As always in spring, the concert season is packed to the brim. One week you’ve got ATHEIST in town, then OBSCURA’s new album, a pit full of chaos at THE ACACIA STRAIN, and then, for example, this: a curious touring combo of NAPALM DEATH / MELVINS / WEEDEATER crisscrossing the U.S. for months now. Missing their stop in Charlotte would’ve been borderline sinful.
The crowd turned out in solid numbers — although, oddly enough, after MELVINS played (despite not being the headliners for some reason), a chunk of the audience cleared out. MELVINS, for Americans, are pure legend and the main draw of the show. So poor Barney’s wild rants and manic dashes ended up lacking a full house of devoted attention.
Things haven’t been totally smooth for NAPALM DEATH on this tour in general. First, Greenway fell ill — the band performed without him (imagine the excitement level there). And in Charlotte, Shane Embury didn’t show up. No clue why. His solo project DARK SKY BURIAL was supposed to open the night — a brooding, electronic appetizer to all the chunky riff mayhem, advertised as “esoteric experimental dark beat.” But alas, no esoterica, no beats, no Shane at all.
Mitch Harris, although officially a member and U.S.-based, doesn’t tour either — and so dreadlocked John Cooke has been hauling that live duty wagon for the past ten years.
So no, it didn’t feel quite like a tribute band… but when two out of four members are missing, well…
And since the promised esoterica and electronics didn’t materialize, WEEDEATER opened the evening. This band is pure legend in North Carolina — a state not exactly drowning in metal celebrities — hailing from the seaside town of Wilmington. Led by the one and only Dave “Dixie” Collins on bass and vocals (yes, that wild stoner from BONGZILLA and BUZZOV*EN — the guy who once fired a shotgun in a New Year’s “celebration,” passed out, came to, started cleaning the gun, and shot himself in the foot).
These dudes are known for being full-on fried — they don’t hang out with anyone, don’t socialize. Before their set, a shirtless, barefoot, bearded guy wandered out of the dressing room and shuffled off. Dealer? Band member? Tour manager? With WEEDEATER, anything’s possible.
Between songs, the band sipped beers — while trails of marijuana incense snaked across the venue like sneaky serpents, despite the club being a pretty serious, security-heavy spot.
WEEDEATER play a fat, greasy, sluggishly grinding stoner-sludge — hypnotic and dismal, with snarling vocals and drugged-out restrained fury. It sucks you in like a dense, humid swamp full of smoke, reeds, and stoned frogs. In short: absolutely atmospheric. One of those rare cases where the image perfectly matches the characters, the music, and the lyrics — like “I am the last weedmonkey this is for real.”
Then came MELVINS — who’ve been churning out alt-rock/alt-metal since the early ’80s, simultaneously credited as grunge and sludge godfathers, yet somehow not really playing either. Unbelievably prolific (this year alone they released their 28th album Thunderball, plus the collab vinyl Savage Imperial Death March with NAPALM DEATH), and always touring. Buzz Osborne manages to sound fresh in every tour incarnation and impresses fan clubs with bizarre wardrobe choices.
To match the tour’s sonic intensity, MELVINS brought along two drummers — who dazzled with their stick-syncing and synchronized headbanging.
As usual, it was bassist Steven McDonald who stole the show — at 58, still sprinting, twisting, pulling faces, and clowning around like a hyperactive teen on stage.
Buzz Osborne was more stoic and stern — but funnily enough, he hasn’t visually changed over the years. Same iconic silver puffball hair, smooth chubby face, and the springy gait of a heavy, grumpy cat.
I won’t lie — I’m not a MELVINS expert, but I always enjoy seeing them live when the chance comes up. And this time, the two-drummer setup delivered peak intensity. For those curious, the setlist is available here.
But if we’re talking about musicians completely untouched by the ravages of time and extreme music… then Barney from NAPALM DEATH is a freaking unicorn. I first saw the band live back in 2000-ish, and since then, he’s only gotten skinnier and younger. When this maniac burst onto the stage, thrashing the air with knees and elbows, running ceiling laps and perimeter sprints, eyes bugged out and mule-kicking — the photo pit genuinely got scary.
To top it off, his fly was unzipped.
Stage presence? Classic Napalm-level mayhem. With a few “ballad” breaks like “Contagion.”
And of course, no show would be complete without Barney’s trademark moral lectures delivered in a thick, nearly impenetrable British accent — about Trump, religion, life, and the obligatory “nazi punks fuck off.” Because how could you not?
They played “You Suffer” twice — just in case someone missed it the first time. Probably for those who didn’t fully grasp the experience on the initial go. We got “Suffer the Children”, “Scum”, some relatively new material (you know, only five years old), and a mix of tracks from all across their discography. The crowd went wild, stage-diving and moshing to everything — because when it comes to NAPALM DEATH, the classics hit just as hard as… well, literally anything else. They don’t really do weak albums.
By the end of the night, these ageless Brits had screamed, stormed, and sprinted through over twenty songs — and somehow didn’t even look winded.
All in all, whether they’re sick or just plain not showing up sometimes, there’s a growing feeling that Barney’s going to outlive everyone on this planet. And that’s just perfect.
