On one hand, it would be fair to describe this touring lineup as an old-school Nu-Metal package tour. On the other, that would be selling three of the four bands on the bill a long way short. The mid to late 90s saw an emergence of a new kind of band: crawling out of the fag-end of grunge, it was gritty, guitar-led and of a distinctly metal persuasion, but was a million miles from the hair metal of the 80s. Limp Bizkit and Linkin Park had yet to emerge with their lame rap/metal amalgamations and the term Nu-Metal had yet to be coined, and as such, the three established names on the bill ore of a vintage that separates them from the pack of cack that would come to define the genre they’ve become synonymous with.
The doors are open ridiculously early – 6:30 – and with Wolfborne hitting the stage at 6:45, I arrive in time for the second half of their 30-minute set. Having had to negotiate a second mortgage to afford a bottle of beer, I make my way toward the front, and it’s immediately apparent why they’ve been drafted onto this tour: crossing punk and metal, they pack in some punchy choruses with some big guitars. They also boast a monstrously gritty bass tone that not only defines their sound but separates them from their peers.
(hed) P.E. certainly take things up a few notches, Jahred Gomes races on stage in full camouflage (his face is covered by a camouflage face mask, topped with a baseball cap, and he’s sporting baggy cut-off camo trousers too) and demands we make some fucking noise. The crowd duly obliges. Or at least, some do. They deliver an energetic performance, and Jahred beams enthusiastically throughout (once he reveals his face) but there’s a sense that this is an extremely divisive band. Gomes is a gifted and versatile singer, capable of switching in a beat from screaming metal to crooning soul, the musicians and material equally diverse stylistically, but this is equally a blessing and a curse: how to reconcile metal and reggae (they turn in a neat cover of The Specials’ ‘Ghost Town’ near the end of the set), hardcore punk and gangsta rap, complete with an endless barrage of bitches and pussy? The answer? I’m not sure it’s possible, and while they leave many audience members happy, they leave just as many nonplussed.
American Head Charge are an entirely different proposition. The moment they crowd onto the stage – there are six of them, and they make the noise of even more – things start heating up. They look, and sound, charged, dangerous. Cameron Heacock’s rocking some bin-man chic at the start but he’s giving it something between Layne Staley and Mike Patton.
Karma Cheema looks menacing and on the edge, and when a drink flies stagewards and wets his trousers, pedals and general stage area, he proves it’s no act and goes utterly ballistic. First, the culprit is bawled out – soundlessly and sans mic from the stage – before the pissed-off guitarist leans over to cuff the guy round the head, and after that, he bites off a fingernail and spits it into the crowd and continues to vent his ire at the punter, who is subsequently carted out by security, despite Heackock’s subsequent calls for the fella not to be ejected: after all, it is a rock ‘n’ roll show, he reasons, and Cheema is an ‘asshole’, in his words.
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It’s an eventful and energetic set, that sees Heacock singing while singing upside down from above the stage, dangling by his legs, and a member of the audience scale the lighting gantry above the crowd. As rock ‘n’ roll action goes, American Head Charge demonstrate with ease why theirs has been such a welcome return on the back of their new album after seven years away.
SOiL aren’t so much Nu-Metal as old-school trucker metal, and hit like a juggernaut that doesn’t slow for the duration of their set. Ryan McCombs bails on in a beanie and plaid flannel short without sleeves and proceeds to deliver a powerhouse performance with the backing of a lineup that’s not much short of the original. Small wonder a woman down the front keeps shouting about how much the band make her cry – I’m assuming it’s with joy, given that she’s seen them nine times. In terms of band / audience interaction, it’s an odd show, but these guys are pros, and they blast though a large chunk of their 17-year, six-album career during their 50-minute long set. They build a decent rapport with the crowd in between blasting out some heavy slabs of classic post-grunge metal nihilism: ‘Hate Song’ is dispatched just three tracks in, and there’s a heavy (emphasis on the heavy) leaning toward 2001’s ‘Scars’, with ‘Unreal’ ‘Breaking Me Down’ ‘Need to Feel’ and ‘Two Skins’ all featured in the 12-song set which culminates with ‘Halo’. The show ultimately ends in a mess of feedback and Ryan somewhere in the middle of the crowd and looking like this is the moment he’s lived all his life for. there’s confusion as an encore looks likely but fails to materialise, and the crowd slowly disperses.
Still, no-one’s grumbling. The beer may be exorbitantly priced, but the four bands on the bill have each given 100% and more. They’ve entertained, they’ve raged, they’ve brought the power.
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