Author Archives: Jason Miller

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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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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