Review & Photography by Manny Manson for MPM
The light drizzle had already moistened the snake of bodies outside the Rescue Rooms, rain lightly pattering off walls and denim while the neon glow of the sign above the metal stairs gleamed, across the road the brilliant sunshine bounced of the glass windows of the towering carbuncle, the shards of light defying the weather. No one cared, the subdued buzz in the air was thicker than the weather. Cigarette smoke drifted, laughter and chatter rolled through the queue, and every few minutes someone would break into a yell of King 810! or Banks! and the whole line would answer back all be it quietly, heads where down protecting drinks and partners. It was that kind of night you could feel the storm brewing long before the doors opened.
Inside, it was a different heat. That familiar Rescue Rooms sweatbox atmosphere hit instantly, beer dampening the floor, smoke machines already at work casting an unapologetic haze across the room, lights testing above as bodies pressed in close. The chatter was all about what was coming: a new era for Banks Arcade, now stripped down to a three-piece but tighter than ever, and King 810, Flint’s most notorious export, rolling into Nottingham with the weight of their city and their scars on their backs.
After a wait that seemed like forever, early doors are great but there is that period of longing as the collective gathers and the heat rises; exponentially. Banks Arcade were down to hit first. For the uninitiated, and I include myself here, their story started in New Zealand before a leap across the ocean landed them in Melbourne, Australia. From the underground scene they clawed their way into daylight, their sound a wild hybrid of modern metalcore, nu-metal’s swagger, and pop’s clean hooks.
Their debut album, (a retrospective concept story about a guy seeking answers before taking his own life, who seeks solace with a person whom they have had a tumultuous past,) (Future Lovers, 2022) marked them out as a band unafraid to twist genres into knots, pulling in fans from multiple camps. Now, reduced to three, Joshua O’Donnell on vocals, James Feekes on drums, Jason Meadows on guitar, they were lean, sharp, and ready to prove a point.
And prove it they did, straight out the gates with Worship the Internet (Death 2 E.P. 2024) Sirens blared, the beat kicked, and Joshua’s voice sliced through with venom and melody in equal measure. It’s their anthem of the digital age, a scathing hymn to the addiction we all know too well. He stalked the front of the stage, gripping the mic like it was both weapon and confession booth, while Meadows’ guitar bounced between glitchy riffs and soaring highs. The pit loosened up, a few brave souls throwing elbows, but mostly heads nodded and bodies swayed, hypnotised by the groove.
That groove snapped into violence with Don’t Start (Future Lovers, 2022). A jagged, snarling cut, full of attitude and venom, with Joshua practically spitting every line like a dare. The pit finally snapped open, fists rising, the crowd shouting back every chorus like it was tattooed on their tongues. James’ drumming thundered through the smoke, crisp and brutal, each crack of the snare like a whip across the room. From there it rolled into Freaks (Future Lovers, 2022). This was pure catharsis, a rallying cry for outsiders, a defiant celebration of difference. Joshua’s vocals shifted between velvet-smooth croons and harsh, teeth-bared screams, while Meadows laid down riffs that felt like electricity under the skin. The crowd turned wild, hands in the air, voices locked in with the chorus, every we are the freaks barked out like personal truth.
But Banks Arcade aren’t all fists and fury. Drown (Fever Dreams E.P. 2020) pulled the lights low, bathing the stage in cold blue. Joshua’s voice soared, vulnerable, desperate, the crowd swaying in unison. It was the sound of confession, of drowning in your own head, and it hit hard. Lighters and phones flickered in the air, a rare moment of collective stillness, broken only when the final notes rang out and the room roared back their approval. The stillness shattered with Sick (Fever Dreams E.P. 2020). An explosion of raw energy, every lyric spat like bile, Meadows’ guitar slicing through jagged and unrelenting. The pit heaved, bodies colliding, sweat spraying. Joshua didn’t just sing it — he lived it, screaming, howling, collapsing into every line until his voice cracked with rage. Then came Be Someone (Future Lovers, 2022), all ambition and angst wrapped up in soaring melodies. Joshua raised a hand to the crowd, beckoning, and the response was deafening. Voices joined in, turning the chorus into a mass declaration. It felt huge, an anthem for anyone who’d ever wanted to break free of the mundane and carve their name in the concrete.
The band shifted gears again with Change (Death 2 E.P. 2024), a track that felt as much prophecy as performance. Joshua’s vocals dripped with conviction; every line delivered like a sermon. Meadows’ guitar work moved from delicate plucks to explosive bursts, the whole song rising and falling like a tide. The crowd swayed with it, sucked into its current. Then the new blood: Move (unreleased, live debut). Raw, relentless, pulsing with an urgency that screamed next era. Joshua commanded the crowd to move, and they obeyed. It was pure chaos, a taste of the future, and it hit harder than anything yet.
They weren’t done though, Killing Games (Death 2 E.P. 2024) kept the chaos boiling. Darker, heavier, dripping menace. The riffs stomped like steel boots and Joshua’s delivery was venomous, each word spat like a threat. The crowd didn’t just move, they thrashed, bodies colliding like waves breaking on concrete. The closing punches came fast. Vipers (single released early 2025) slithered in, all groove and bite, Joshua’s voice switching on a dime between hypnotic whispers and full-throated roars. The pit was venomous, elbows sharp, bodies grinding. And finally, Roulette (Death 2 E.P. 2024), their parting shot, unpredictable, dangerous, the perfect closer. The crowd screamed every line, fists pumping, and as the last notes rang out, Banks Arcade left the stage stripped raw and victorious. Three men, one mission: no compromise.
But the storm wasn’t over. The wait between bands was heavy, like a storm hanging in the rafters. Banks Arcade had lit the fuse earlier, but everyone knew why we were really here. The crowd was rammed tight, bodies steaming in the heat, fists already primed for what was coming. You could feel it like static in the air. Then the lights dropped, plunging the Rescue Rooms into that belly-churning black, and the sound of the intro rolled over the room like a funeral march.
Centre stage, you couldn’t miss it, in the middle, stood something strange and still, a nodding donkey oil pump, the kind you see bowing endlessly in American fields, just like the one on the latest release Rust Belt Nu Metal cover. Only this time it was frozen still, a skeletal reminder of Flint’s rusted industry, a steel ghost looming behind the band, Across its frame, the words KING 810. It didn’t move, didn’t light up, it didn’t need to, it just stood there like a monument, a ghost lifted straight from the new album cover and Flint’s past.
KING 810 aren’t like other bands. They’ve been carrying the weight of Flint, Michigan, on their backs since forming in 2007. Their early sound was already laced with menace, but everything shifted after 2014 — after that infamous stabbing incident outside a club. Gunn and Gill were charged with assault with intent to murder, though the case collapsed. The fallout scarred the band, and it scarred the music too. What came out after wasn’t just heavy — it was soaked in paranoia, blood, and survival. They weren’t writing songs for the radio; they were writing field reports from a war zone. Albums like Memoirs of a Murderer (2014), La Petite Mort or a Conversation with God (2016), Suicide King (2019), and AK Concerto No. 47, 11th Movement in G Major (2020) each carved another chunk out of their psyche, until Rustbelt Nu Metal in 2025 pulled it all back into sharp focus. Tonight was all of that distilled, not a concert, but a reckoning.
A cameraman dressed in black wearing a bandana crept across the stage, lens locked on the chaos about to unfold, capturing every scream, every crack of distortion. Guitarist Andrew Beal came out, he appeared in a crown-shaped mask, faceless and menacing under the harsh lights, like some executioner in the dark. Drummer John Paul Vega was all but invisible, swallowed by smoke and shadows at the back, but you could hear him, each hit was like a car crash through brick. Stage right, Eugene Gill, bass slung low over his hockey jersey, eyes locked and body hunched like he was about to start a brawl, was pacing side to side, slowly bulldozing across the stage like a man possessed. And then there was David Gunn. The frontman, dressed in black, veins standing out, prowling with that dead-eyed stare that could cut through concrete.
They hit the first note with Rustbelt Nu-Metal (Rustbelt Nu-Metal, 2025), the title track of their newest assault. It was a statement, a declaration that Flint’s pain, grit, and anger had been distilled into sound. The riff tore across the room, heavy and uncompromising, while Gunn’s snarling vocals cut through the strobe haze, spitting lyrics like jagged concrete shards. The pit erupted instantly, fists pumping, bodies colliding, heat rising like steam from the crowd. You could feel every note deep in your chest, the bass thrum like a heartbeat shared among hundreds. The transition into Midwest Monsters (Midwest Monsters, 2012) was seamless. This was the track that first cemented King 810’s reputation, the one where the streets of Flint really come alive in sound. Gunn’s vocals were part narration, part confession, every line delivered like a raw memory, dragging the crowd through the narrative. The masked guitarist sliced in with distorted riffs, creating tension between chaos and rhythm, while the unseen drummer hammered out thunder beneath the smoke. The pit moved in waves, responding to each moment of aggression, each pause filled with anticipation.
No pause, straight into Killem All (Memoirs of a Murderer, 2014). The old fury, raw and sharp-edged, back when King 810 were still Flint kids swinging fists at the world. The riff cut through like a buzzsaw and Gunn spat the title like a death order. The pit went nuclear. Bodies slammed, boots slipped on the beer-soaked floor, kids tumbled and were dragged back up, thrown back into the storm. Gunn roared down the mic stand, hair plastered to his face, tattoos slick with sweat, the cameraman orbiting him like a vulture, catching every unhinged glare. And then they hit. Brains on the Asphalt (Follow My Tears, 2023) tore the night wide open. The riff buzzed low, bass rattling teeth, drums hammering like blunt force trauma. Gunn spat the lyrics like he’d been there, stood over the corpse, retelling it not with fear but with grim acceptance. He charged forward, back-pedalled, slammed the mic stand down, barked into faces at the barrier. The pit didn’t need encouragement, it erupted instantly, circle wide, fists hammering, kids bouncing off each other like shrapnel. Eugene stalked the stage, darting forward and back, every bass note shaking the floor. The masked guitarist was motionless at times, just churning out those grinding riffs like a machine, the crown glinting under the lights.
Vendettas (La Petite Mort, 2016) dragged the tempo down into something heavier, slower, suffocating. Post-stabbing, post-chaos, this was Gunn dissecting revenge, spitting poison instead of swinging fists. The riffs stalked low, suffocating, and the pit changed shape, turning meaner, slower, every shove deliberate. Eugene swung his bass low, prowling, smashing out those thick notes like iron bars slamming shut. The guitarist stood statue-still, crown-mask gleaming, faceless in the chaos.
But catharsis demands chaos. Fat Around the Heart (Memoirs of a Murderer, 2014) smashed back like a hammer, ripping the stillness apart. Gunn roared, veins standing out, the emotion raw, the words guttural and honest. Eugene, charging forward, head down, bass shaking the floor. It’s a song about pain and confession, and tonight, every person in the pit was feral, final reserves spilling out in fists, shoves, screams. Noonday Demon (Rustbelt Nu Metal, 2025) hit next with a sinister, stalking menace. Gunn’s delivery was jagged and urgent, the guitar lines twisting like shadows over the floor, and the drums echoed like gunfire. The pit moved with a wild intelligence, bodies flying and colliding, yet somehow rhythmically synced to the dark pulse of the song.
The band took it back into ritual with Holy War (Follow My Tears, 2023). Gunn’s delivery was half preacher, half prophet of doom, words spat like fire. The crowd raised fists, chanting back, the oil pump looming behind like an idol in the dark. Lights strobed white, the whole room flashing like gunfire, every beat hammering through bone. Then came the hush. Gunn alone, centre stage, voice bare, lights dimmed low. Blood Rum & Rhythm (Rustbelt Nu-Metal 2, (upcoming 7th album)) followed, a track both ritualistic and intoxicating. Gunn prowled closer to the edge of the stage, snarling, spitting, while the crowd responded like possessed devotees. The oil pump behind them loomed silently, a symbol of Flint’s relentless industry and decay, its stillness an eerie contrast to the movement before it. This new album in the making is promising to their most brutal yet.
Boogie with the Boogieman (Under The Black rainbow, 2024) brought a weird, almost carnival-like menace. The grooves were off-kilter, twisted, yet the pit followed without hesitation, bodies jerking in time with the unsettling rhythm. It was playful brutality, a wink inside the chaos, and the crowd lapped it up, screaming along with every phrase. Hellhounds (AK Concerto No. 47, 2020) blew that apart. Lights strobed blood-red, the riff snarled jagged and relentless, Gunn barking the chorus like he was summoning something from the shadows. The pit howled with him, voices raw, kids spinning in a circle pit that was more storm than dance. Eugene charged to the front, leaning out, hammering basslines while Gunn stomped back and forth, veins standing out on his neck, eyes burning holes into the crowd.
Treading and Trodden (Memoirs of a Murderer, 2014) shifted the atmosphere, dirge-like and haunting, each line dripping with menace and sorrow. The masked guitarist and the oil pump cast looming shadows as Gunn’s voice carried a preacher-like weight, dragging everyone into the song’s dark narrative. Blue Collar Noose (Rustbelt Nu-Metal, 2025) ripped back in with industrial grit. Riffs cut jagged, drums thundered, and the pit lashed out in unison. Every word Gunn spat felt like Flint itself, tough, unforgiving, raw. Eugene’s energy was uncontainable, driving the room forward, every collision of bodies in the pit echoing the chaos of their hometown.
Then came Heavy Lies the Crown (La Petite Mort, 2016). The stage dimmed blue and red, eerie and cold. Gunn slowed, one hand gripping the mic stand like a pulpit, voice dripping with venom and despair. His words hung heavy, the stabbing, the scars, the funerals — all there in the cracks of his delivery. The oil pump loomed behind him, still and unmoving, a shadow of industry and decay, silent but present. The pit went still, swaying, a sea of faces staring forward, drawn into the sermon. It didn’t last. Alpha & Omega (La Petite Mort, 2016) ripped the silence apart with a violent surge. The pit erupted again, circle widening, bodies crashing shoulder to shoulder. Gunn stormed the stage, charging forward, pulling the crowd with him. Eugene swung low, bass thundering, head thrashing, while the guitarist, unmoving, hammered the riff out like an executioner swinging an axe. The lights strobed white, blinding, the room a blur of fists, sweat, and roaring voices. The crowd didn’t need to move fast, they swayed, shoved, stomped, chanting back with faces twisted under the lights.
When it ended, there was nothing left. No encore, no trick. Just lights out. Gunn, Eugene, the masked guitarist, and the invisible drummer disappeared, the cameraman still filming, capturing the aftermath. Fans stumbled out into the damp night, shirts clinging, voices ragged, faces slick with sweat and rain. King 810 don’t simply play gigs. They drag you into their world, leave you bloodied, and walk away, spent, done, finished, and awesome for it.
