Supersonic Festival 2025, Digbeth, Birmingham, 29-31.08.25
Birmingham’s Supersonic Festival has always been a place where boundaries blur and expectations get dismantled, but this year’s edition felt like an outright defiance of complacency. Across three days in Digbeth, the programme stitched together sludge, psych, folk, punk, noise, doom, drone, and unclassifiable in-betweens, proof that “heavy” doesn’t just mean loud. It means weight, presence, intent. Supersonic 2025 was about all of that, and more.
Friday Friday opened with Water Damage (7), who felt like they were chiselling repetition into stone. Two drummers facing one another, bass low enough to move your ribcage, violin shrieks tearing lines across the air; layers of sound so immersive each note felt like it cracked open your skull.
They worked in slow, glacial shifts; no rush to climax, just a patient build where even a single new note felt seismic. It was trance-inducing, heavy in its patience, a kind of hypnotic minimalism that demanded you surrender to it, a meditative architecture of sound that I was unsure of at first but enjoyed as the set progressed.
Skloss (8) followed with a set thick in atmosphere, loops, reverb, woozy psych undertones, all drenched in shadow that whispered with menace. The sound wasn’t always pristine, but the mood never faltered. They made ambient heaviness feel haunted, building grooves that pulsed through the floor. Their gift was in restraint: leaving space for textures to breathe, so the heaviness arrived not as clutter but as weight. A hypnotic set that was felt as much as heard.
Moin (7) reminded everyone that experimental music doesn’t have to be formless. With Valentina Magaletti on drums and Tom Halstead and Joe Andrews sculpting noise and rhythm, their set felt like architecture in sound: angular beats, droning electronics, sudden fractures. It was less about songs than about bending time; long passages where you could drift, then sudden jolts that snapped you back into the room.
Zu (8) closed Friday with an eruption. They crashed through the doors with saxophone, drums, and bass blurred into a storm of jazz-noise chaos. It was loud, yes, but not indiscriminate; they played tension and release with surgical precision. Dissonance became groove, groove collapsed back into frenzy, and the audience went wild with them, willingly battered. It was exhilarating, dangerous, thrilling, exactly how Zu should be. A climactic end to the first day of the festivities.
Saturday
For us, Saturday’s contrasts began with Penelope Trappes (9). Where other acts aimed to overwhelm, she pinned the room with restraint. Australia-born and Brighton-based, she’s long carved out her own lane of ethereal soundscapes, and here she turned the venue into a cathedral of reverb and breath. Electronics bloomed like tide, her voice low and witchy, cello smudges stretching across the space. It was stark, devotional, unhurried; the kind of set that feels less like performance and more like ceremony.
Trappes’ stage presence is its own force: black-on-black minimalism, candle-glow intensity, no fuss, no spectacle. Just her, the sound, and the silence between. She channels the spectral shimmer of 4AD but never imitates. She makes it hers. Knowing she’ll support Witch Club Satan in Stockholm soon makes me ache with envy that I won’t be there because pairing those two artists feels like alchemy. A fantastically gothic and ethereal set, well worth a watch if you can catch her live!
Then came Meatdripper (10), Birmingham’s own, invited back to Supersonic after debuting live at a Home of Metal-linked event. They should have had drummer Kai with them, but illness kept him away; Ash Weaver stepped in behind the kit. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t have guessed. The chemistry was seamless, the grooves ritualistic, the set ablaze with intent.
Their music is swampy, doom-laden, psych-tinged… riffs like tar, basslines like undertow, vocals that feel part-incantation. Exterminate Her snarled like a curse, while closing with Homegrown (an eight-minute sprawl of tension and release) made the room groan in protest when it finally ended. Meatdripper aren’t copying Birmingham’s heavy legacy; they’re extending it. Already, they sound like they belong here. Up and coming is already too small a label for them, they will burn brightly. Watching them felt like witnessing the rebirth of righteous underground sound and I loved it.
Buñuel (9) turned the atmosphere to menace. Eugene S. Robinson stalked the stage with theatrical abandon while the band poured sludge, noise, and jagged riffs into the room. Their set had danger written into every moment — sudden lurches from quiet to full-throttle, dissonance balanced by grooves that felt almost too heavy to hold. It was chaos with intent, the kind that leaves you rattled but exhilarated, I was hugely impressed!
Witch Club Satan’s (10) UK debut was nothing short of ritual. Black metal stripped of cliché and repurposed as a feminist, confrontational ceremony; drums thundered, riffs cut like blades. Three women, but five witches. Victoria Røising’s announcement hit like thunder: her body carrying twins, her bass carrying death-tone thunder. It was the ultimate act of defiance against metal’s old machismo — creation and destruction made flesh in one moment.
Their music is swampy, doom-laden, psych-tinged… riffs like tar, basslines like undertow, vocals that feel part-incantation. Exterminate Her snarled like a curse, while closing with Homegrown (an eight-minute sprawl of tension and release) made the room groan in protest when it finally ended. Meatdripper aren’t copying Birmingham’s heavy legacy; they’re extending it. Already, they sound like they belong here. Up and coming is already too small a label for them, they will burn brightly. Watching them felt like witnessing the rebirth of righteous underground sound and I loved it.
Buñuel (9) turned the atmosphere to menace. Eugene S. Robinson stalked the stage with theatrical abandon while the band poured sludge, noise, and jagged riffs into the room. Their set had danger written into every moment — sudden lurches from quiet to full-throttle, dissonance balanced by grooves that felt almost too heavy to hold. It was chaos with intent, the kind that leaves you rattled but exhilarated, I was hugely impressed!
Witch Club Satan’s (10) UK debut was nothing short of ritual. Black metal stripped of cliché and repurposed as a feminist, confrontational ceremony; drums thundered, riffs cut like blades. Three women, but five witches. Victoria Røising’s announcement hit like thunder: her body carrying twins, her bass carrying death-tone thunder. It was the ultimate act of defiance against metal’s old machismo — creation and destruction made flesh in one moment.
Johanna Holt Kleive’s drumming carved ritual knives through the air, while Nikoline Spjelkavik turned riffs into hexes. Sage was passed to the front row, smoke curling around us like a binding spell. Their set demanded not just attention but reckoning - bare-breasted, chanting overthrow, citing Gaza, collapsing performance and protest into one. They turned the venue into a coven: part gig, part ritual, wholly unforgettable. Their power wasn’t in pyrotechnics or speed but in conviction. They conjured something Birmingham hadn’t quite seen before, and it felt historic.
Witch Club Satan are the most exciting thing to happen to black metal in decades — a band who don’t just play within the genre but reshape it entirely, carving out a space where ritual, politics, and raw sound collide. My favourite set of the whole festival, me, Nat, Michael and Mars spent the show together and emerged changed for what we saw, eternally bonded by that one set. Incredible.
Death Goals (9) followed with hardcore fury that felt urgent and human. Every riff, every shout was aimed not at faceless catharsis but at solidarity. Their set doubled as rally and release, especially for queer fans in the room. The audience screamed back, fists raised, feeding off the energy. Their aggression isn’t just sound, it’s message — survival as resistance, noise as proof of life. This was raw and ferocious, and I was here for every second of it.
HIRS Collective (9) closed out the evening by tearing apart genre and gender with joyful destruction; grindcore and glitter in the same breath, turning rage into communal joy. Their set swung from humour to devastation, from pop-hooks to noise blasts, always keeping the crowd on edge. It was joyful disruption, political and ecstatic, with Jenna Pup making the stage feel like a safe riot. They reminded us that music can be both furious and funny, devastating and liberating — often in the same breath. Philly queer punk that is both urgent and powerful, I’m glad we got to see them.
Sunday
We only caught part of Jackie-O Motherfucker (7), but what we heard was dreamlike, improvisational, suspended between folk and drone. Time bent, melodies stretched, silence became part of the performance. Even in fragments, it was clear: their music isn’t about linearity, it’s about immersion. I liked what I heard, they were a slow crawl of pastoral disorientation before we sprinted over to Zellig for the Witch Club Satan: In Conversation panel, a rare chance to gather context before diving into the final day of festivities.
One of the weekend’s highlights wasn’t a gig but a conversation. Witch Club Satan sat down to talk about black metal, feminism, and making art that confronts patriarchy head-on. It wasn’t polished PR; it was raw, thoughtful, defiant. They spoke about reclaiming corpsepaint as something that could signify strength and identity rather than cliché, about rituals as tools of empowerment, and about building a community that refuses compromise.
What made it special was honesty. They didn’t mythologise themselves; they laid bare the labour, the backlash, and the belief driving their work. In a festival that thrives on boundary-pushing, hearing Witch Club Satan articulate their ethos was a reminder that radical music isn’t just sound, it’s context and conviction.
Poor Creature (8) offered something delicate yet resilient. Ruth Clinton’s vocals carried vulnerability, while the instrumentation swelled with drone-folk warmth. It wasn’t about volume; it was about nuance. They held the room through honesty and subtlety, a kind of intimacy rare in festival settings. I’m not a huge fan of folk music but this held my interest aurally and expanded my musical horizons.
Ben Chasny’s set as Six Organs Of Admittance (10) made the acoustic guitar feel dangerous. Psychedelic folk passages bent into distortion, feedback, and sharp edges. His playing balanced serenity and menace, as if each note carried the threat of collapse. It was haunting, fragile, and at times overwhelming, a set that reminded you how thin the veil between quiet and chaos can be. As a guitar player I really enjoyed this set, the technical precision was immense. A highlight of the festival, for me.
Cinder Well’s (7) neo-folk felt like a spell. Amelia Baker’s voice, unadorned and cathedral-like, hushed the crowd. Songs like The Cuckoo cracked open hearts with their simplicity. She stood almost alone in the room, voice and guitar, but the presence was immense. When she finished, the silence that lingered felt sacred. Sparse, yearning, and beautiful - again, another set I’m glad to have caught.
Funeral Folk (9) closed the Sunday in ritual fashion. Sara Parkman, Maria W Horn, and Mats Erlandsson combined violin, drone, blackened electronics, and voice into something that felt both ancient and modern. Their crescendos weren’t just loud; they were existential. Here we found traditional Karelian lamentation songs, and experimental landscapes with black metal and drone influences, creating a grand, emotive, and sometimes epic sound rooted in the rituals of grief.
When it ended, it felt less like applause and more like exhalation, as if we’d all collectively been holding our breath. No sentimentality here, only catharsis. At times it was utterly overwhelming, I wasn’t expecting to feel so much, and I came away feeling relieved. Not what I was expecting but perhaps what I needed.
The weekend closed with The Bug And Warrior Queen (10) , a collaboration that shook walls and lungs. Heavy bass, ragga vocals, relentless beats, it was a different kind of heaviness, physical and bodily, the sort that makes you feel sound through skin. Warrior Queen’s delivery was ferocious, The Bug’s production monolithic. It was a reminder that “extreme” doesn’t only live in metal or noise; bass culture carries its own violence and joy. It was not the afterparty, it was the exodus. We exited supersonic with this soundtrack ringing in our ears. Delightful!
Closing Thoughts
Supersonic 2025 was a festival of contrasts. Sludge and drone rubbed shoulders with folk and ambient, noise met ritual, punk met conversation. It wasn’t curated for comfort but for curiosity. Across Digbeth’s venues, every performance felt like a reminder that music at its best doesn’t entertain, it transforms.
What lingered most was how Supersonic treats heaviness. It isn’t a genre box, it’s an ethos. It can be blastbeats, or whispered folk, or political noise, or ritual drone. It can be Witch Club Satan conjuring feminist black metal, Penelope Trappes weaving devotional calm, Meatdripper extending Birmingham’s heavy lineage, or The Bug rattling ribcages with bass. Each set carved its own space, and together they formed a mosaic of defiance, beauty, and power.
And then there are the moments outside the stages. One of the loveliest was seeing Flesh Creep hanging out at the festival, soaking it in. They felt so at home here that I can only hope they’re on next year’s line-up. Supersonic thrives because it nurtures both the global avant-garde and Birmingham’s own underground. Flesh Creep deserve that spotlight.
In a time when venues close, rents rise, and culture often feels under siege, Supersonic still feels like sanctuary. It is fiercely independent, fiercely creative, and absolutely essential. This year it wasn’t just a festival. It was proof that Birmingham remains one of the most important places in the world for radical sound. And it was the weekend where Witch Club Satan showed, without doubt, that they are the most exciting thing to happen to black metal in decades.
Witch Club Satan are the most exciting thing to happen to black metal in decades — a band who don’t just play within the genre but reshape it entirely, carving out a space where ritual, politics, and raw sound collide. My favourite set of the whole festival, me, Nat, Michael and Mars spent the show together and emerged changed for what we saw, eternally bonded by that one set. Incredible.
Death Goals (9) followed with hardcore fury that felt urgent and human. Every riff, every shout was aimed not at faceless catharsis but at solidarity. Their set doubled as rally and release, especially for queer fans in the room. The audience screamed back, fists raised, feeding off the energy. Their aggression isn’t just sound, it’s message — survival as resistance, noise as proof of life. This was raw and ferocious, and I was here for every second of it.
HIRS Collective (9) closed out the evening by tearing apart genre and gender with joyful destruction; grindcore and glitter in the same breath, turning rage into communal joy. Their set swung from humour to devastation, from pop-hooks to noise blasts, always keeping the crowd on edge. It was joyful disruption, political and ecstatic, with Jenna Pup making the stage feel like a safe riot. They reminded us that music can be both furious and funny, devastating and liberating — often in the same breath. Philly queer punk that is both urgent and powerful, I’m glad we got to see them.
Sunday
We only caught part of Jackie-O Motherfucker (7), but what we heard was dreamlike, improvisational, suspended between folk and drone. Time bent, melodies stretched, silence became part of the performance. Even in fragments, it was clear: their music isn’t about linearity, it’s about immersion. I liked what I heard, they were a slow crawl of pastoral disorientation before we sprinted over to Zellig for the Witch Club Satan: In Conversation panel, a rare chance to gather context before diving into the final day of festivities.
One of the weekend’s highlights wasn’t a gig but a conversation. Witch Club Satan sat down to talk about black metal, feminism, and making art that confronts patriarchy head-on. It wasn’t polished PR; it was raw, thoughtful, defiant. They spoke about reclaiming corpsepaint as something that could signify strength and identity rather than cliché, about rituals as tools of empowerment, and about building a community that refuses compromise.
What made it special was honesty. They didn’t mythologise themselves; they laid bare the labour, the backlash, and the belief driving their work. In a festival that thrives on boundary-pushing, hearing Witch Club Satan articulate their ethos was a reminder that radical music isn’t just sound, it’s context and conviction.
Poor Creature (8) offered something delicate yet resilient. Ruth Clinton’s vocals carried vulnerability, while the instrumentation swelled with drone-folk warmth. It wasn’t about volume; it was about nuance. They held the room through honesty and subtlety, a kind of intimacy rare in festival settings. I’m not a huge fan of folk music but this held my interest aurally and expanded my musical horizons.
Ben Chasny’s set as Six Organs Of Admittance (10) made the acoustic guitar feel dangerous. Psychedelic folk passages bent into distortion, feedback, and sharp edges. His playing balanced serenity and menace, as if each note carried the threat of collapse. It was haunting, fragile, and at times overwhelming, a set that reminded you how thin the veil between quiet and chaos can be. As a guitar player I really enjoyed this set, the technical precision was immense. A highlight of the festival, for me.
Cinder Well’s (7) neo-folk felt like a spell. Amelia Baker’s voice, unadorned and cathedral-like, hushed the crowd. Songs like The Cuckoo cracked open hearts with their simplicity. She stood almost alone in the room, voice and guitar, but the presence was immense. When she finished, the silence that lingered felt sacred. Sparse, yearning, and beautiful - again, another set I’m glad to have caught.
Funeral Folk (9) closed the Sunday in ritual fashion. Sara Parkman, Maria W Horn, and Mats Erlandsson combined violin, drone, blackened electronics, and voice into something that felt both ancient and modern. Their crescendos weren’t just loud; they were existential. Here we found traditional Karelian lamentation songs, and experimental landscapes with black metal and drone influences, creating a grand, emotive, and sometimes epic sound rooted in the rituals of grief.
When it ended, it felt less like applause and more like exhalation, as if we’d all collectively been holding our breath. No sentimentality here, only catharsis. At times it was utterly overwhelming, I wasn’t expecting to feel so much, and I came away feeling relieved. Not what I was expecting but perhaps what I needed.
The weekend closed with The Bug And Warrior Queen (10) , a collaboration that shook walls and lungs. Heavy bass, ragga vocals, relentless beats, it was a different kind of heaviness, physical and bodily, the sort that makes you feel sound through skin. Warrior Queen’s delivery was ferocious, The Bug’s production monolithic. It was a reminder that “extreme” doesn’t only live in metal or noise; bass culture carries its own violence and joy. It was not the afterparty, it was the exodus. We exited supersonic with this soundtrack ringing in our ears. Delightful!
Closing Thoughts
Supersonic 2025 was a festival of contrasts. Sludge and drone rubbed shoulders with folk and ambient, noise met ritual, punk met conversation. It wasn’t curated for comfort but for curiosity. Across Digbeth’s venues, every performance felt like a reminder that music at its best doesn’t entertain, it transforms.
What lingered most was how Supersonic treats heaviness. It isn’t a genre box, it’s an ethos. It can be blastbeats, or whispered folk, or political noise, or ritual drone. It can be Witch Club Satan conjuring feminist black metal, Penelope Trappes weaving devotional calm, Meatdripper extending Birmingham’s heavy lineage, or The Bug rattling ribcages with bass. Each set carved its own space, and together they formed a mosaic of defiance, beauty, and power.
And then there are the moments outside the stages. One of the loveliest was seeing Flesh Creep hanging out at the festival, soaking it in. They felt so at home here that I can only hope they’re on next year’s line-up. Supersonic thrives because it nurtures both the global avant-garde and Birmingham’s own underground. Flesh Creep deserve that spotlight.
In a time when venues close, rents rise, and culture often feels under siege, Supersonic still feels like sanctuary. It is fiercely independent, fiercely creative, and absolutely essential. This year it wasn’t just a festival. It was proof that Birmingham remains one of the most important places in the world for radical sound. And it was the weekend where Witch Club Satan showed, without doubt, that they are the most exciting thing to happen to black metal in decades.
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