Cover art of this nature doesn’t inherently mean Chat Pile dislike Oklahoma. Their home state is merely indicative of the kind of societal ills that are ubiquitous. Past songs about Oklahoman homelessness (‘Why’) or the local meat industry (‘Slaughterhouse’), may sound hyper-localised, but these problems carry a borderless universality that is part of Chat Pile’s appeal.

‘PEN I S MALL’ – one of this new album’s already-released singles – continues this trend. Yes, it is lyrically inspired by vocalist Ray B.’s time working as a local maintenance man, but themes about capitalism’s repressive nature turning life into “a series of acts of subordination,” are applicable worldwide. The song’s emotional palette is twofold; despair and rage. The former is lyrical and the latter instrumental, which largely summarises Chat Pile’s third and most brutal album to date. It’s not hard to imagine Ray B.’s fury manifesting in a vocal performance achieved only by smashing up the recording studio in the process.

Chat Pile fans will be used to this. But ‘Who Loves The Sun’ is an especially feral album. The aptly named ‘Creature’ bashes around like one, its brooding riffs a perfect accompaniment to lyrics about self-imposed extinction – “Please don’t say we couldn’t stop this,” Ray B. bemoans morbidly.

It’s all rather bleak, what with most of the album being dedicated to themes of global turpitude and suffering. It is also agreeable in its criticisms, so much so that at times it teeters on the edge of sounding glib. But Chat Pile back their stances by being no more street smart than they are book smart. Take ‘Deep Blue’, its title sharing a name with the computer that famously defeated chess world champion Garry Kasparov in the ‘90s, forming a lofty allusion that encapsulates technocratic anxiety. There’s likewise a pleasing Kafka reference, with Ray B. stating that he “might be a bug now but I still gotta get to work.” This is a band whose anger is not only sincere, it is accompanied by a reading list.

They’re also somewhat of an old-fashioned prospect when it comes to the use of the riff which, like all good descendants of Sabbath, is central to their songwriting. There are occasions when Chat Pile rely perhaps too heavily on this, with songs like ‘Christabel ‘26’ and ‘Influence’ gleaning all potential from the weight of these riffs alone, but Chat Pile are nonetheless creative songwriters, using jagged riffs to cast a spiky mysteriousness across ‘Intruder’. In one of the band’s more sinister moments of storytelling, Ray. B. talks of an imposter “dreaming about a life that’s fair and true,” who finds themselves “living under your bed now, knife inside your sleeping mouth.” It’s the stuff of nightmares, all from a band with no qualms about using the vividness of their imagery to create something evil.

It might all sound a little too gruesome for some. Fortunately though, ‘Who Loves The Sun’ does include vocals that are so overwrought, some of this macabre storytelling is rendered near inaudible as Ray B.’s vocals sear their way through the Oklahoman heat of these ten songs, his growls and roars becoming their own instrument, offering a visceral enjoyment all of its own.

So, when on ‘Family Funeral’ he reverts to a clearer, almost conversational tone, it’s arresting. “I never wanted to be in love,” Ray B. sings. “Awful thing, dreadful thing.” The unravelling and titular funeral that follows is hideous when taken at face value. When considered as a metaphor – for human suffering, the breakdown of community and the dissolving of relationships more broadly – it sees Chat Pile at their most disconsolate.

Let that be a reminder then that, while Chat Pile deserve praise for the knockabout brashness of their chunky riffs and Ray B.’s savage vocals, ‘Who Loves The Sun’ should be approached with caution. It is an album that faces difficult subjects with striking earnestness, however painful that may be.

BEN WILLIAMS

Seeing Dinosaur Jr. live is similarly lacking in pomp – their bashful frontman J Mascis usually appears unanimated to the point of motionlessness. Remember though that Dinosaur Jr. arrived in the ‘80s at a time when post-punk (over)intellectualising was eschewed, with the underground instead favouring something altogether hazier, distant and static. Simon Reynolds discusses much of this in his recent book ‘Still in a Dream: Shoegaze, Slackers and the Reinvention of Rock, 1984–1994’ – including the triumphant understatedness of Dinosaur Jr.  

That’s a lot of background, but it matters because Dinosaur Jr. never changed all too much. Their new album continues this trend. Much of the material here could pass for late ‘80’s Dinosaur Jr., not least due to J’s voice remaining ever-youthful – or did he always sound slightly older that he was? Either way, ‘There Near’ is everything that could be expected of a Dinosaur Jr. album in 2026. It’s a fuzzy display of untamed indie rock ennui – and it’s damn good fun too. 

J was always one of the more likely ‘80s rockers to, well, rock out. Here however he appears happier than ever to appease his inner-Hendrix. His soloing on songs like ‘Clam Along’, ‘Put It Down’ and ‘No Friends’ is raucous, with licks and riffs that evoke a 16-year-old who’s just discovered pentatonic scales.  

Some of the songwriting more generally sounds surprisingly youthful. Opener ‘Several Got Away’ is staggeringly catchy, evoking the slacker pop discernment of ‘90’s contemporaries Pavement. ‘No Friends’, with its melodramatic plea for companionship, is even more inclined towards pubescent emo-isms. Yet when filtered through J’s world-weary vocals, the central conceit of loneliness feels bleakly earnest.  

‘Take Me With You’ is sadly not a Prince cover. It is instead a vehicle for one of many riffs that splinter their way through ‘There Near’ like J’s been playing them for years – ‘Gone Off’ even has a guitar lick that’s singable in a Beatlemania head wobble sort of way.  

The album’s lead single is also its catchiest. But ‘Blowin Up’ is far more memorable for non-musical reasons. “You’re about as dumb as they come” sings J, before declaring that “there’s nothing quite as bad as a bored edgelord.” It’s perhaps not the most subtle piece of sloganeering, but given the album’s anachronistic sonority, hearing J take on edgelord culture is a fun and unexpected digression.  

Other than this mildly surprising takedown, ‘Near There’ feels like it exists within its own world, where the type of music Reynolds writes about in ‘Still in a Dream’ was the endpoint of contemporary music’s want for perpetual progression. None of this necessarily matters, of course, and there are several positives to this. For one, it makes the album easy to recommend to existing fans of the band, and it’s a decent enough entry point for newcomers (even if ‘You’re Living All Over Me’ and ‘Without a Sound’ are more logical examples).  

Whether ‘Near There’ is a success largely depends on whether the familiarity of these songs is perceived to be pleasant or regressive. That’s a vexed topic that Simon Reynolds (there he is again) would probably have a lot to say about. Either way, only the stuffiest of grumps would deny that Dinosaur Jr. have for the umpteenth time channelled meandering riffs of distortion, a hybrid of indie and hardcore – and a sympathy for the emotional – into another pleasingly raw series of rockers.  

BEN WILLIAMS

The Californian has described the album as a love letter to the dark. This may sound grim but it’s strangely charming too. Yes, the darkness can be a metaphor for the emotional nadirs of life, but it is also where resilience lies. This is best explained by Wolfe herself via the title track’s gentle defiance. Keen to imbue the darkness with a sense of renaissance, Wolf has developed a newfound positivity. “Seeds grow in the darkness/our love glows in the darkness”, she sings. It’s a striking viewpoint – newfound fortitude is obtained only when at our weakest. Wolfe’s vocals support this further, with her sounding both weathered and imperious. 

Her voice is a focal point throughout ‘The Dark’. In near-conversational speak, opener ‘Cold’ has Wolfe conversing with someone (or something) that she fears, but from whose grasp she escapes. She’s not running away though, but rather “running back home” in an endeavour to discover “who I am without you”. The subject of Wolfe’s address is ambiguous but never impersonal. Rather, it’s surprisingly relatable, making ‘Cold’ one of Wolfe’s most accessible songs to date.  

This goes for the rest of ‘The Dark’ too. While lacking the spooky crunch of Wolfe’s most revered albums, ‘The Dark’ may become a future entry point for the unconverted.  

There nonetheless remains enough of an eerie allure to keep Wolfe loosely tethered to her musical roots. ‘Turn the Key’ opens with grandly strummed guitars, sounding like the strings are hanging by a thread, as if precariously perched upon the instrument. Wolfe’s tendency towards the ghostly is also present, evidenced through her Kate Bush-esque head voice that anchors the chorus to ‘Seethe’ with a crisp breathiness. The song’s final moments dissolve structure, making way instead for atmosphere. While emotionally warm, much of the album feels instrumentally cold as a result of this penchant for ambience, as gales of sound amplify the music’s intensity. 

‘The Dark’ is Wolfe at her most accessible but she remains capricious. ‘Death Is Not the End’ is a tale of two Wolfe’s. The acoustic whisperer conducts the first half before the distorted warrior battles through the second, the yin and the yang of Wolfe’s musical palette. The muscular grandeur of the song is potent. It also carries an inherent finality. So much so that when ‘Dancer in the Sky’ follows – with its watery pianos and icicles of pizzicato strings – it feels less of a finale and more the end credits. Its group-sung chorus instils the song with something of a Broadway feel too. The result is less of a sprint and more of a stumble to the finish line, but Wolfes make it out of ‘The Dark’ in anthemic style all the same.  

The album is nonetheless Wolfe, yet again at her most conceptually consummate. Her paean to the darkness is captivating, but it’s the enchantment of Wolfe herself that ensures an ember of light has us drifting through ‘The Dark’.  

BEN WILLIAMS

Knebworth’s somewhat remote location means that fans have committed to something of a heavy metal pilgrimage to be here, though the feeling of distance between Eddfest and normality is slightly reduced by the gig’s partial clash with England’s World Cup fixture against Norway. “Fuck me, anyone would think there’s a football match on”, lead singer and ringleader Bruce Dickinson remarks. The band are known football fans – bassist Steve Harris is a longtime West Ham supporter. They even performed at the club’s stadium last year. But other that the occasional reference, the football talk ends here. Instead, for two hours, Iron Maiden celebrate the most remarkable of careers with some of the genre’s finest offerings.

The day’s earlier performances include Mongolia’s The Hu, Australia’s Airbourne and, most notably, The Darkness, whose unabashed theatricality aligns with Maiden’s penchant for stagecraft. “Exquisite” says vocalist Justin Hawkins following one of many crowd singalongs that he not so subtlety engineers. It’s a well-balanced performance that covers the new and the old, and even finds space for an abridged version of ‘Christmas Time (Don’t Let the Bells End)’, much to the supposed chagrin of the band’s manager. “My manager’s walking out in disgust”, says Hawkins. “He’s taking his manbag with him.” Punchy and always humble, The Darkness are the perfect warmup.

Armed with five decades of music, though opting to ignore any of the band’s more recent material, Iron Maiden begin in a reflective mood. They open with three of songs from ‘Killers’, an early album that featured original vocalist Paul Di’Anno. Following his death in 2024, Dickinson’s renditions here feel less like a continuation of the Di’Anno era and more like a tribute to the late vocalist, whose crucial contributions towards the beginning of Maiden’s journey are fundamental to their longevity. It makes for a sweltering opening run of songs, too, with the usual sight of Steve Harris’ thundering bass and guitarist Janick Gers’ arched back further adding to the excitement.

Shorts from the horror classic Nosferatu accompany an early showing of ‘The Number of the Beast’. Having been freshly recontextualised following the song’s use in ‘28 Years Later: The Bone Temple’, the sight of Ralph Fiennes’ flailing body will be forever associated with the Maiden classic. In Fiennes’ absence, the song still thunders along with an energy that belies the band’s age. It remains undeniably exhilarating, but a cynical reading would note how similar everything is thus far to Maiden’s 2025 shows. It is therefore pleasing to see the addition of ‘Infinite Dreams’ – a rarity that thankfully means there is something new here for those who attended Maiden’s 2025 London Stadium show.

Following this, the band launch into ‘Powerslave’, where a now masked Dickinson makes full use of the raised platform behind the band. This begins a run of three songs from the ‘Powerslave’ album, during which Dickinson’s voice appears fully warmed-up and blemish-free. ‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ – in all its 14-minute glory – is an exercise in stamina that is every bit as thrilling as the powerhouse performance of ‘Run to the Hills’ that follows. It’s hit-after-hit, with an unparalleled success-rate.

As the show progresses, so increases Maiden’s production value. Dry ice swamps the stage during a moody ‘Seventh Son of a Seventh Son’, while Dickinson sings from within a cage during ‘Hallowed Be Thy Name’. He eventually breaks free, only to be chased by a ghoulish creature on screens behind the band.

Then there’s Eddie, Iron Maiden’s longtime mascot, whose 10-feet tall body stalks Dickinson during numerous songs. The Trooper sees the two locked in battle, with Dickinson pausing only to wave a union jack triumphantly towards the crowd.

Certain moments have the audience questioning whether Dickinson is auditioning for the next Bond villain, given his various and increasingly bizarre costume choices. ‘Aces High’ sees him wearing a flight cap – apropos given Dickinson is himself a licenced airline pilot – while ‘Fear of the Dark’ has him holding a gas lamp as he prowls the stage, looking something like a hybrid between the highwayman and a Scooby Doo villain. One can only assume that the boxes upon boxes presumably required to store his wardrobe would fill multiple fancy dress shops, and that Dickinson is never short of outfits for Halloween.

As fatigued metalheads trudge back to Stevenage station, looking both enamoured by what they’ve seen and saddened that Eddfest is over, there’s a sense that, despite the occasion’s celebratory nature, this is far from the end of the road for Maiden. Other than the absence of drummer Nicko McBrain, who retired from touring in 2024, the band’s lineup has been unchanged for decades. “We’re not going anywhere”, Dickinson reassures. It all suggests that an event similar to Eddfest may well be on the cards for future years. And with such an extensive catalogue of titanic metal hits, enough youthful exuberance to keep the flames fanned, and more pomp than a Broadway show, there’s no reason to believe that Iron Maiden are done just yet.

BEN WILLIAMS

Words: Ben Williams

Nothing

Operating at the more direct end of shoegaze, Philadelphia’s Nothing revolves largely around Domenic Palermo. His on-stage persona is retiring. Head down, he studies his guitar almost as much as his effect’s pedals, something he has in common with his bandmates who are similarly indifference to ostentatious showmanship. Conversation is kept to a minimum too. We learn that Palermo doesn’t like the heat: “the sun sucks,” he says obliquely, but that’s about it. Nothing are simply content with creating foggy landscapes of distorted guitar the pass by meditatively, something that they do rather well.

End It

Given that End It recently became notorious for a mid-gig confrontation between the band and a man dressed as a banana, the enormous crowd they draw is expected. But those hoping to see another fruit-related incident were instead treated to the most faithful of hardcore bands. Indeed, the word “hardcore” is used so frequently during frontman Akil Godsey’s stage patter that it begins to sound like gibberish. It’s a volatile performance. During an opening monologue, which somehow namedrops both Jesus and Stalin, Godsey informs everyone to expect “25-27 minutes” of hardcore; and that is what happens. Everything about the performance feels dangerous, even down to the animated devils that hold the band’s projected logo behind them. It all feels rather more serious than it perhaps should be, but there’s a refreshing honesty with which End it pay tribute to the genre.

La Dispute

Jordan Dreyer is a natural storyteller. The La Dispute frontman’s charisma is tangible as he traverses songs from the Michigan band’s 2025 album ‘No One Was Driving The Car’, with highly conceptual and impressively complex song structures. What results is a performance that isn’t as confrontational as it is introspective, with the content of Dreyer’s lyrics forming the fundamental centrepiece for the performance. This is epitomised by ‘King Park’, a heartbreaking song from the band’s second album ‘Wildlife’ that is devastatingly visceral. And as Dreyer’s imagery comes to life, the bleakness of his lyrics are every bit as affecting as the musicality on display.

Snail Mail

Standing out as one of the festival’s stranger bookings, Snail Mail’s comparatively gentle indie rock is pleasant in the sunshine. Effectively a Lindsey Erin Jordan solo project, Baltimore’s Snail Mail does admittedly possess a fragile approach to lyricism that’s akin to the festival’s opening night of emo opulence. When performed live, her songs also evoke the sounds of slacker rock, which gives her guitar playing a groovier feel than on record. It cannot, however, be ignored that the paucity of festival-goers watching Snail Mail is due to an abundance of attendees watching Hatebreed at the smaller indoor stage, which is promptly closed to avoid over-crowding. It’s always pleasing to see something different on the lineup, but the scheduling of these two artists feels unfortunately misguided.

Trapped Under Ice

Trapped Under Ice’s three albums in almost 20 years sounds unproductive. Yet considering how busy the band are with their other projects (Angel Du$t, Cold Mega, Turnstile) it’s remarkable they’ve found any time to play at all. It’s a performance of merciless aggression. This is hardcore punk that is upfront and hostile; there’s as consistent a stream of stage divers as there’s been all weekend to prove it. Justice Tripp’s vocals are as gnarled as barbed wire. His growl roars from the speakers with a fierce intent. Occasional interruptions to this take place only in the form of the audience members who periodically acquire Tripp’s microphone. These vocals are a little less impressive but stand as a reminder that hardcore is egalitarian. Band and audience are at one, as proven by the lack of barrier between them.

Suicidal Tendencies

Mike Muir is the only original member of Suicidal Tendencies. He is at once a frontman, a hype man and the glue that keeps the legendary project alive. Known for creatively combining elements of punk and trash, the band now have a legacy to uphold, but solemnity is not in their wheelhouse. Instead, there’s something wonderfully silly about much of the performance. Muir’s rambling political addresses wouldn’t hold to scrutiny, but chants of “SC” and a David Byrne vocal style are enough to delight this weary Sunday crowd. The combination of “You Can’t Bring Me Down” and a head-banging Muir is a joyous sight. It isn’t the slickest of performances but it might be the most fun anyone has all weekend.

Basement

Basement are Outbreak regulars. They headlined in 2024, having played numerous times before then. It makes them a somewhat uninspired booking, but the fact they’re tried-and-tested helps them deliver a crowd-pleasing hour of alternative rock/emo. Having released their last album ‘WIRED’ earlier this year – their first in eight years – there is added impetus to the show. That said, it takes time for Basement to warm up. A string of new songs leaves everyone waiting for the jubilation brought by older songs like ‘Covet’ and ‘Spoiled’. There are many attendees sporting Basement T-shirts today, but the lack of a reaction to songs from ‘WIRED’ suggests that not all of their fans are here for Basement’s new music. Then again, to end Outbreak Festival 2026 – which celebrates its 15^th anniversary edition with one eye looking into the past – with a band who are veterans of the festival feels thoroughly apropos.

It is both an intriguing and familiar setting. Fans of SUNN O))) will recognise this description from previous live shows. This is a proven formula that works for the duo, regardless of which particular series of drones O’Malley and Anderson choose to unleash.

SUNN O))) has experienced something of a purple patch as of late. Their self-titled tenth album was released earlier this year. It was their first in seven years, as well as their first for Sub Pop, and the reviews were some of their most favourable yet. SUNN O))) as a project has existed for almost 30 years, but it feels like their status as legends of the drone and doom genres has never been more solidified.

Testament to this is the extensiveness of their UK tour, which spans six cities. The chosen venues are not small either; almost no other band would fill capacities of this scale with music so uncompromising.

But physically seeing SUNN O))) might be harder than you’d think. The amount of haze that fills the room – combined with the fiercely bright lighting behind their occult arrangement of amplifiers – renders the duo near invisible at times. On the limited occasions when an easing of smoke allows either member to be seen, the combination of their robed figures and the vibrating floor is almost sinister. That only two individuals can wield such power is remarkable, but it’s also menacing.

As is the case on record, the duo’s compositions blend into one another. With attuned ears, the unrelenting sounds of the duo’s most recent self-titled album are present, but this is intermingled with older material too. To this extent, the entire performance becomes one solidified drone of destruction that can be felt on a cellular level.

This prompts audience members to act in a couple of ways. Most stand ruthlessly still, arms folded and rooted in position as the rumbling chords propagate through their bones. Other’s raise arms to the sky in both jubilation and submission. For over ninety minutes, there are few other ways to respond to sounds waves that are this authoritative.

This is partly because certain portions of the performance are genuinely spooky. The merciless consistency of each chord is portentous. There’s a sense that this music is a warning signal, designed to strike fear into all who hear it – which is presumably the majority of Leeds.

SUNN O))) are a band over whom it’s easy to spill words of hyperbole. Adjectives like “heaviest” and “loudest” are often appended to descriptions of the band for good reason, but this should never belittle how well constructed the music often is. Piercing highs periodically invert the drones so as to provide a contrast to the ribcage-rattling lows, and the occasional introduction of pulsating rhythms means that the more attentive listeners will find variation amongst the brutality.

There’s also something demonstrably bonkers about the whole affair that only the most po-faced of individual would refute. The very nature of a SUNN O)))’s live performance is indebted to excess. The genius, however, lies in the ways SUNN O))) use the minimalistic forces of two guitars, thick haze and resourceful lighting to achieve this excess. For this, SUNN O))) are more than simply one of the heaviest bands to ever exist. They’re also, however obliquely, one of the most creative too.

BEN WILLIAMS

One of the day’s quirks is the World Cup screening of England Vs Panama that closes out the third stage, which means a number of attendees arrive sporting the peculiar combination of band t-shirt and bucket hat. Many of them attempt to end their evening positioned judiciously between stages so as to simultaneously listen to Converge and watch Harry Kane. Nonetheless, the dedicated fanbase associated with hardcore and metal remains ever-present, as does the supply of innovative festival performances.

Words: Ben Williams

Truck Violence

There’s something refreshing straightforward about the sludgy riffs that howl from the Marshall amps forming Truck Violence’s backdrop, even if the reality is more complex. The shirtless and tattooed Karsyn Henderson’s feral vocal performances belie the Canadians’ smartly crafted combinations of hardcore and folk. It’s a unique sound that’s further bolstered by the banjo added to ‘Guns buried in the front yard’ – a perfect contrast to the sludgy ‘Drunk to death’, which has the band at their most imperious.

Reclus.É

Having recently toured with A Perfect Circle, the duo of Soren Bryce (Tummyache) and musician/DJ Daniel P Carter deliver a balance of soaring melodies and piercing screams that show off Bryce’s depth as a vocalist. ‘Fire With Fire’ offers bite and grit, while some the less heavy moments have a more lugubrious demeanour. For an early afternoon performance in the sweltering heat, it’s an impressively dynamic showing from one of the lineup’s most creative performers.

Bodyweb

Bodyweb are insistent. “Get on the fucking stage,” yells frontman Louis Hardy. The band hasn’t actually played a note yet – they’re just that overwrought. Everything about this band is over-the-top, even down to the way their logo pulsates behind them like a radiation warning. Clearly worshippers of nu-metal, there are shades of Korn when we’re told to “get the fuck up” and touches of Slipknot when bizarre and off-kilter jungle breakdowns are shoe-horned amongst two-note riffs. It’s far from the most inspired of performances, especially given just how indebted the band are to their influences, but there’s still something enjoyable about the brute-force of Bodyweb’s antics.

Static Dress

Billed as ‘???’, Outbreak 2026’s mystery act is not Title Fight, despite the optimistic rumours and Static Dress’ decision to cheekily open with the intro to ‘Safe In Your Skin’. To add to the confusion, they jokingly introduce themselves as Guilt Trip (one of the other rumoured bands for this slot) but after much trolling, it is finally understood that the individuals standing on stage – who are clearly the members of Static Dress – are indeed the members of Static Dress. Despite a handful of individuals leaving upon realising this – did they really expect Title Fight? – the Leeds band are monstrously energetic, almost to a fault given the slightly forced shouts of “why the fuck are you standing still” from vocalist Olli Appleyard. It’s an overall consummate performance, but one that is more defined by the band who aren’t there than the one that is, thanks in no small way to Static Dress’ mischievousness.

Touché Amoré

Ten years on from the release of Touché Amoré’s ‘Stage Four’, the band arrive at Outbreak Festival ready to perform the album in full, much to the joy of one of the weekend’s most ecstatic fanbases. That said, no attendee quite matches the apparent happiness of vocalist Jeremy Bolm, who appears to be positively beaming at the occasion. Guitarist Nick Steinhardt meanwhile braves the heat in a full jacket for the opening portion of the show before eventually succumbing to the heat and removing it. The event brings with it a celebratory feel that’s devoid of the tough-guy nonsense that occasionally belittles the post-hardcore genre. Bolm’s decision to walk into the crowd sees him swamped by his adoring fans like he’s one of The Beatles. One gets the feeling that, while it’s not one for the newcomers, the already-converted will treat this as the weekend’s highlight.

Lip Critic

Bret Kaser and Connor Kleitz face each other with a couple of beefy electrics/sampling units between them. Their flanked by the band’s two drummers, whose in-unison bashing forms something akin to the backbeat of New York ‘90s hip hop. – apropos for four Brooklynites. Together, Lip Critic produce maximalist electronic hardcore that stands apart from the festival’s array of guitar-centric bands by offering a pleasingly feral energy. Kaser’s vocals are savage; he sounds more creature than human as he growls his way through songs from the band’s recent album ‘Theft World’. Other songs like ‘Sermon’ are ominous, with the listless Kaser bouncing amongst band members, conducting chaos as he goes.

Upchuck

The high ceilings of the BEC Arena do few favours for Atlanta’s Upchuck. The room gobbles up the intricacies of the band’s music, rendering the politically-conscious lyrics of vocalist KT difficult to hear. While the content of Upchuck’s words don’t necessarily translate, she nonetheless yells through the most savage of punk songs with ruthless aggression. The scraping of guitar against cymbals, a drummer who mid-set becomes the vocalist, and the combining of gritty bass tones and droning guitars remain remarkable, despite the muddiness of the acoustics.

High Vis

High Vis are one of the weekend’s tightest performers. The band seem to share a telepathic relationship as they traverse songs that contain as much pain as they do hope. It’s all centres on Graham Sayle, a passionate frontman whose honestly between songs is as inspired as his charismatic vocals. He delivers a lengthy speech about friendship and the importance of speaking to others during difficult times, with Sayle drawing upon his own experiences with alcohol with a stark honesty. By framing past difficulties as exactly that – in the past – the future looks bright. It means that his subsequently Olympian-like stage dives become euphoric displays of uninhibited joy.

Pup

Canadian pop-punkers Pup offer something lighter than the hardcore that dominates much of the weekend. This, alongside a fleeting downpour, delights a crowd that welcome the rain as much as a singalong. ‘Kids’ and ‘Reservoir’ offer the latter, as does the featuring of a selection of songs from the band’s debut album, ‘The Dream is Over’. The decision to so heavily feature a now decade-old album is in keeping with the nostalgia that has imbued the festival. Nonetheless, there remains an exciting rawness to the music. “I’m not gonna say very much, we’re just gonna fucking rip,” says frontman Stefan Babcock, which pithily summarises the experience.

Higher Power

For not the first time this weekend, a Leeds-based hardcore band take to Outbreak 2026. Having been recommended by High Vis a few hours prior, Higher Power draw from the aesthetics of ‘90s alternative rock to deliver something rather aloof. The band are mostly backlit, making it difficult to see anything more than a few profiles. This combines with the hazy guitars to create a unique atmosphere, over which High power blast through their set with workmanlike efficiency. With drums that are de-tuned to the point of sounding like timpani, and guitars that sounds ready to raw, it sums to an impressive showing.

Loathe

They’ve consistently performed live in recent years, but Liverpudlian’s Loathe haven’t released an album since 2021’s instrumental and ambient ‘The Things They Believe’. Knowing that another is on the way this summer means that the mere appearance of the band’s on-screen logo is enough to bring a sense that, though they never went away, Loathe are back. They’re old-fashioned in some ways – four musicians dressed in black playing heavy metal music. In reality, these songs are some of the weekend’s most complex. The 6-minute ‘Screaming’ shows off instrumental prowess and crunching riffs, all alongside Kadeem France’s talismanic charisma. “This is our favourite festival to play ever,” says France. It sounds like a trope, but given the symbiotic relationship between band and audience, it’s not so difficult to believe.

The Armed

Various performers at Outbreak 2026 could be described as chaotic. The Armed, however, take things further. In an unhinged display of madness, The Armed create pandemonium as soon as they clatter their way through the opening moments of ‘THE MUSIC BECOMES A SKULL’. Musicians are crowd surfing (with their instruments), a saxophone is made to sound like a pained animal, and ‘ALL FUTURES’ manages to manifest a mosh pit on the stage itself. Converge’s Jacob Bannon joins for a cover of ‘Homewrecker’ and bedlam ensues once more. For some, it’s sensory overload. For others. it’s a cathartic release. But for all it’s a performance that’s impossible to turn away from.

Alexisonfire

“Alright,” screams George Pettit. “This is from our hearts,” responds the jubilant crowd, as Alexisonfire launch into ‘Drunks, Lovers, Sinners and Saints’. It’s been twenty years since the genre-defining ‘Crisis’ was released. Two decades on and much has changed. Pettit looks less tough-guy and more avuncular coworker; endearing with his floppy hair and leather jacket. Vocally, he sounds largely unchanged, as does Dallas Green, whose cleanly delivered vocals sound remarkably youthful. It’s a curiously young crowd in attendance, some of whom were likely too young to remember ‘Crisis’ upon its 2006 release. It results in a charming cross-generational audience of students and masters, all standing before Alexisonfire’s titanic presence.

Converge

There have been many whole-album performances across the weekend. This penchant for the music of the past brings mixed emotions. At times it is celebratory, while at others it feels regressive. Ideally, bands should remain innovative, with each new release able to sit alongside older songs with seamless integration. Converge are one of very few to get this right. Opener ‘Love is Not Enough’, the title track from one of two albums released this year by the metalcore legends, sends their audience into as much of a frenzy as classics like ‘Conduit’ and ‘Concubine’. Over three decades into what is becoming an illustrious career, Converge eschew nostalgia with new music that is every bit as gutsy as the band they were all those years ago.

The opening night is also somewhat scaled-back, with the outdoor stage – which becomes the main stage on Saturday and Sunday – unused for Friday’s performances. Add to this that the festival starts in the evening (presumably to allow attendees to arrive after work) and the opening night feels more like the blurb than the first chapter. But there’s something about the combination of this genre, these bands and a crowd this vociferous that leads to the industrial confines of Manchester’ BEC Arena being nothing short of electric.

Words: Ben Williams

Balance & Composure

The Pennsylvanian emo band Balance & Composure supposedly disbanded in 2019. In 2023, however, they reunited. They even released an album, ‘with you in spirit’, as soon after the reformation as 2024. This makes it all the more dubious that the band’s performance at Outbreak 2026 consists entirely of songs from their first two albums, 2011’s ‘Separation (2011)’ and 2013’s ‘The Things We Think We’re Missing’. The band’s name even appears behind them like a 2010-era trippy technicolour screensaver. This may all sound a little like Balance & Composure are obsessed with their past, but their crowd appear unconcerned as they lap up every shoegaze-tinged note. For their part, the band sound sincere, with Jon Simmons’ vocals on ‘Notice Me’ soaring passionately above this particularly smitten audience.

Love Rarely

One of Friday night’s more enterprising bookings is Love Rarely, whose debut album ‘Pain Travels’ turned heads earlier in 2026 for its proudly intricate math rock musings. The Leeds band give it their all and it’s quite the spectacle, not least due to vocalist Courtney Lewitt launching herself across the stage, as every scream shoots sonic splinters from her vocal cords. The music is high-impact, densely written and filled with guitar lines that, despite the often muddy acoustics of the venue, remain audibly dextrous. They’re somewhat at odds with the emo-leanings of the evening, but Love Rarely are unabashed by their presence, which they announce to Outbreak 2026 with a refreshing intensity.

Joyce Manor

Opening with a song from their latest album (take note Balance & Composure), Joyce Manor receive something of a hero’s welcome. The Californians bring pop-punk to Outbreak with singalongs aplenty, producing some of the weekend’s catchiest choruses. ‘Heart Tattoo’ is a highlight, as is the vast quantity of attendees who have stormed the stage alongside a band that appear humbled by such proceedings. By the time they play ‘NBTSA’, the stage is so littered with people that spotting who’s in the band and who isn’t is like an alternative rock equivalent to ‘Where’s Wally’, which only adds to the enjoyable lunacy of it all.

Algernon Cadwallader

Algernon Cadwallader’s ‘Trying Not to Have a Thought’ is the band’s first album in 14 years, as well as their first with original members Nick Tazza and Colin Mahoney since their 2008 debut. The band’s near-twenty year existence has vocalist/bassist Peter Helmis – who incidentally earns the title of best beard of the weekend – in a reflective mood. He congratulates Outbreak Festival on 15 years as his all-consuming bass tones merge seamlessly into the surrounding landscapes of the emo revivalist’s set. It’s more subdued that expected, perhaps due to the comparatively small crowd they draw, but it’s a textured and smart performance nonetheless.

The Front Bottoms

Friday night headliners The Front Bottoms are emo heroes and their 2013 album ‘Talon of the Hawk’ is a classic for many. So, when the band launch into ‘Au Revoir (Adios)’, so begins a performance that sees the most dedicated of fanbases pack the venue, the stage and anywhere within the general vicinity. Only vocalist/guitarist Brian Sella and drummer Mat Uychich remain from the ‘Talon of the Hawk’ era, but the album remains pinpoint accurate, with Sella’s vocals sounding particularly unchanged since the album’s recording. Yet even better than the album’s full rendition is the remainder of the night, which sees The Front Bottoms perform nine additional songs, extending the evening to well beyond the billed runtime. For a fanbase this dedicated and besotted, though, it causes little concern.

While not vastly different from some of the band’s previous work, their tenth album – ‘in grief or in hope’ – does lean liberally into the abstract. While BIG|BRAVE do remain within the ballpark of folk-tinged drone music, there aren’t many riffs here. Previous releases, such as 2024’s magnificent ‘A Chaos Of Flowers’, were undeniably experimental. But the music was consistently underpinned by easily identifiable riffs. While there are some riffs on ‘in grief or in hope’, they do not constitute the album’s defining features.

The band don’t play their instruments on ‘in grief or in hope’; they interact with them. It’s a lofty claim, but one that’s evidenced by the album’s credits, which list every musician as “playing” the amplifier. Take note of this: a tool used to make an instrument louder is now the instrument itself. The result; noise. And, for the most part, it’s actually rather beautiful.

Take ‘what may be the kindest way to leave’, the album’s opener and, at just over 7-minutes, its scene-setter. The piece is built around a distorted soundscape that is suspended in motion; quivering underneath its own weight. It possesses a quiet heftiness. To this end, BIG|BRAVE have tamed noise. Despite the constant threat that it will escape them, ‘in grief or in hope’ remains remarkably controlled under their watchful stewardship.

Their skilful compositional approaches lead also to the hazy soundscapes that underscore ‘holding tongue’, as the gentle ringing of strings swell with each dizzying release. It adds a protean quality to proceedings; equally pleasant on the ear as it is difficult to predict.

The counterpart to all this is Robin Wattie’s voice. The noise of the album is all-consuming, but Wattie ensures everything remains grounded. Her vocals are intimate. Whether distantly obscured behind growing instrumental swirls in ‘the ineptitude for mutual discernment’ or upfront and wounded during ‘a shape of shame’ – her performances here are frequently breathtaking.

The sound of Wattie’s vocals is further enhanced by the content of her lyrics. Grief and hope are the album’s underlying emotions, but the expressing of these emotions is impressionistic – there aren’t many lyrics across the album in general. This is a mixed blessing. While there are occasions when the brevity of Wattie’s words reads like an indecipherable extract from ‘Finnegans Wake’, BIG|BRAVE do frequently produce fractions of sentences that are themselves pure poetry. Simple phrases become elevated by Wattie’s expressive voice: “I am tested while you get to walk away” from ‘verdure’, for example, is suitably chilling.

BIG|BRAVE’s purposefully, and mostly successfully, vague approach to lyrics neatly centres on the album’s core themes, but they are perhaps best explored on ‘skin ripper’. “The truth of grief lies in what is left of hope” is a lyric that effectively summarises what ‘in grief or in hope’ stands for. It is a lyric that invites meditation. Is hope the antidote to grief, or is grief itself so painful precisely because it thwarts all hope? By adopting an ambiguity to their lyrics, BIG|BRAVE allow us as listeners to ask these questions. As if to emulate this, ‘skin ripper’ is then bolstered further by a shrewd approach to tempo, whereby rhythmic undulations ebb and flow between the conflicting yet strangely intertwined dual emotions.

This all then culminates with the album’s closing title track, which bluntly asks: “when does one feel the most/is it in grief or is it in hope.” It is apropos that only this far into the album do BIG|BRAVE fully form such a manifesto. The album subsequently becomes a live self-led journey that aims to uncover the complexities of these feelings. Heaving crushes of distortion accompany this resolution as a solution is finally reached.

And then… the album ends. Abruptly, and with no fanfare, it simply finishes. It’s an unusual finale that is, intentionally perhaps, underwhelming. But having traversed mountains of distortion and an even heavier emotional foundation, such a unanimous conclusion is, while odd, strangely satisfying. And strangely hopeful too.

BEN WILLIAMS