Author Archives: Jason Miller

Okay, so I’m very late to the party. I discovered Don Broco after stumbling across a live performance of “Pretty” at the Royal Albert Hall. It was the most insane thing I’d seen in a while. A fucking pit at the Royal Albert Hall, yeah, that’s something you don’t see, ever.

These guys blend genres like nothing I’ve heard before; the closest thing I can think of is maybe Faith No More, that’s kinda it. I absolutely love the mix of synth-pop, metal, and everything in between. Rob Damiani really does smash the scream core and the more melodic stuff; the dude can sing, and the drummer’s harmonies give them a lot to experiment with. But the hooks, oh man, the hooks are huge.

I bought the latest album, Nightmare Tripping, on vinyl, as you do; this is a pretty badass record. The kind that if this came out in the ’80s or ’90s we’d be celebrating it as an album, on repeat everywhere we go. The title track features Chad from Nickelback. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. This one goes from hardcore metal to dance-pop to a massive arena chorus and keeps going. I’m always amazed by bands that can mash up genres like this. The creativity is off the charts, the hooks are massive, and you can’t put these guys neatly in a genre bucket. How can you hate on that?

The only time I’d been to Outernet in Soho before was for a LinkedIn event a year or two ago. What a cool venue. It reminds me of a House of Blues, like the ones they have in the States. Brilliant sound, and the design and layout keep everyone up front and close to the action. The place was packed, sold out, and rightfully so. The entire room was bouncing, hands in the air for every fucking song. Add a steady stream of crowd surfers and a pit that would make Slayer proud, and you’ve got a very happy Don Broco. I’ve never met these guys, but they seem like pretty cool dudes: down-to-earth and grateful for their fans.

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Somehow, I never got to see Northern California alt-rock icons AFI in the States. So when they finally came back to the UK, playing the O2 Shepherd’s Bush Empire on their way to All Points East in Victoria Park with the Deftones, I wasn’t going to let it slide again. A band this big in a theatre this small barely happens anymore. Three days later, they’d have tens of thousands of people in Victoria Park. I’ll take this room every time.

Same four members since 1998, but frontman Davey looks like a different man. Gone is the gothic, slick-black vampire mid-cut. Now it’s full biker leather, a pompadour out of 1974, and a handlebar mustache that would make the Village People jealous. The whole look says I don’t give a fuck about anything but rock ‘n’ roll, and it was awesome. From emo to Rocky Horror.

I keep hearing people ask why AFI never got as big as My Chemical Romance. They did, though. Decemberunderground went to number one in 2006, the same year as The Black Parade. AFI got big and then refused to stay there, which is exactly why a band with a number-one record is standing in a 2,000-capacity theatre in 2026, looking thrilled about it. And they put out five studio albums before Sing the Sorrow broke them. Most labels would’ve given up after two in those days. Most bands might get to four. Five is a proving ground in my book.

Four dudes making this much noise is insane to me. No frills, no gimmicks, a back line of Marshall stacks and a statement. Marshalls stacked like that scream metal show, but this was more punk, and then it went goth for a stretch, and then somewhere else again. All over the place, and I could not look away. Seriously.

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Last time I saw Butcher Babies was Halloween in San Francisco, and Heidi and Carla came out with full beards, dressed as men, which pretty much set the tone for the whole night and made it ridiculously fun to shoot.

I’ve always found this band interesting because they sit right in that space between scream-heavy metal and big, almost pop-level hooks, all wrapped in slick production, and it taps into that same part of my brain that loves glam metal and a lot of the early 2000s stuff. It shouldn’t work as well as it does, but it really does.

I met Carla Harvey once at the Golden God Awards, and she was exactly what you’d want her to be. Just cool, no effort, no ego.

If you take the band at face value, it’s obviously commercial and very produced, but there’s still real bite to it, and it leans all the way into being loud, over the top, and unapologetic, which is probably why it lands.

Carla’s been busy with Lords of Acid and her own project lately, but Heidi is unreal live and has the crowd completely locked in from the start. At one point, she walked straight into the middle of a circle pit like it was nothing and just owned it, and you realize pretty quickly you’re watching someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and enjoys every second of it.

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Let me paint you a picture of my own stupidity first. For years, years, the Kaiser Chiefs have been the musical equivalent of that friend-of-a-friend who keeps showing up at every party and you never learn their name because you’re an idiot. A commercial here. A club banger there. “Who is that?” Every. Single. Time. The answer was always the same: Kaiser Chiefs. Rinse. Repeat. Embarrass yourself.

So when the 20th anniversary tour for Employment came around I figured enough was enough. Bought a ticket, flew to London, walked into the Eventim Apollo with basically zero idea what I was about to see.

But first, Corella. Nobody warned me about Corella. Manchester, naturally, because that city is just constitutionally incapable of producing a bad band. They’ve got this ’80s thing going, a little Culture Club but with more edge, some soul thrown in, interesting beats, a touch of Foals maybe—indie pop that doesn’t take itself too seriously, which in 2026 apparently makes you a unicorn. They were on fire. I went home and downloaded the album. Not on my radar before that night. Very much on it now. Manchester keeps doing this to me.

Then the Chiefs came out, and the place absolutely lost its mind. And I mean packed. Not “sold out” packed. I mean, there was nowhere to stand, nowhere to sit, no air left in the building. These people have been waiting 20 years for this show, and they showed up like it.

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A few years back, I was on my way to Bloodstock when a friend from work said, “Make sure you see Royal Republic.” I told him I’d never even heard of them. His reply stuck with me: “They’re the only band at Bloodstock you can actually dance to.” That was enough to make me curious.

Naturally, I missed half the set. But the part I did catch was enough. Seeing Royal Republic live for the first time felt like discovering a secret nobody had bothered to tell me about. I was hooked immediately.

Fast forward to the Electric Ballroom during the LoveCop tour. My god. Next level. Imagine ABBA colliding with ELO, Queen, and Queens of the Stone Age, then throwing in metal attitude, leather jackets, and a band so sharp-looking they could be mistaken for a boy band until the guitars kick in. They look cool, they sound massive, and they know exactly who they are.

Now LoveCop returns, bigger and louder at the O2 Forum Kentish Town, and somehow they’ve levelled up again. New surprises, new theatrics, and the same ridiculous level of entertainment. They are exciting, fresh, genuinely fun, and when it’s time to go heavy, they absolutely shred. No exaggeration, they ripped through Metallica’s “Battery” like they’d written it themselves. Then they doubled down on the chaos with a black metal alter ego, pairing corpse paint with banging classics from the Bee Gees, Pointer Sisters, Bananarama, and more. It sounds insane on paper. Live, it works perfectly. Is there anything these guys cannot pull off?

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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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