Review & Photography by Manny Manson for MPM
So, it’s another evening, and another sold-out venue where the eager masses gather to subject themselves to a soundscape that could double as a torture device. Tonight it’s the turn of Rock City, Nottingham, fittingly, a place where dreams go to die, or at least lose their hearing. On the bill tonight? AIRBOURNE, the Australian quartet whose sound is about as subtle as a kangaroo on a payday Red Bull and Beer binge. It’s as if the Southern Hemisphere itself has conspired to make sure you’re aware of just how irrelevant you are by drowning you in a cacophony of guitars, drums, and a vocalist who seems to have mistaken vocal cords for weapons of mass destruction.
AIRBOURNE. If there’s one thing this band excels at, it’s making sure you never, ever forget that life is a relentless assault on the senses. Formed in 2003, led by the unhinged Joel O’Keefe (guitar, vocals), this band plays rock ‘n’ roll the way it was meant to be played: loud, crude, and dangerously close to collapsing into pure entropy. With his brother Ryan (drums), Justin Street (bass), and Brett Tyrrell (guitar), they deliver music that feels like an explosion in a mosh pit, a cacophonous mess of reckless energy that could shatter not just eardrums but any fleeting sense of meaning you might’ve had before stepping in.
Their music is a no-holds-barred blitz of hard rock and thrash, the kind that demands you scream along, even if you’ve lost the ability to remember why you’re screaming in the first place. “Runnin’ Wild”? More like “Runnin’ For Your Life” if you’ve got a pulse and a vague notion of survival instincts. And “Too Much, Too Young, Too Fast”, well, if that doesn’t scream impending doom, I don’t know what does.
In case you’re wondering about their live shows, let’s just say that if you’re lucky, you’ll witness Joel O’Keefe hurling himself off something tall while probably drinking from a beer that will be spilt onto someone else’s soul in the process. They’ve shared stages with Metallica, Iron Maiden, and Motörhead, which is like being in a battle of who can shout the loudest about the futility of existence. You’re not just experiencing music, you’re being indoctrinated into the belief that life is as pointless without it, so why not play it loud.
And if you think this absurdity has any competition, look no further than ASOMVEL. Hailing from the UK, ASOMVEL has been battering eardrums into submission since 1997. They play thrash the way it was meant to be played: ferociously, unhinged, and with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the face. The Robinson’s, and not the Swiss family kind, Lenny (guitar), Stel (guitar), and Ralph (bass, vocals), are joined by Ryan Thackwray on drums. Together, they’ve crafted a sound that’s less music and more a violent, noise-laden protest against the concept of a peaceful existence.
ASOMVEL’s thrash? It’s not the glossy, well-groomed kind you might hear if you’re a fan of bands who pretend there’s any semblance of control. No, their sound is raw, primal, and aggressively uncomfortable. The riffs? They feel like you’re being sandblasted by jagged rocks, the drums hammer away like someone’s trying to break open your skull with a crowbar, and the vocals are delivered with the kind of hostility reserved for those who’ve realized that life is a bad joke. Their new album, Born to Rock ‘n’ Roll, is a glorious celebration of noise, chaos, and your inevitable loss of hearing.
But let’s not forget about the gig: The theme to Rocky is played and a deep rumbling has started, the type that stops you relaxing and has you waiting for the explosion that’s sure to follow, and follow it does as ASOMVEL run onstage like an exploding volcano of chilli-soaked popcorn. “Louder & Louder.” The first song off their latest album, is set to destroy, its riff hits you in the chest like a freight train. You can’t hear your own thoughts, but let’s be honest, you probably weren’t going to hear them anyway. It’s the musical equivalent of watching your life flash before your eyes, only it’s set to the soundtrack of a bad decision made at 3 AM.
And then comes “Born to Rock ‘n’ Roll” (from the same album), and as the chorus hits, you’re hit with the crushing realisation that, yes, maybe you were born to rock ‘n’ roll. There’s no escaping it, no redemption in sight, just a life spent screaming in a place that doesn’t listen.
Just when you think your brain might burst from the constant bombardment, ASOMVEL gives you “Beware the Full Moon,” a track so full of rage it could power a small city for a week. The metaphorical full moon here is a foreboding reminder of the madness lurking inside all of us. It’s an anthem for the deranged, the misfits, and anyone who’s realised that sanity is highly overrated. As the riff climbs to an absurdly epic level of chaos, you’ll start to wonder if you’re actually; experiencing a breakdown, or if the entire universe has decided to go off the rails just to see what happens.
And then the proverbial sledgehammer comes down with “Payback’s A Bitch,” an unrelenting anthem of revenge and fury. The crowd goes absolutely mental, (said in a Gary Barlow Manc voice), because in the end, what’s more satisfying than a good, old-fashioned, bone-crushing dose of retribution? Certainly not introspection, that’s for sure. By now, you’re so deep in it that the thought of leaving seems laughable, especially when ASOMVEL pulls out “Outside the Law,” another track from the soon to be released, new album. It’s a swaggering, guitar-laden middle finger to authority and logic, and when Ralph screams about being “outside the law,” you almost find yourself agreeing. Maybe we all are. Who knows?
The chaos doesn’t let up, and with “Into the Fire,” you feel like you’re literally being dragged through the flames of oblivion. The riff is molten lava, burning away any shred of composure you might’ve been clinging to. It’s like they know the end is coming, but they’re going to make sure you suffer with them, because that’s what it means to truly live, isn’t it? With “Stone Cold Stare,” ASOMVEL brings the atmosphere to a chilling, sinister pitch. The riff sinks into your bones like a frostbite you can’t shake, and as the song ends, you feel more isolated than when you started. The cold is inside you now, and it’ll never leave.
The night drags on, and with “World Shaker,” you realise that it’s not just the world that’s being shaken, it’s your entire sense of reality. At this point, who even cares what’s real anymore? The band’s feverish energy becomes the only thing that exists. And then, as the night continues its downward spiral, “Luck Is for Losers” rips through the room like an afterthought to fate itself. And then comes “Light ‘Em Up,” written specially for the tour. You don’t even need to ask why, it’s just another jolt to remind you that everything is fleeting, but noise is forever. The crowd’s frenzied energy feels like the only thing that matters, like it’s the only thing keeping the void at bay.
Finally, “The Nightmare Ain’t Over” closes out the set, and as the title suggests, it’s never over. Not here, not in this insane spiral of music and noise. As the last notes ring out, you might catch a fleeting glimpse of hope, but it’ll be gone before you can even think to grab it.
The lights come on. The Rocky outro theme plays. The stage crew scrambles, and you, with your hearing irreparably damaged, stand there wondering if this was all just some cosmic joke. But hey, AIRBOURNE is up next, because why wouldn’t they be? In the grand scheme of things, this is just another night in the absurd theatre of existence. And you? Well, you’re still standing, at least for now.
It’s 8:15 PM. The air hums with anticipation, like a thousand unspoken regrets vibrating in a room full of people who still believe something meaningful could happen tonight. And it will, but it won’t be what they think. The universe, that cold, indifferent beast, watches, perhaps amused, as humanity staggers around a packed-out Rock City, desperate for purpose, for connection, for something to make sense in this meaningless void. Spoiler alert: it won’t. But the crowd doesn’t know that yet. Nor will they care, as long as the noise drowns out the gnawing question of whether any of this even matters.
The PA crackles to life with the unmistakable Terminator 2 theme, the musical equivalent of the apocalypse itself rolling in, setting the stage for the coming insanity. This isn’t quite the end of days, but for us poor souls, it’s as close as we’ll get.
Enter AIRBOURNE, the Australian wrecking ball of sound, ready to batter every last bit of sense out of the crowd. The lights explode, not unlike the last gasp of a dying star, trying to distract from the inevitable chaos on the horizon. Joel O’Keeffe, the maniacal mastermind at the front, grins like a man who’s seen the abyss and thought, Yeah, I’m gonna jump right in. He knows exactly what’s coming. It will be loud. It will be messy. It will be a violent, mind-altering experience that will, at best, leave the audience asking, Was that… was that real?
The night begins with “Ready to Rock” from Black Dog Barking (2013). If you thought this would be some warm-up, a gentle easing into the madness, well, you clearly didn’t read the room. Joel’s roar rips through the air like the sound of your last shred of hope being torn to pieces. The guitars? They slam against your skull with all the grace of a bulldozer trying to establish dominance. Joel hurl’s beer into the crowd, and they respond like a well-trained, frothing pack of animals. It’s not just loud, it’s aggressive, it’s messy, it’s a primal scream in the face of whatever meaning we thought we might have once had. And guess what? You’ll love it.
Next comes “Too Much, Too Young, Too Fast” from Runnin’ Wild (2007). The tempo picks up, and with it, any remaining hope that this night will have any kind of coherent narrative. The rhythm section, led by Ryan O’Keeffe’s feverish drumming and Justin Street’s bass that sounds like it might disintegrate any second, propels the chaos forward like an unstoppable freight train. Beer flies through the air as Joel spits it out like ‘Ole Faithful’ the geyser, possibly as a statement on the futility of human life. But, hey, it doesn’t matter, because the crowd is with it, beer covered, swept up in the glorious whirlwind of noise, screaming along, oblivious to the fact that nothing in this world makes sense.
There is no respite. “Burnout the Nitro” from Boneshaker (2019) follows, and if you were clinging to some last vestige of decency or dignity, you can forget about it now. The song lurches forward with the manic energy of a band that’s spent way too long on the brink of destruction, and it’s starting to look like it might drag you down with it. More beer. More chaos. More nothingness. The guitars are distorted, the drums are a blur, and the crowd, now drenched in both beer and self-deception, keeps thrashing, convinced that this is the one moment where everything will click. Spoiler: it won’t.
And yet, there’s a strange kind of unity in this chaos. “Back in the Game” (from Black Dog Barking), a groove-laden juggernaut, pounds forward, and for a fleeting moment, the crowd believes that perhaps, just perhaps, there’s meaning in all this noise. They chant. They shout. They lose themselves, and, in doing so, they become one with the absurdity of it all. The game is chaos. And they’re all in.
The band drops “Girls in Black” (also from Runnin’ Wild), and if you thought things had already gone off the rails, this is the point where they completely derail. Joel leaps on to the shoulders of a well placed roadie, he’s off into the crowd, playing like a man possessed, smashing a beer can against his skull in some disturbingly primal display of rock ‘n’ roll savagery. Beer rains down on the crowd, and they lap it up, worshiping the chaos as though it’s some sacred ritual.
The song is pure fury, an anthem for youth, for disillusionment, and for all the things we throw away in an attempt to feel alive.
Then comes “Bottom of the Well” from No Guts, No Glory (2010), a track as grim as its title suggests. Its grinding, relentless groove serves as a reminder that no matter how hard we thrash and scream, we’re all headed to the same place: the bottom of the well. And yet, the crowd keeps moving, lost in the noise, too stubborn to acknowledge the inevitable. But tonight, none of that matters. Not yet. Not when there’s still more beer to be spilled.
And just when you think the madness might let up, “Breakin’ Outta Hell” (from Breakin’ Outta Hell, 2016) hits, accompanied by an utterly out-of-place rendition of Ghostbusters, thrown in to address the balance, it doesn’t!. It’s a perfect moment of absurdity, a reminder that in the midst of all this chaos, life has a weird way of throwing in random nonsense for no good reason. The crowd laughs, confused and delirious, because why not? If this entire concert is a cosmic joke, why not throw in a bit of ghost-hunting for fun?
“It’s All for Rock ‘n’ Roll” (from Breakin’ Outta Hell, 2016) that follows, and for a brief, shining moment, there’s a sense of fleeting nobility in the madness. Joel tells of his first visit to Rock City, Motorhead were in the big room, with that invoking the name of Lemmy like some kind of religious incantation, a bottle of Jack Daniels appears, and Joel begins decanting it into plastic pint cups like a rock ‘n’ roll priest offering communion. There’s something almost sacred in this absurdity, as though, just for a moment, everything makes sense, even if that meaning is just the sloshing of whiskey and the crack of a guitar riff. These drinks obviously make their way into the crow, I mean why wouldn’t they?
But then it’s back to the chaos. “Stand Up for Rock ‘n’ Roll” (from Runnin’ Wild, 2007) hits, and the crowd, battered, beer-soaked, and confused, rallies one last time for the ultimate rallying cry. And just when you think it’s all over, the encore arrives, like the universe’s final cruel joke, reminding you that even in the face of annihilation, we can’t stop.
And then, as if we haven’t been punished enough, they hit us with “Live It Up” (from Black Dog Barking, 2013). It’s too loud. It’s too much. It’s everything and nothing all at once. The crowd is lost in the noise, screaming back at the band as though they’re demanding the universe to make sense of it all. It won’t. It can’t. But for a fleeting second, in the madness, you might just believe that it does. These Antipodea gods of rock bestow upon us “Rock ‘n’ Roll for Life” (from Boneshaker, 2019), a ridiculous, absurd anthem that somehow makes perfect sense in this hellscape of noise and beer. And then, in an act of beer-chucking madness, it reaches a crescendo, as fans catch beers, launched repeatedly from Joel, drenched in the madness of it all. You don’t question it. You just live it.
The final track, “Runnin’ Wild” (from Runnin’ Wild, 2007), arrives, a perfect, chaotic manifesto of everything this night has been. The riff kicks in like a slap to the face, and for a moment, you feel the weight of the universe crashing into you. This isn’t just a song. It’s a force of nature, and the crowd, utterly caught up in it, screams every word as though their lives depend on it. This is their anthem, and they deliver it with the savagery of a twinkling star in the Southern cross going super nova, and then, its gone, swallowed up by the darkness that is reality, as the final riff fades into oblivion, there’s a moment, just a single, fleeting second, where everything goes quiet. The crowd stands, disoriented, wondering if the madness is finally over. It’s not. Not yet. Because Joel, drenched in sweat and beer, looks out over the crowd, grinning. It’s not a smile of victory. It’s the smile of someone who knows something you don’t: this isn’t the end. It’s only the beginning.
And as the lights come up and the chaos recedes, you’re left standing there, uncertain of what to do with yourself. The world is still a cold, indifferent place. But for the briefest of moments, it didn’t matter. AIRBOURNE’s final blast of sound has broken you down and built you back up, and even in the face of the absurdity of it all, you feel… alive. Exhausted. Beer-soaked. And, as we go into the night, we’re left with one undeniable truth: maybe nothing makes sense. But for tonight, it felt like it did. The absurdity, the noise, the beer, they’ve all fused together into something that almost felt like meaning. Almost. Maybe that’s all there is. Hooroo!
