seasons In The Abyss, Hell Awaits, Chemical Warfare. Each one greeted like an old friend and then torn to pieces.
As the sun briefly emerged again near the end, it lit the stage in golden light. Flames shot into the air during Raining Blood and stayed blazing for Angel Of Death, the final blow in a set that made one thing crystal clear: Slayer aren’t just a legacy act. They’re still vital. Still violent. Still necessary.
By the time the curfew kicked in at 9:30, and the stage lights dropped, the park was a swamp of steaming black t-shirts and dazed expressions. A few people howled “SLAAAAAYYER” into the fading light, because of course they did. The Tube ride home was a mess of grins, bruises, and half-dried denim.
Slayer might not have officially returned. But if this was a one-off? What a way to remind us what we’ve been missing.
If it wasn’t? Well, maybe, just maybe, there’s more blood left to spill.
No comments:
Post a Comment