I’ve been late to the party, I know. For years, my friends kept telling me about this band, Psycroptic. Then, in July, I caught Fear Factory at The Odeon, when I found myself in the pit, in front of Psycroptic, training my lens on Jason as he prowled the stage.

It began to dawn on me as to why Hobart’s Psycroptic were such a force worldwide. After the show, I reached out to Jason (Psycroptic’s front man) to shoot for the album launch at Altar.

Let me say this now: I am relatively new to this end of the metal spectrum. And that only because my daughter introduced me recently. So when I say that I didn’t know either Pulverised Cranial Matter, from Burnie in Tassie’s north-west, or Body Prison, hailing from Narm/Melbourne, you may understand my ignorance. Consider me ignorant no longer!

PCM entered the stage like a set of death-triplets and their demon-possessed overlord. However, the onslaught of deathly roars was intercut with warm smiles and dad jokes between songs.

Conversely, Body Prison arrived with angelic innocence, yet gave what they promised: unrelenting deathcore metal. There was no respite. No remorse. Just thirty minutes of belting metal that left us gasping for air. The crowd lathered up, ready for destiny.

Psycroptic. There is a reason they are well-loved around the world. The technicality in their playing, the energy of frontman Jason Peppiatt or just the sheer power of their songwriting is enough to join the dozens of others in the mosh pit.

Galleries

Pulverised Cranial Matter

Body Prison

Psycroptic

Standing beside the stage waiting for Grace to perform, a lady came over to make sure I could take video. I explained that while I was there to take photographs, I would indeed take small amounts of video. This lady, who I presume to be Grace’s mum, was beaming, so proud she was of who Grace turned out to be.

Grace Chia is more than a hip-hop artist, although that is her fame. Grace has seen how difficult life can be and would help others navigate that difficulty. She does this, not only with her Oracle Nights, an open forum for any and all to get up on stage, but through teaching and working with community.

Grace is a multidisciplinary artist: writing, drawing, photography, clothing, singing. The Human Greyis the latest chapter of Grace’s journey, offering hope and dignity.

Grace’s performance was flawless, making light of the work involved in producing such a work. Yet, instead of grabbing the spotlight, she chose to shine it on a carefully curated lineup of talent and friendships.

Braydos performed on stage for the third time ever, following up from his win of Pass The Mic, Tasmanian Heat (his second-ever performance).

St Bedlam hit the stage next, with their high energy and wit, prowling the stage and engaging the crowd. She knows how to perform: in St Bedlam’s own words, “She’s definitely a drama kid.”

Next up OM3 came out firing hard. OM3 are different. It feels like everyone is doing their own thing, with notes and rhythms dropping in and out, syncopating and clashing. Yet, every instrumentalist is listening to the others in a cacophonic collaboration. And then Steeze’s lyrics washing and grinding and undulating and dripping over the whole glorious mess.

Grace Chia’s performance was everything I’d expected. Having witnessed her collaboration with Fflora, at ECHO Festival earlier in the year, I was prepared somewhat for the angelic vocals slipping in between the rhythmic beat of her poetry.

Special mention must go to DJ Thensum, who backed Braydos, St Bedlam and Grace Chia. The choices of beats and tunes were intrinsic to each performance. He worked his magic with enthusiasm, belying his decades of ripping up decks.

On a quiet Saturday night in Hobart, The Grand Poobah was one of the only venues that seemed buzzing with people. It’s no surprise as gothic post-metal outfit Northern Subs unveiled Night Creatures tonight – a record eight years in the making. The Hobart five-piece have spent the better part of a decade evolving within Tasmania’s underground scene, and if there was ever a statement of intent, this was it. Grand Poobah front room wasn’t packed with casual observers. It was filled with actual fans of either the main band or the supports.

Before Northern Subs emerged from the shadows, the evening belonged to a brilliantly eclectic collection of artists that reminded everyone just how adventurous Tasmania’s underground scene has become.

Opening act was Mountains of Madness – Hobart local band who delivered a thunderous, immersive set that blurred the lines between post-rock, doom and expansive psychedelic noise. They may have forgotten to write a setlist, but judging by the audience’s reaction, nobody was keeping score. Their performance felt instinctive, songs bleeding into one another as waves of distortion rolled through the room. There was something wonderfully unpolished about it. In an age where every detail is meticulously planned for social media, forgetting the script somehow made the set feel more authentic.

Later, Miles Brown took the stage. Brown is Australia’s pre-eminent theremin player and composer, best known for his work with The Night Terrors. Watching Miles perform is like witnessing someone conduct invisible electricity. His hands barely touched anything, yet eerie melodies floated through the Grand Poobah, somewhere between a human voice, a haunted violin and a captivating sci-fi soundtrack. Brown has spent decades pushing the theremin beyond its novelty status, studying under legendary theremin virtuoso Lydia Kavina and building an international reputation for transforming the instrument into something emotionally rich and genuinely hypnotic. Live, it felt less like a performance and more like séance by synthesiser. I loved it, – especially the spacier tracks. I’ve seen Miles perform several times over the years and it’s always left a lasting impression on me.

There wasn’t a weak performance all night. Instead, every act felt like another piece of the same story, showcasing the breadth of Hobart’s independent scene rather than competing for attention.

When Northern Subs finally emerged, there was little fanfare. They simply let the music and a fair bit of storytelling speak. Opening with “Doom Katrina” – the band immediately established cinematic scope that defines Night Creatures. “Lipstick Red” followed with a sharper edge. Three vocalists trading lines, songs stretching and contracting, and an atmosphere that constantly shifted.

One of the strengths of Northern Subs seems to be their refusal to be boxed into a single genre. Gothic rock, post-metal, industrial textures and alternative rock all coexist without sounding stitched together. Live, those contrasts become even more dramatic. Quiet passages create genuine tension before dissolving into walls of distortion. Mid-set highlights “Crash-land”, “Demon Fucker”, “Venue”, “Witches” and “Splinter Tip” showcased just how dynamic the new material has become. Rather than chasing hooks, Northern Subs build immersive worlds. Songs unfold patiently, rewarding listeners willing to disappear inside them.

Before closing, “Leather Maker” delivered one of the night’s most affecting performances, balancing menace with surprising emotional weight. “Cradle to Grave” landed like the final act of a psychological thriller before the inevitable encore, “Throttle”, sent the audience back into the Hobart night with ears ringing and adrenaline pumping.

Ahead of the release, Northern Subs described Night Creatures as the culmination of eight years of artistic evolution, drawing on gothic rock, post-metal, industrial music and alternative rock while embracing a collaborative approach built around three lead vocalists and five songwriters. That ambition isn’t marketing copy. It’s audible in every corner of the record and even more convincing on stage.

Album launches often celebrate what has already been achieved. This one felt different. It felt like the beginning of something that the band can definitely build on.

If Night Creatures is Northern Subs stepping out of Tasmania’s underground and into wider view, Saturday night proved they’re more than ready for the light, even if they sound most at home in the dark.

Setlist

• Doom Katrina

• Lipstick Red

• Crash-land

• Demon Fucker

• Venue

• Witches

• Splinter Tip

• Leather Maker

• Cradle to Grave

• Throttle (Encore)

This years Dark Mofo festival line up of music acts is incredibly varied. Some are perfectly suited to the festival, simply because they seem to exist in the same strange universe as the event itself. Blackwater Holylight are a perfect fit – a band whose music hovers somewhere between dream and nightmare stepping onto Odeon Theatre’s stage drenched in blood-red light during Australia’s most atmospheric winter festival – gave us an open invitation into that universe.

The crowd filling into the Odeon Theatre for an early 6:30pm start reflected that crossover appeal. There were the Dark Mofo faithful, dressed in black and ready to disappear into whatever sonic ritual awaited them. Older art aficionados stood shoulder to shoulder with prog-rock devotees and curious music fans who had likely wandered in after hearing whispers about one of the most compelling heavy bands currently touring.

There was no support act. No warm-up. No easing into the evening. Just Blackwater Holylight.

As the theatre darkened, the stage glowed crimson, red and orange. Behind the band, visuals awash in shades of red and pink shifted and pulsed throughout the set, creating an immersive backdrop that felt equal parts lava lamp, séance and fever love dream. The lighting design could easily have overwhelmed another band, but Blackwater Holylight seemed to emerge from it rather than perform in front of it. They became part of the projection itself, silhouettes moving through colour, and that signature fuzz war pedal distortion.

Opening with How Will You Feel from their brilliant 2026 album If You Only Knew, the band immediately established the atmosphere that would define the next hour and ten minutes. It remains one of my favourite records of the year, and hearing those songs breathe in a live setting only strengthened that affection.

What struck me the most was how enormous the band sounded. On record, Blackwater Holylight already occupy a fascinating space between soft beauty and heaviness. Live, that contrast becomes even more pronounced. Imagine if Dolores O’Riordan fronted Black Sabbath. Or if The Cranberries wandered into a rehearsal room occupied by doom metal musicians and nobody wanted to leave. Eerie, otherworldly vocal harmonies floated above walls of fuzz, while massive riffs rolled through the theatre like distant thunder.

The band’s live presence was nothing short of dreamlike. Their performance maintains a curious distance from the audience. They’re present and commanding, yet there’s a veil between stage and crowd. Not complete absence exactly, but something more mysterious. That approach may not work for every band, but for Blackwater Holylight it’s essential to their identity. There was very little banter throughout the evening. No stories. No attempts to work the crowd. No forced moments of participation. Instead, the quartet let the music do the talking. And it spoke volumes.

A highlight arrived with Fade, a song that captures everything compelling about Blackwater Holylight. Beginning almost delicately before expanding into something far more powerful, – it demonstrated the band’s remarkable ability to balance fragility and force. Eliese Dorsay’s drumming provided the heartbeat throughout, anchoring the swirling interplay between bass and guitar while never overpowering the song’s emotional core. Around her, layers of effects pedals and feedback created vast sonic landscapes that felt simultaneously intimate and enormous. The song seemed to suspend time inside the Odeon.

Elsewhere, Heavy, Why? and Poppyfields showcased different sides of the band’s evolving sound. The former leaned into the more melodic and hypnotic side of their catalogue, while the latter embraced the darker, heavier textures that have become increasingly prominent in recent material. The setlist flowed effortlessly between moods and dynamics. Songs intertwined with one another so naturally that applause often felt secondary to the continuous spell the band were weaving. That’s perhaps one of Blackwater Holylight’s greatest strengths as a live act. Many bands build sets around peaks and valleys, dramatic pauses and crowd interaction. Blackwater Holylight approach things differently. Their performance unfolds like a single composition. Individual songs emerge from the haze, reveal themselves briefly, then dissolve back into the larger whole. The transitions are seamless, almost hypnotic. A lot of shoegaze bands do this of course, but this one felt somehow different. More Hope Sandoval and less My Bloody Valentine.

By the midpoint of the set, the audience appeared completely locked in. Despite operating within genres that can sometimes feel inaccessible or niche, Blackwater Holylight possess an unusual ability to hold attention. Perhaps it’s the strength of the songwriting. Perhaps it’s the sheer quality of the musicianship. Or maybe it’s simply that authenticity remains impossible to fake.

As the set progressed, the band gradually turned up the intensity. The heavier influences that lurk beneath many of their songs began pushing further toward the surface. Riffs landed with greater force. The distortion thickened. The atmosphere became darker and more immersive. Yet even at their heaviest, melody remained central to everything they did.

After approximately seventy minutes, the band stepped offstage briefly before returning for an encore that leaned decisively into the heavier end of their catalogue. It was a smart decision. The encore felt like the logical conclusion to everything that had come before. If the opening songs invited the audience into the dream, these final moments revealed the darkness hiding beneath it. The riffs became larger. The tension increased. The red glow surrounding the stage seemed somehow deeper than before.

Then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. By 7:40pm, Blackwater Holylight had delivered one of the most sonically immersive performances of this year’s Dark Mofo. In a festival built around darkness, mystery and transformation, Blackwater Holylight were a perfect addition. Their music exists in the liminal space between shoegazeand doom, between beauty and menace, between waking and dreaming.

For a little over an hour inside the Odeon Theatre, Hobart disappeared. The outside world disappeared. There was only red light, music and the feeling of floating somewhere beautifully strange.

***

Blackwater Holylight Australian Tour Setlist

1. How Will You Feel

2. Morning After

3. Fade

4. Involuntary Haze

5. All I Need (Radiohead cover)

6. Torn Reckless

7. Silence/Motion

8. Heavy, Why?

9. Giraffe

10. Poppy Fields

11. Void

12. Fate Is Forward

13. Wandering Lost

14. Bodies

15. Spades

It felt sort of beautifully absurd standing in a theatre built in 1916 watching “legs in the air” crowd-surf and a blurry circle pit unfold to songs about coffee mugs, suburban boredom and hating everything. Yet that was exactly the scene at Hobart’s Odeon Theatre when punk legends Descendents finally made it to Tasmania, their first show this far south in their nearly five decade long career.

And somehow, despite being one of the most influential punk bands to emerge from California, the venue wasn’t as packed as I anticipated. That felt strange. Not empty, but comfortably under capacity. I guess that meant more room for a decent mosh pit.

Local openers R.A.B.B.I.T were one of the night’s biggest surprises. Formed in Tasmania in 2020, the band delivered a set bursting with the kind of high-energy, melodic power-pop punk that feels both nostalgic and fresh. Their sound immediately brought to mind the nervous energy and sharp hooks of Buzzcocks, while threading in flashes of new wave and some catchy distorted guitar interplay. The opening song drifted between indie cool and punk chaos, before taking a sharp turn into Amyl and the Sniffers territory. Distorted guitars dominated the mix throughout the set, sometimes to the point where the vocals struggled to break through the room. It wasn’t an ideal sound balance, but there was enough chemistry and conviction onstage to cut through the muddiness. After the show, I dug into the band’s Bandcamp and discovered a different side to them entirely. Songs like Love Bites and Gone showcase just how strong their songwriting actually is when given room to breathe.

Special mention goes to the guitarist, who seemed determined to burn through every ounce of energy in the room. While the rest of the band held down the songs, they attacked every riff and lead line like their life depended on it, becoming impossible to look away from. The kind of performance that reminds you why local support bands are worth showing up early for.

Next 208L Containers – garage punk outfit delivered exactly the sort of dry humour and politically charged banter that works best in aTasmania pub or a DIY punk venue. Their set balanced noisy garage/ post-punk textures with a distinctly local sense of self-awareness, never taking themselves too seriously while still sounding really tight.

Then came the reason everyone was there. Descendents walked onstage with very little ceremony. No dramatic intro. No inflated sense of importance. Just four musicians who collectively helped invent melodic hardcore and pop-punk before half of the audience were even born.

From the opening stretch of Everything Sux, I’m The One and Coffee Mug, the floor became a revolving door of circle pits and crowd surfers. The audience barely needed encouragement. Songs that were written decades ago still landed with the energy of a chart topper released last week.

Meanwhile, at the back of the room stood what can only be described as a wall of emotionless suburban dads. Arms folded. Faces unreadable. Possibly having the time of their lives. Impossible to tell.

Milo Aukerman remains one of punk’s most unlikely frontmen. Equal parts science nerd, suburban philosopher and reluctant icon, he still delivers these songs with a sincerity that younger bands spend years trying to manufacture. At one point he casually announced: “I woke up in Hobart…” which earned one of the night’s biggest cheers. Tasmania may sit off the edge of most touring maps, but moments like that matter. I think punters here are the best kinds because they are not spoiled for choice like the mainlanders. These music fans appreciate such an even 10 times more.

Apart from Everything Sucks in full, the setlist dug deep into the catalogue, bouncing between fan favourites and staples. Hope was as emotionally devastating as ever. Clean Sheets, Good Good Things and Silly Girl provided flashes of melody amid the chaos. When I Get Old felt particularly poignant coming from a band whose audience has quite literally grown old alongside them, procreated and is raising their kids to take over the fandom.

The encore was pure fan service in the best possible way.

By the time ‘Merican kicked in, crowd surfers were practically queuing up. Bodies floated overhead in a steady stream while the room shouted every word back toward the stage. For a band whose songs often dissect suburban frustration, alienation and self-doubt, the sense of community was impossible to ignore. The final stretch of the show felt less like a concert and more like a celebration of endurance. Not just of a band, but of an entire punk culture.

Descendents are sometimes described as a “heritage act”, but that label doesn’t quite fit. Heritage bands often feel preserved behind glass. Descendents still feel very much alive. Messy. Funny. Self-deprecating. Loud. Nearly fifty years after they started, they’re still singing about growing up while proving that maybe nobody ever really does.

And judging by the crowd response maybe they are not wrong.

It looked like a regular Hobart night until you reached Liverpool Street. Then suddenly – hundreds of metal fans wrapped around The Odeon, black shirts and battle jackets glowing with patches beneath streetlights, waiting patiently for the doors to open. Tasmania’s biggest heavy music export, Psycroptic, were on the bill. Fear Factory were about to celebrate thirty-five years of machine-made fury. The excitement was already spilling onto the footpath.

For a city that often feels sleepy after dark, it was an unusual sight. A reminder that heavy music has always had a home here.

Before Fear Factory even hit the stage, Psycroptic had already reminded everyone why they’re one of the most respecteddeath metal bands in the world. Psycroptic’s set was a masterclass in technical precision, the Haley brothers leading a performance so tight it felt engineered. For a band that started in Hobart and went on to conquer international festivals and tours across Europe, there was something special about seeing them back on home soil, warming up an Odeon crowd that was ready for every blast beat and impossible riff.

Celebrating 35 years of mechanical rage, the industrial metal pioneers rolled into Hobart on their first Australianheadline run in a decade, and first time in Tasmania – dragging the setlist through three decades of cybernetic paranoia and enough riffs to level a small suburb.

The turnout was ridiculous. Maybe the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen at the Odeon. There was this strange buzz before they even walked on stage, the kind that makes you realise half the room has been carrying these songs around in their bloodstream for decades. The all-ages crowd gave it another layer too. Teenagers discovering Fear Factory in real time stood shoulder to shoulder with people who probably bought Demanufacture on CD the first time around. Nobody looked interested in acting cool. A rare and beautiful thing.

The set itself was stacked with fan favourites and some deeper cuts that have been absent for years. Recent shows on the tour have featured songs like Industrial Discipline and Invisible Wounds, tracks that long time fans never expected to hear again, and Hobart got the benefit of that same adventurous spirit.

Slave Labor landed early and immediately turned the floor into a boiling mass of limbs. Archetype hit like an old friend with steel-cap boots. By the time Industrial Discipline arrived, the room had tipped into full machine revolt. There was so much head banging I briefly wondered if Hobart’s chiropractors were tracking ticket sales.

And then they belted out Edgecrusher. The reaction was absurd. People weren’t just singing along. They were launching entire sections of lyrics back at the stage. The mosh pit was as enthusiastic as it could ever be for a band of Fear Factory’scaliber.

Descent somehow raised the temperature even further. Nobody dared relax. Not for a second. The newer line-up continues to prove itself live. Dino Cazares remains the architect of the whole operation, firing out those impossibly tight machine-gun riffs, while vocalist Milo Silvestro has settled into the material with confidence. Instead of trying to imitate the past, he attacks the songs with his own energy, and the results are convincing as hell.

One of my favourite moments came during Linchpin a track from Digimortal that sounded absolutely enormous in theOdeon. Recognition rippled through the room. You could almost see people turning to their friends with that look that says, wait… they’re actually playing this?

By the time Replica, Zero Signal, and Resurrection rolled around, the crowd had fully surrendered. No posturing. No phones in the air every thirty seconds. Just hundreds of people yelling words back at the band.

Cars was another highlight. Fear Factory’s industrial-metal reinterpretation of the Gary Numan classic remains one of the greatest heavy music covers and hearing an entire room sing along to it felt strangely emotional amid all the mechanical destruction.

My favourite moment wasn’t even Fear Factory. It was the space between the bands.

Hundreds of metalheads standing beneath the Odeon’s 110 old theatre ceiling, singing along to Semi-Charmed Life and Natasha Bedingfield’s Unwritten at full volume as if their lives depended on it. The contrast was perfect. One minute industrial discipline, machine precision and dystopian futures. The next, a room full of people in black screaming “Feel the rain on your skin…” with absolute sincerity. That’s the thing about heavy music crowds that people get wrong. Beneath all the noise and aggression is always the biggest heart in the room. And metal music fans are often the friendliest people you can ever meet at a show.

Fear Factory have always been a band obsessed with the conflict between human and machine, but what stood out in Hobart was the opposite. For ninety minutes, everything felt intensely human. Sweat, noise, nostalgia, bruised necks, strangers screaming lyrics together. And honestly, if you weren’t singing along to “I Don’t Want To Live That Way” by the end, you were probably in the wrong factory.

Originally published in Heavy Mag. Reproduced with permission of the writer and photographer.

The first real bite of winter in Hobart – that sharp, needling cold that gets under your coat and stays there. But inside the Odeon on a Friday night it was a different climate entirely. I walked in carrying the cold with me. But ended up feeling like I’d been set alight; packed venue, strobe lights and heat radiating off those scratchy fisherman-type sweaters everyone wears around here.

COG, with support from Solkyri and Penrose Way, turned the room into something dense and electric.

Penrose Way hailing from Townsville, QLD opened the night with a grounded, steady presence, a set that felt like a great catalyst for a fiery night. Not explosive, but…you could see and feel the crowd beginning to gather itself. For a four-piece emerging band of the heavier prog-rock variety – they sounded tight and enjoyable to watch. Their new single Echoesdropped at the start of April and it is definitely worth checking out.

Before the voltage spiked, Solkyri laid the groundwork. A band from Sydney that has been around for nearly two decades. A sort of ethereal post-rock quartet sprinkled with a bunch of reverb, that definitely earned attention by layering texture over rhythm until the room felt suspended in it.

Their set moved like weather systems; swelling, collapsing, rebuilding. The crowd seemed a bit mellow, however the band played their set beautifully, accompanied by some really atmospheric lighting. Their latest EP Cranebrook struck a chord with me and I would recommend starting there…if instrumental post-rock is your thing.

By the time COG were ready to hit the stage, the dance floor was absolutely packed and I made my way up to the upper balcony to enjoy the rest of the show with a better view.

Bondi Beach three-piece formed in 1998 and have been a vital part of the Australian Rock scene for nearly three decades. Fronted by Flynn Gower and expanded by the drummer-extraordinaire Lucius Borich and bassist Luke Gower, (yes, Flynn’s brother).

Touring their Walk The Line run, the band arrived with the kind of precision that only settles over time. Over 25 years of playing together distilled into something lean and intentional. That longevity isn’t worn like nostalgia. It shows up in instinct. In how they lock into each other without looking. In the confidence to strip things back and still hit harder.

COG opened with Doors (Now and Then My Life Feels Like It’s Going Nowhere) which felt less like a song, and more like an opening statement. From the first note, the lighting rig snapped into action; harsh strobes cutting the room into fragments, turning bodies into silhouettes, rhythm into something almost visual. Smart move incorporating lighting into a set like COG’s.

This wasn’t a loose, jam-heavy set. It was tight. Surgical. Every transition locked in. Tracks like Are You Interested? and What If hit with a kind of muscular clarity…no excess, no drift. Across this tour, reviews from Sydney and Melbourne have pointed to the same thing – a band operating with renewed discipline. Less sprawling than their earlier years, more deliberate. Hobart got that version too – refined, but no less intense.

By the time they dropped into The Middle and Drawn Together the room had shifted. Heads weren’t just nodding, they were syncing. COG have always played with repetition, here it felt hypnotic rather than indulgent. Silence Is Violence and The Spine leaned into that darker, more political edge, the kind of tracks that don’t just sit in your ears, they sit in your chest. The strobes intensified here, almost confrontational. You didn’t just watch the band. You endured them, in the best way.

Closing trifecta Run, My Enemy and Bird of Feather... This is where the set loosened just enough to breathe. Not softer, never soft, but expansive. My Enemy in particular landed with a kind of bruised clarity, the crowd fully inside it now, voices rising just enough to blur the line between stage and floor. Bird of Feather closed the night with a controlled burn. The kind that lingers. No encore. Perfect set. COG aren’t chasing their past. They’ve trimmed it, sharpened it, and re-presented it with intent, something that only really works when a band has this kind of shared history behind them.

COG at the Odeon was high-charged, yes. Stroby, relentless, precise. Same songs across the whole tour, meticulously practiced with no room for error. But underneath all of that was something quieter and more dangerous; control earned over 25 years of playing side by side. Not chaos. Not nostalgia. Control.

This article first appeared in Heavy Mag. Reproduced here with permission of the writer and photographer.