Words/Photos by LMC
Mixed bills are a mixed bag. Sometimes they work; sometimes they don’t. I’m reminded of a documentary by Stewart Lee in which he discusses his hero, Ted Chippington. Lee speaks about how much he admires Chippington’s uniquely inane, deadpan style, but he also notes something crucial: Chippington toured with The Fall. It’s difficult to imagine Chippington sharing a bill with a band like that. Yet it was precisely these unlikely pairings that helped open the door for alternative comedians and allowed art to spill freely between forms and formats.
That’s the spirit I like to think about on nights like this. Mixed bills are valuable precisely because they don’t always work. The unpredictability is part of the point.
Unfortunately, train delays meant we missed the first two bands opening for Napalm Death. After grabbing drinks, the first band we caught was Whiplash.
Formed in 1984, Whiplash are one of the long-standing names in American thrash, with guitarist and vocalist Tony Portaro remaining a constant presence through much of the band’s history. They opened with “Last Man Alive,” launching into a sound that felt like a meeting point between Megadeth and Motörhead—a kind of thrash-and-roll that balanced speed with groove. As the set progressed, the pace increased, edging closer to the territory associated with Slayer and Exodus.
Technically, the band were impeccable. It was obvious they had been doing this for decades. Yet something felt slightly absent. The performance was so tightly rehearsed that little room seemed to remain for spontaneity or rawness. That may be an unfair criticism—after all, Whiplash helped define this style from the beginning, and expecting radical reinvention might miss the point. Still, there lingered a sense of wanting something a little less polished, something with a touch more unpredictability.
None of that diminishes the quality of the performance. As a three-piece, Whiplash produced a surprisingly full sound, filling the room with ease. Particularly endearing was the band’s enthusiastic rapport with the audience, delivered in that familiar, slightly larger-than-life American style.
Next came Napalm Death—the band most of the crowd had come to see. One notable absence was bassist Shane Embury. Filling in was Adam Clarkson of Coughin’ Vicars, stepping in to join the grindcore pioneers for the evening.
Opening with “Instinct of Survival,” Napalm Death wasted no time. From the outset the room was hit with a blast of energy—direct, honest, and uncompromising. If Whiplash had the controlled precision of 2001: A Space Odyssey, Napalm Death felt closer to Solaris: raw, overwhelming, and intensely human beneath the surface.
A few songs in came “Narcissus,” and it’s here that frontman Mark ‘Barney’ Greenway truly commands the stage. Watching him, you realise his presence carries something of a comedian’s timing—though not in any obvious sense. The humour is buried beneath layers of seriousness, self-awareness, and sharp political consciousness. It’s less about jokes than about a performer who knows exactly what he’s doing and why.
The band powered through classics including “Dead,” “Suffer the Children,” and, of course, “Scum.” Along the way they dipped into covers from Slaughter and Dead Kennedys, a reminder of the punk lineage from which grindcore emerged.
Watching Napalm Death—Barney in particular—you begin to sense an element of theatre in the performance. Not theatre as artifice, but theatre as discipline. The intensity feels completely genuine, yet carefully directed. The result is something both brutally honest and remarkably powerful.
Napalm Death remain one of the greatest bands ever to emerge from the UK. They belong in the same conversation as Black Sabbath, David Bowie and Pink Floyd—groups/artists that not only defined a movement but reshaped the possibilities of their genre. Like those bands, Napalm Death were born from a specific scene and moment, yet have continued to evolve and produce vital work.
They are one of my favourite bands, though I still feel I know surprisingly little about them. In some ways, that’s the relationship I prefer. Art can be both distant and present at the same time. It leaves room for honesty to settle—and for the audience to breathe it in.