Author Archives: Jason Miller

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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Every single metalhead from the past three or four decades seems to be in attendance, each one of them carrying two pint cups filled to the brim with beer. They’ve come because the air inside London’s O2 Arena crackles with a voltage that only exists when legends walk among us. Twenty-five years after they last stomped UK soil, Pantera has returned to claim their throne. With two core members intact and blessings from both Abbott brothers’ estates, they’ve got more legitimacy than plenty of other legacy acts still touring.

Let’s address the elephant in the room. This isn’t the Pantera that terrorized stages in the ’90s. It can’t be. The Abbott brothers are gone, their absence creating a void that should, by all accounts, make this endeavor impossible. But metal, like life, finds a way.

Phil Anselmo, his tattooed frame showing the mileage of decades in the trenches, commands the stage with the authority of a general returning to the battlefield. His voice, that distinctive, caustic howl, remains a force of nature, even if certain high notes have been strategically relocated to more hospitable vocal territories. Beside him, Rex Brown anchors the low end, his bass lines forming the backbone of Pantera’s signature groove.

Filling the cavernous spaces left by the departed are two metal institutions in their own right. Zakk Wylde attacks Dimebag’s riffs with reverence and his own unmistakable flair, while Charlie Benante powers the rhythmic assault with thunderous precision. They aren’t replacements—they’re torchbearers.

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The Jesus Lizard is the noise rock band for people who hate noise rock—and for those who live and breathe it. They’ve always occupied a space that defies categorization, blending abrasive intensity with riffs so undeniable they’ll burrow into your brain for weeks. Sure, their music is weird, but it’s also shockingly catchy. At times, you could even call it hipster metal.

They hit the stage just after 9PM to an Electric Ballroom jammed so tight you could barely move. Denison and Sims locked into position like they were ready for a fight, their stance as solid as their sound. For the next 90 minutes, it was controlled chaos—tight as hell but never losing that slinking Jesus Lizard groove. To say they were tight doesn’t even cover it. They were locked in—razor-sharp but still swinging with that filthy, slithering rhythm.

And then there’s David Yow. At 64, he hasn’t slowed down—or toned down. He spent nearly as much time in the crowd as he did on stage, throwing himself headfirst into the madness, guttural howl intact. Age hasn’t dulled his angst or his antics, and the audience loved every second of it.

This was my first time seeing them in over 20 years, and their first proper UK tour since 1998. (The brief reunion in 2009 doesn’t really count.) It’s wild, considering every show on this tour has sold out. With the release of their first album in 26 years, Rack, in 2024, they’ve proven they’re not just rehashing the past—they’re still vital and ferocious. Honestly, they could’ve doubled the nights at each stop and still packed the house.

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Finally, the beast has been unleashed. After playing it safe on his sophomore effort The Ides of March, Myles Kennedy has rediscovered his swagger—and London got a front-row seat to the resurrection. Opening with “The Art of Letting Go” from his new masterpiece of the same name, “Hey… hey… hey let it roll” sang Kennedy, with a wall of sound driving behind him. This is clearly a statement from Kennedy, and one that everyone immediately understood.

Forget everything you know about Myles Kennedy’s solo work. The Art of Letting Go is the bastard child of The Mayfield Four’s Second Skin we never knew we needed. And holy shit, the reunion with Mayfield Four drummer Zia Uddin ignites pure dynamite. Their chemistry is explosive—two veterans trading “fuck yeah” looks across the stage like teenagers who just discovered their first power chord. This isn’t nostalgia; it’s resurrection.

The new material absolutely soars live. “Behind the Veil” (Kennedy’s personal favorite) starts like a bluesy ballad before the main riff kicks in and hits like a freight train, and the reworked cuts from Year of the Tiger proved that even his acoustic numbers can grow fangs when plugged in. What’s even more interesting it that Kennedy’s doing it all with a power trio. No smoke and mirrors, no army of guitarists to hide behind. Just one man wielding his axe like he’s got something to prove, while somehow maintaining that otherworldly voice that makes even the best metal singers sound like choir boys.

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“Wembley Arena! I have waited since I was 16 years old to say that!” exclaimed Remington Leith, and you can’t help but share in the genuine excitement. Having watched Palaye Royale’s steady climb from clubs through theatres and now to Wembley Arena, tonight feels less like a surprise and more like a natural progression for a band that’s paid their dues.

The brothers have always understood the theatre of rock and roll, and tonight they dial it up appropriately for the legendary venue. Fire, sparks, and well-timed confetti create moments of spectacle without overwhelming the music—a balance many bands struggle to strike in their transition to larger venues.

Touring in support of their fifth album Death or Glory, the new material sits comfortably alongside their established catalog. “Showbiz” and “Dark Side of the Silver Spoon” particularly stand out, offering glimpses into the band’s relationship with the music industry, though never descending into self-indulgence. Seven songs in all from the latest record, bucking a trend where most bands can barely squeeze in more than two new songs without sending their fans to the loo breaks and back to the bar.

Leith’s distinctive vocals, which have become increasingly confident over the years, fill the arena with the same intensity they once brought to smaller rooms. The fan favorites were there too—”No Love in LA,” “Dying in a Hot Tub,” “Broken,” and “Fever Dream.” Notably absent was “Get Higher,” their ready-made arena anthem that seemed tailor-made for a venue of this size.

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Let’s be honest—I never expected to be writing this review. James Blunt’s Back to Bedlam 20th-anniversary release just landed on my turntable in all its red recycled vinyl glory, and I’m sitting here wondering why we all decided to be such jerks about this album. 13 million copies sold? After giving it a proper listen, I get it.

Here’s the thing about Blunt—everyone got so caught up in the “You’re Beautiful” hysteria that they missed what’s actually happening here. The guy can write some serious hooks. Even he admits that his biggest hit isn’t exactly his proudest lyrical moment, but holy shit can this guy write a catchy tune.

What really got me were tracks like “High” and “Wisemen”—proper songwriting that somehow got overshadowed by all the noise. And “No Bravery”? That’s not just another pop song, that’s someone who’s actually seen some stuff and knows how to tell the story. After serving in the military and seeing some of the shit that he’s seen, Blunt earned the right to write about whatever the hell he wants

This remastered version brings new life to these tracks. The red recycled vinyl release feels like a fitting tribute to one of the Noughties’ best-selling albums. In typical Blunt fashion, he jokes about “milking it for all it’s worth,” but honestly? This release deserves the attention.

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Jet stormed the O2 Kentish Town Forum last weekend with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, obliterating any doubts about their staying power. The Aussie rockers unleashed a blistering set that shook the venue to its foundations and rekindled the raw energy of their early 2000s heyday after a 15-year absence from UK stages.

Let’s cut to the chase, “Cold Hard Bitch” might just be the best rock riff of the 2000s. Period. When those opening notes hit, it was like a jolt of electricity. If you weren’t losing your shit with the rest of the crowd erupting and singing every word then you were clearly in the wrong place.

These guys aren’t just coasting on past glories. Their new track “Hurry Hurry” is a sonic time machine, hurling us back to the fuzzy, dirty rock of the late ’60s. It’s Jet shifting gears, trading their usual late ’70s swagger for a grittier, more psychedelic romp. The relentless beat is still there, but now it’s wrapped in layers of fuzzy guitar that sound like they’ve been dragged through a Marshall stack and back. There’s a hook buried in that beautiful mess that’ll have you humming for days. Nic Cester’s calling it “a little appetizer” for their upcoming album.

Jet’s evolved sound is matched by their sharpened image. Cester struts on stage in white tailored jeans that flirt with bell-bottom territory, paired with sleek cowboy boots and a simple shirt. It’s a look that screams rock star confidence without trying too hard. The rest of the band follows suit, each member sporting their own version of cleaned-up rock ‘n’ roll cool. It’s clear they’ve traded their scruffy early-days of leather for a more curated edge, but their sonic punch remains as potent as ever.

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If you haven’t seen The Struts live yet, what the hell are you waiting for? After catching them for the sixth time at Camden’s Roundhouse, I can confidently say they’re only getting better. This co-headlining gig with Barns Courtney wasn’t just another show—it was a goddamn revelation.

From the moment The Struts hit the stage, it was clear the road has been more than kind to them. They were loose, they were tight, they were fucking glowing. Opening with the cocksure “Primadonna Like Me,” they steamrolled into “Fallin With Me” (possibly their best track since “Kiss This”) and then “Body Talk.” Three bangers, no breathers—that’s how you start a rock show, kids.

The setlist was a masterclass in pacing: “Too Good at Raising Hell,” “Dirty Sexy Money,” “The Ol’ Switcheroo”—hit after hit, with nary a dull moment. By the time they reached “Kiss This” and “Could Have Been Me,” the crowd was putty in their hands. Here’s the kicker: The Struts have outgrown their time slot. They need two-hour sets, minimum. There’s just too much gold in their catalog now.

But let’s talk about the revelation of the night: Barns Courtney. I’d stumbled onto him through his guitarist, Andrew Martin (Palaye Royale, LP), and holy shit, am I glad I did. Courtney’s bringing a fresh energy to the scene, blending bluesy, swampy vibes with high-octane singer-songwriter chops. Think Black Keys with a touch of Faces—it’s rootsy, it’s raw, and it’s utterly captivating.

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Holy fucking hell. If you’d told me a year ago I’d be standing in Manchester’s O2 Academy, press pass around my neck, watching the Sex Pistols tear through Never Mind the Bollocks with Frank Carter on the mic, I’d have laughed in your face. But here we are, in a world gone mad, witnessing the impossible: punk rock history rewritten in real-time.

When news broke of the Pistols reuniting—minus the perpetually pissed-off John Lydon—for a one-off London gig, I nearly shit myself. Missed it, of course, because life’s a cruel mistress. But that show’s seismic impact spawned this UK tour, and suddenly, I had a shot at redemption. One train ride, one sweaty venue, and one night of pure, unadulterated punk fucking rock.

From the moment Steve Jones hit that first chord, it was clear this wasn’t just a nostalgia trip. That guitar tone—the sound that launched a thousand punk bands—ripped through the venue like a hurricane. Paul Cook’s drums thundered with the same fury they did in ’77, while Glen Matlock proved why he was always the unsung hero, his basslines the bedrock of the Pistols’ sound.

But the real revelation? Frank fucking Carter. Stepping into Lydon’s shoes is no easy feat, but Carter owned it. His voice captured that iconic snarl perfectly, yet he brought his own raw energy to every line. During “God Save the Queen,” you could feel the electricity in the air, the crowd hanging on every word as if it was a manifesto for a new revolution.

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I’ve seen The Dead Daisies four times now, and let me tell you, their latest show was a real kick in the teeth—in the best way possible. This supergroup, born from the ashes of rock royalty, proved once again why they’re more than just a nostalgia act. Let’s cut to the chase: The Dead Daisies are the real deal. Forget what you’ve heard about rock being dead. These guys are out there breathing new life into a genre that’s supposedly on life support. And they’re doing it with a revolving door of musicians that would make lesser bands implode.

Now, I know some folks moan about the lineup changes, but here’s my take: it keeps things interesting. Each show is a unique experience, and last weekend’s performance was easily their best yet. The band was tight as a drum, heavy as lead, and hotter than a summer sidewalk. Their new album, Light Em Up, isn’t just good—it’s a statement. It’s The Dead Daisies saying, “Yeah, we’ve got a pedigree, but we’re not here to rest on our laurels.” And with John Corabi back on vocals? It’s like they’ve found the missing piece of the puzzle.

Speaking of Corabi, the man’s voice is like aged whiskey—smooth, potent, and leaves you wanting more. He doesn’t just sing the songs; he lives them. When he’s on stage, you can’t help but pay attention. But the real star of the show? Doug Aldrich. This guy doesn’t just play guitar; he makes it sing, cry, and scream. Watching him work that Les Paul is like seeing a master at work. It’s not just about the speed or technicality—though he’s got both in spades. It’s about the soul he pours into every note. The recent news about his health hit hard, but if anyone can beat cancer and come back stronger, it’s Doug.

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If you missed Bambie Thug’s performance at Heaven in London last week, you might have missed one of those pivotal moments where an artist teeters on the edge of obscurity and stardom. It’s the kind of show that, in a year or two, could have you smugly reminiscing, “Oh yeah, I caught their act at Heaven just before they blew up—now they’re selling out the O2.”

Bambie Thug doesn’t just blur the lines between genres; they obliterate them entirely, crafting a sonic identity as fluid and defiant as their own. With a stage presence that oscillates between ethereal witch and gritty punk rocker, they embody a new wave of artists refusing to be boxed in by traditional labels—musical or otherwise.

Their performance was a study in contradiction: vulnerable yet fierce, melodic yet abrasive, familiar yet utterly unique. It’s this ability to exist comfortably in the spaces between established norms that makes Bambie Thug an artist to watch. They’re not just pushing envelopes; they’re ripping them up and fashioning something entirely new from the pieces.

Let me set the scene: I’ve been around the block a few times in the music world. I was there when Marilyn Manson first hit the stage back in ’94, and I’ve seen countless acts try to capture that same lightning in a bottle since. So when I say Bambie Thug is something special, I’m not just blowing smoke.

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Jay Buchanan’s European debut with his solo project at Stereo Convent Garden in London was a night of revelation and musical enchantment. Known primarily as the frontman of the Long Beach rock band Rival Sons, Buchanan stepped into the spotlight with a new band to showcase his upcoming solo album Locust and Wild Honey. The intimate setting of Stereo Convent Garden was the perfect backdrop for this personal and semi-stripped-down performance.

Having just flown in from Germany where he was touring with his main band, Buchanan’s transition from frontman to solo artist would prove no challenge. The mystique of Buchanan, often shrouded in the collective energy of Rival Sons, was peeled away, revealing a different persona. He remained a frontman who’s in a trance and lost in the music, but this time, the spotlight was entirely on him.

The absence of his Rival Sons bandmates, especially Mr. Fuzzlord, highlighted Buchanan’s charisma and the sheer strength of his material. The pressure must have been immense, but Buchanan’s confidence and the quality of his songs connected straight away. I think what was obvious from the start is that you have an audience that will follow this man anywhere.

One of the most striking aspects of the evening was Buchanan’s rarely seen role as a storyteller. Known for his intense, over the top performances with Rival Sons, it was interesting to hear him speak so candidly on stage. He mentioned that he doesn’t have time to talk during Rival Sons’ shows because “they’ve got a lot of rocking to do.” However, in this solo setting, he shared the stories behind his songs, delving into their meanings, his writing process, and the personal impact of his music. This openness added a layer over vulnerability to the performance, not only showcasing Buchanan’s deep love for his craft, but the fact that he’s got a lot to say and he’s now got a proper outlet to do so.

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Walking back to the train after Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds show at Alexandra Palace Park, I overheard a question that encapsulates the ongoing debate among fans: “Was it better than Liam?” This question, though inevitable, is shortsighted. You simply can’t compare the two. Both Gallagher brothers are phenomenal talents in their own right, but Noel’s performance showcased his unique ability to blend his illustrious past with a forward-looking artistry that few can match. Throughout the show, Noel’s trademark wit and “get off my lawn” quips between songs added a layer of charm and authenticity that only he can deliver.

Noel Gallagher, the mastermind behind some of the greatest songs in British rock history, brought his High Flying Birds to Alexandra Park for a mesmerising night, celebrating the release of his latest studio album, Council Skies. Critics and fans alike have showered praise on this album, and for good reason. It’s a testament to Noel’s enduring genius as one of the best songwriters the UK has ever produced.

Opening the set with “Pretty Boy,” the lead single from Council Skies, Noel immediately showcased his knack for crafting songs that are both contemporary and timeless. This track, along with others like “We’re Gonna Get There in the End” and “Open the Door, See What You Find,” highlighted Noel’s evolution as an artist. These songs aren’t just filler; they stand as pillars of his current creative output, demonstrating that Noel is far from resting on his laurels.

What made this night truly exceptional, however, was Noel’s decision to weave in a generous helping of Oasis classics throughout the set. Unlike his brother Liam, who opens with Oasis songs and unashamedly bashes out the hits, Noel makes the crowd work a bit more for them. The audience was treated to an array of beloved tracks, from “Going Nowhere” to “Talk Tonight,” and the reaction was electric. The crowd went absolutely bananas, proving that these songs are as vital and vibrant as ever.

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Body Count tore through the Kentish Town Forum last week in London, leaving a moshpit-ravaged landscape in their wake. Their Merciless Tour stop was a potent display of the band’s enduring power, effortlessly weaving together crossover thrash anthems, blistering social commentary, and a taste of upcoming brutality.

The night erupted with the pulverizing one-two punch of “Body Count’s in the House” and straight into a surprising, but very much welcomed Slayer medley of “Raining Blood” and “Postmortem.” Ice-T, a towering figure of stoic charisma, strutted the stage with swagger, his vocals cutting through the surging guitars with razor-sharp precision. Even at 66, his presence remains as intimidating as ever. The crowd, a diverse mix of generations united by their love for heavy music and hard-hitting lyrics, roared their approval.

Body Count unleashed classics like “Bowels of the Devil” and “There Goes the Neighborhood” with relentless ferocity. The mosh pit was a maelstrom of chaos, bodies colliding and thrashing in unison, creating one of the most brutal scenes ever witnessed at the O2 Forum in Kentish Town. “Necessary Evil” and “Manslaughter” hit with the force of a sledgehammer, proving the band hasn’t lost a step, their signature blend of thrash and groove metal sounding more potent than ever.

One of the highlights of the night was the relentless energy brought by Ice-T’s son, Little Ice. Stage diving and flying around the stage, Little Ice kept the energy at an atomic level, ensuring the mosh pit was fierce and never seemed to stop. It was one of the heaviest shows I’ve ever seen, full of surprises, including two new songs, “Psychopath,” which is old-school metal at its finest, and “The Purge.”

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Last Wednesday at the O2 Kentish Town Forum, Underoath delivered a show that was more than just a nostalgia trip for fans clinging to their teenage angst. It was a defiant middle finger to the critics who once pigeonholed metalcore as a genre of fleeting trends and guttural screams. This wasn’t your typical mosh pit fueled by mindless aggression. This was a celebration of a band that dared to evolve, pushing the boundaries of the genre they helped define.

Some may miss the wild, chaotic mosh pits of the past where bodies once flew through the air like missiles. Yet, for longtime fans of Underoath, the change in energy wasn’t a watering down but a refining process. This show resonated with those who’ve grown alongside the band, where emotions have evolved beyond raw intensity to something deeper. Don’t get me wrong, there was a pretty consistent wave of crowd surfers and a whirlpool of a pit here and there, but the majority were there to sing along and remember the impact this album had on them.

Playing their iconic They’re Only Chasing Safety record in its entirety wasn’t just a nostalgic pandering, it was a testament to the album’s enduring strength. This is the one that divided both critics and fans alike as the band evolved their sound and accepted that you can’t please everyone, nor should you be trying to. These weren’t relics of a bygone era, these were songs that still resonated with a raw and powerful honesty. It was a reminder that Underoath was at the top of the heap of bands of the overcrowded metal core scene, and one that still matters today.

The acoustic interlude with “Some Will Seek Forgiveness, Others Escape” offered a welcome shift in gears. This stripped-down performance, featuring just Aaron Gillespie and Tim on guitars, showcased the emotional core of Underoath’s music. It was a special treat to see Aaron, the band’s last original member, step out from behind the drums and deliver such a raw and powerful vocal performance. This intimate moment highlighted the depth of his songwriting and the vulnerability often overshadowed by the band’s heavier sounds.

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