Author Archives: Jason Miller

I’ve seen a lot of metal bands come and go. Some have their shtick, some ride a fad until the wheels fall off, but then there are the rare ones who don’t just change the game but bring something so uniquely theirs that comparisons feel cheap. Ukrainian progressive metal juggernauts Jinjer fall firmly in that last category, and their sold-out show at O2 Forum Kentish Town proved they’ve earned every inch of that stage.

This was my fourth time catching them, and the evolution from scrappy opening act to headlining force has been something to witness. No pyro gimmicks, no bloated production. Just four musicians who understand that great songs and crushing heaviness will always win.

There really is no band that sounds like Jinjer right now. Maybe if Mudvayne ever releases new material, there’d be competition. Still, even then, as much as I dig Chad Grey, he can’t touch the effortless vocal shapeshifting Tatiana Shmayluk pulls off.

Speaking of Tatiana, she’s the kind of frontwoman you can’t look away from. Not just because of the voice (though watching her pivot from angelic melody to guttural roar mid-phrase never gets old), but the way she moves. We usually get wild futuristic outfits from her, but tonight she wore this stunning dress with an almost Victorian or Spanish vibe.

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The Arcane Dimensions Tour rolled into London’s Apollo on Saturday night—two co-headliners who swap closing slots every show. Amaranthe went first this time, and Epica closed it out. Nobody seemed to mind either way.

​​Amaranthe kicked things off looking like they’d stepped out of the future and plugged their guitars into a PlayStation. “Fearless” and “Viral” came out swinging, three singers somehow not stepping on each other’s throats. Clean vocals, growls, and Elize Ryd, who can actually sing without sounding like another Evanescence clone. It’s like if ABBA got really into Soilwork and discovered synthesizers that don’t suck.

Speaking of Elize, she mentioned in an interview leading up to the tour that there may be a new song in the set, and there was. It was fucking brilliant. “Chaos Theory” ripped through the theatre like a chainsaw. Heavier than their usual stuff, but still with those hooks that burrow into your skull whether you like it or not. They’re getting meaner without losing the pop sensibility, which is either genius or completely insane. Maybe both.

The encore was where things got ridiculous. “Archangel” went full cathedral mode and turned the place into a Saturday night mosh pit at a wedding reception. “That Song” (terrible name, solid tune) dialed things back into glossy pop metal territory. They closed with “Drop Dead Cynical,” basically their mission statement: metal can be slick and polished and still heavy as fuck. Would’ve loved to have heard “365.” That’s my go-to for introducing people to the band, but you can’t have everything. I love this band and still can’t get enough of them.

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Here’s something I still can’t quite wrap my head around: Biffy Clyro can sell out the O2 Arena on a Wednesday, yet back in the States, they’re playing venues a fraction of this size. After moving to the UK, I discovered this band through a work colleague, and it felt like stumbling onto something massive that everyone else already knew about. How does a band this good have such a different level of success across the pond? Makes no sense.

This show hammered home why they own this country right now. A 23-song set, and classics/fan favourites like “Howl” and “Rearrange” didn’t even make the cut. That’s the best problem a band can have: too many bangers, not enough setlist space.

The real focus was last year’s Futique, gorgeous, relentless, packed with hooks that refuse to quit. “Hunting Season” might be the peak, but honestly, in a world where albums feel disposable or even unnecessary, Simon and company clearly didn’t get the memo and dropped their heart and soul into this one.

What destroyed me, though? Hearing A Celebration of Endings tracks live. “Instant History,” “Space,” “Tiny Indoor Fireworks.” These songs were my lifeline during Covid lockdown. That album got me through the weirdness, and experiencing them in a packed arena felt like crawling out of a cave into sunlight. It really doesn’t get any better for a live show.

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The original outlaws. The band too dangerous for polite society. When W.A.S.P. dropped their self-titled debut in 1984 it redefined shock rock for metal. Excess, chaos, blood, raw meat, sleaze, fury. It was part of the notorious Filthy Fifteen and it remains one of the most dangerous records in metal history.

Last Sunday at the Eventim Apollo, Blackie Lawless and company brought the beast back to life. The Album One Live tour is exactly what it sounds like. Every single track, front to back, played with venom and fire. They kicked off with “I Wanna Be Somebody” straight into “L.O.V.E. Machine.” Two of the biggest hits in the band’s catalogue, unleashed immediately. Even Blackie admitted that the promoters thought he was crazy for starting the show with such heavy artillery. But when your debut is stacked top to bottom with killers, who cares about pacing. This album is all killer.

The set hit like a sledgehammer. “On Your Knees” has been their live opener for forty years, but here it finally sat in its rightful spot as track eight. Blackie had the vocals locked down, the grit and the power still there, cutting straight through. He was moving, sneering, swinging the mic stand, feeding the crowd like there was blood in the water. He’s had his battles over the years but that was all behind him tonight. This was the Blackie Lawless we all know and love, fired up and in command, and the Apollo roared right back at him.

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Some bands fade into the background of memory. The Lemonheads never will. Their records from the ’90s remain untouchable, jangly pop songs dressed in alt-rock grit, and I’ve played them until the grooves wore thin. Which is why I’ll show up for Evan Dando whenever he rolls through town.

This isn’t the model-handsome Dando of thirty years ago. Life has roughed him up, and he has never hidden it. That history walks into the room with him. What matters is the music. And when it landed, it was fucking magical. Opening with “The Great Big No” and diving headfirst into Come on Feel the Lemonheads for its 30th anniversary was pure electricity.

For many of us, the band’s peak lives in that one-two punch of It’s a Shame About Ray and Come on Feel the Lemonheads. The first gave them their breakthrough, alt pop sharpened into gold. The second blew the doors open. Come on Feel is, for me, perfection from start to finish.

Hearing it live in 2025 was a reminder of just how deep that record runs. “Down About It” hit with fresh weight. “Big Gay Heart” was gorgeous, cracked and soulful in all the right places. “Paid to Smile” and “Into Your Arms” sounded timeless. It was a celebration of one of the most celebrated albums of the ’90s, a record that proved the Lemonheads were more than the flavour of the month.

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It’s the seventh time I’ve seen the band, and I finally get it. The Dead Daisies aren’t a project, a novelty, or some revolving-door experiment. They’re a good fucking band. And at Islington Assembly Hall this week, they proved it in front of a packed house that still believes loud guitars and pounding drums matter.

Doug Aldrich walked out looking healthy and dangerous. Thank the metal gods for that. He is a rare thing now; a proper guitar hero. Not the kind with empty flash or soulless shred, but one who bends every note until it screams. Watching him rip through “Light ’Em Up” and “Mexico” felt like being punched in the chest and grinning through it. He could coast on ego if he wanted. Instead, he plays like it’s the last night on earth.

John Corabi doesn’t just front this band; he drives it. He looks like he’s having the time of his life, and that energy bleeds into every word he sings. His voice was sharp, dirty, and unrelenting, whether tearing through “Long Way to Go,” throwing weight behind “Rise Up,” or dropping it down for an acoustic “Love That’ll Never Be.” He’s not trying to be anyone else. He’s Corabi, and he’s locked in.

The setlist was pure muscle. “Dead and Gone” came early and hit like a bar fight. “Bustle and Flow” slithered and stomped. Then came the kind of move that separates men from boys: a drum solo. Tommy Clufetos made the kit look small. He pounded it into submission, then blew it apart in a solo that felt like he’d dragged Tommy Lee into the parking lot and buried him there.

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Maybe I’m late to the party, but I finally get it. Wet Leg’s second album Moisturiser just shot straight to number one, and after witnessing their “outstore” at Electric Ballroom, the critics’ darling status makes perfect sense.

Smart lyrics, just the right amount of attitude, and the perfect record label in Domino create this ideal storm of buzz, delivery, and execution. The sound hits like a very potent mix of Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Stereolab. Familiar enough to grab you, distinct enough to matter. The record is good, but the live show is 10 times better. This is one of those bands where you absolutely have to see them live to understand what all the fuss is about.

Originally slated as an instore at Rough Trade, demand pushed it to Electric Ballroom, one of my favourite venues in London. They even had to add a matinee show that sold out in minutes. Thank God for that, because I hate outdoor festivals with the passion of a thousand suns. I’m more of an indoor cat. I want to see bands have full control of lights and stage, be within striking distance of each other and the crowd, not sprawled across some massive outdoor stage like they’re performing for ants.

It was relentless and didn’t let up for even a second. Maybe it was a shorter set, but the audience didn’t get a chance to breathe. Rhian Teasdale was like a cross between Iggy Pop, Peaches, and a bit of Wendy Williams. She made it look like she’d been doing this her whole life while most frontpeople are still trying way too fucking hard. Maybe a bit cliche to say, but it was mesmerising. A trip back to the ’90s when you heard the Breeders for the first time, or witnessed post-punk and post-modern collide in real time.

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Twenty-three years. That’s how long London had to wait for Savatage to grace a stage in this city again. Twenty-three years of wondering if we’d ever witness the theatrical majesty, the operatic bombast, and the sheer emotional warfare that only Jon Oliva’s metal opera machine could deliver. Thursday night at Shepherd’s Bush Empire, that drought ended with the force of a medieval battering ram wrapped in power chords.

Savatage are the unsung architects of progressive metal, the band that showed everyone how to blend complexity with actual songs. Where Dream Theater built cathedrals of virtuosity, Savatage crafted intimate chapels of emotion. Their genius was wrapping technical prowess in hooks that burrow into your brain and refuse to leave.

The evening opened with “Welcome,” and the band took to the stage with a proper theatrical, almost Broadway-esque opening. Zak Stevens, who joined Savatage on the classic Edge of Thorns and has been the band’s primary vocalist ever since Jon Oliva stepped aside. His voice soared through “Jesus Saves” and “Power of the Night” with the kind of clarity that would make a cathedral choir weep with envy. Stevens has clearly been taking his vitamins and avoiding whatever vocal plague has been decimating metal singers of his generation.

But the evening’s emotional crescendo came courtesy of modern technology and old-school heart. Jon Oliva, too ill to travel but too stubborn to miss this moment entirely, appeared via video to deliver a spine-tingling rendition of “Believe” from Streets: A Rock Opera. “We put something together just for you guys,” he said before launching into the song, and when the band joined in after the first chorus, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Who said metalheads aren’t sensitive? Savatage made vulnerability cool before it was trendy.

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Daryl Hall has written some of the greatest pop songs of the last fifty years. That much isn’t up for debate. He’s a national treasure who deserves every bit of reverence he gets. But he’s also human. And Monday night at Royal Albert Hall, that humanity was on full display.

It took a while for things to click. From the opening song, it was clear there were sound issues. Not the first time this month either. A few weeks ago, Roger Daltrey literally stopped his show in this same venue and fired his drummer on the spot. Hall didn’t go that far, but he spent much of the first stretch of the gig behind a grand piano, half-joking with the crowd and clearly frustrated he couldn’t hear them properly. The vibe was a little off, but the goodwill in the room kept it from derailing.

The setlist blended the past and present. There was plenty of Hall & Oates for the fans who came to relive the hits, but Hall also leaned into his new solo album D. Songs like “Can’t Say No to You,” “The Whole World’s Better,” and “Walking in Between Raindrops” sat nicely in the set. Polished, soulful, and drenched in that smooth yacht rock sheen. It made me wonder why Daryl Hall and Michael McDonald have never done a record together. Seems like a no-brainer.

“Too Much Information” was a standout. It had that familiar Hall & Oates bounce, slick but gritty, the kind of groove that makes you nod before the chorus even hits. It felt less like a throwback and more like a reminder that Hall still knows exactly how to write a hook.

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It’s a normal Wednesday afternoon, and I’m planning on seeing Hundred Reasons’ final show at the legendary Royal Albert Hall. Early in the day, I get a note that I’m approved for a photo pass. Instant adrenaline shot. About five minutes later, my friend Jay Jay French (founding member of Twisted Sister) texts me: “I’m in town. Are you around?” I say yeah, I’m heading to a gig tonight, and he says, “I’m in.”

Fast forward six hours and we’re walking through the gilded halls of one of London’s most prestigious venues. I never thought I’d be bringing a founding member of Twisted Sister to a post-hardcore show, but rock music has a way of creating these beautiful collisions.

Rival Schools started the night off. It’s no secret that these guys are best buds with Hundred Reasons. Funny enough, Rival Schools seems to be much bigger here in the UK than in the US. Now, while I’m honestly more of a Quicksand fan, I do think that anything Walter Schreifels touches is pure gold. Rival Schools made some fantastic albums, and they were on full display at the gig. “Everything has its Point,” “Used for Glue,” absolutely stellar.

The Royal Albert Hall isn’t built for bands like Hundred Reasons. Its ornate design and perfect acoustics were meant for symphonies and opera, not the raw, distorted assault of post-hardcore. But that’s exactly what makes tonight special. Watching Colin Doran scream his lungs out while surrounded by Victorian architecture is punk rock in its purest form—the invasion of spaces not meant for you.

After the first few songs, Jay Jay turns to me and says point blank: “Now this is a good band. I really like the singer.” When a guy who helped define heavy metal thinks your band is great after only just a handful of songs, you’ve done something right.

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The sold-out crowd at London’s Eventim Apollo saw Godsmack in a state of flux last week. With Will Hunt (Evanescence) filling in on drums and Sam Koltun (Dorothy, Faster Pussycat) handling lead guitar duties in place of Shannon Larkin and Tony Rombola, longtime fans had reason for skepticism. But from the moment they launched into “Surrender,” it was clear we weren’t getting some watered-down version of the band.

Sully Erna stalked the stage like a man with something to prove, carrying the same pissed-off intensity that’s been his trademark since their 1998 debut. Hunt and Merrill locked in immediately. During “1000hp,” Hunt’s thunderous attack had the floor section visibly rippling while never losing the groove. Cue the mosh pit and stage divers.

Koltun faced the night’s biggest challenge, stepping into shoes most guitarists wouldn’t touch. Smart enough to skip the carbon-copy approach, he found his own lane within Rombola’s framework. During “Voodoo,” lit in violent reds and purples, he leaned into the track’s hypnotic pulse, nailing the signature licks while adding flashes of his own style. Nothing showy. Just solid, confident playing with the right amount of bite. The kid can play. He threaded his own personality through those familiar riffs without losing what made them work in the first place. By the second chorus, nobody was missing Rombola anymore.

Critics have dismissed Godsmack as Metallica-meets-Alice in Chains since day one. So what? From my perch in the balcony, beer in hand, I couldn’t care less about originality scorecards. Sometimes familiar ingredients, mixed right, just hit the spot. What I heard was a band that took those influences and hammered them into something that dominated rock radio for decades. Judging by the crowd’s reaction, it still matters.

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Andy Scott’s Sweet tore the roof off Shepherd’s Bush Empire last weekend. It felt like a full-blown arena show packed into a theatre, and honestly, worth every second of the wait. I’ve had them on my must-see list for years, and now I get it.

At 75, and after a tough run with his health, Scott still showed up and delivered. He’s not leaping around the stage anymore, but watching him stand there and let rip with those classic Sweet riffs was something else. The man is the last original member still with us, and you can feel the weight of that every time he hits a chord.

The current lineup sounded huge. Guitars filled every corner of the room, lights blazed, and the volume hit you square in the chest. They jumped between the poppy, glittery stuff from their early days and the harder glam bangers that inspired everyone from Kiss to Mötley Crüe.

“Fox on the Run,” “Burn on the Flame,” and “Broadcast” hit like they were made for stadiums. “Wig Wam Bam” was sugary as hell and still totally irresistible. “Windy City,” from the undercelebrated 1976 classic Off the Record, felt like watching the band that gave Cheap Trick their early sound. The riffs in that song were massive. I still have that verse chugging in my head as I write this.

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Bloodywood stormed the O2 Forum Kentish Town last Thursday, delivering a cultural hurricane that London won’t forget anytime soon. The New Delhi-based band has gained serious attention since their early YouTube days, and from the moment they launched into “Dana Dan,” it was clear why. It was a statement from start to finish, unlike anything I’ve ever heard before.

Currently touring in support of their highly anticipated second album, Nu Delhi, Bloodywood is on a mission and clearly enjoying every moment of their meteoric rise. I missed them the first few times they came to London, as they gradually moved to larger venues, but this was the band at their absolute peak. Jayant Bhadula’s powerful clean vocals went head-to-head with Raoul Kerr’s sharp rap verses, while Sarthak Pahwa’s thunderous dhol percussion hit like a freight train. The sound was seismic, a frenzy unleashed on the crowd, ripping through every corner of the venue.

The set was relentless, never losing intensity, even though it came in a bit short at around 60 minutes. They opened with “Dana Dan” before diving into the title track from their new album, “Nu Delhi,” and kept the energy high with tracks like “Aaj” and “Tadka.” By the time they hit “Gaddaar” at the end, the place was absolutely buzzing.

What sets Bloodywood apart is more than just their technical skill—it’s the audacity of their vision. They’re blending worlds that shouldn’t work—metal aggression, hip-hop swagger, and traditional Indian folk instrumentation. This is the type of fusion we need more of, not only in metal but across all genres. Too many bands sound like copies of what came before, but these guys have created something genuinely original.

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I’m a metal guy. I’m not who you’d expect to see at a country gig, but something about Morgan Wade pulled me in. She doesn’t play it safe. Tattooed, raw, unfiltered. Open about sobriety, mental health, all of it. She writes from the gut and performs like it still costs her something.

There were a few other metalheads there. Not loads, but enough to notice. One guy in front of me wore an Exodus shirt, so safe to say he’s more of an old school Thrasher like myself. This sort of thing doesn’t happen by accident. People who are used to cutting through the noise can tell when someone’s telling the truth. Morgan’s music has that kind of gravity—authentic and real in a way that can be felt, with just enough of that misfit energy that speaks to those of us from heavier scenes.

The setup was bare, just the essentials. Two guitars and a keyboard. No smoke, no filler, no pretending. Just songs. “Psychopath,” “Take Me Away,” and “2am in London” didn’t need anything else. While I would have loved to see a full band performance, this setup sounded like there were twice as many musicians on the stage.

Her voice holds tension, or grit, or maybe that’s the sound of someone who’s lived it. It’s clear she can open up and let it rip, but it’s the quieter moments that take you to another place. Sometimes you catch a trace of Janis Joplin, other times a classic country twang, but always a sincere delivery that makes it look effortless—and that’s where the connection happens. She’s not trying too hard; it’s just pouring out of her.

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