Review & Photography by Manny Manson for MPM
It started long before the first note was struck, as all memorable shows do. O2 Academy Birmingham had the look of an arena prepared for a siege rather than a gig. Outside, the air was brittle with February cold, but fans in black hoodies and patched denim spoke of things burning hotter than any winter chill: breakbeats, blast beats, low tunings, history. Slung shoulders, worn boots, collars turned up against the wind, the crowd wasn’t here to pass time, they were here to sacrifice themselves over to sound. The venue’s doors opened at 17:30, early for most tours, but fitting for a bill like this. Humanity’s Last Breath, Shadow of Intent, Whitechapel, and Lorna Shore weren’t here to warm up audiences, they were here to annihilate them, one wave at a time. And at a sold-out show like this, where every ticket had been claimed, there were no casual observers. There were only the initiated.
Inside, the Academy’s air was warm, sticky, buzzing with subsonic energy from the PA, with cables coiled and humming like dormant snakes waiting to strike. The crowd pressed forward even as the stage remained dark, anticipation coiling tight like a spring. The floor already rattled with sub-frequencies from the PA, that tell-tale low-end hum that makes your ribs buzz. The stage was minimal but ominous, black drapes framing war-ready rigs, lighting pods like watchtowers waiting to ignite. A hush settled as the first silhouettes appeared, humanity’s Last Breath walked onstage with no fanfare, no intro music. Sweden’s architects of despair, Filip Danielsson on vocals, Buster Odeholm on guitar/bass and production duties, Tuomas Kurikka on guitar, and Klass Blomgren on drums, were there not to perform a concert but to test the limits of the room.
The opening salvo was “Väldet,” from the 2021 album Välde. The first notes didn’t announce themselves; they descended, the sound hit like an earthquake. Buster’s guitar tone was subterranean, almost unearthly, a dense weight that pressed into ribs and skull alike. The kick drum from Klas Blomgren hit like a seismic tremor. Filip Danielsson’s guttural tore out from somewhere under the earth, his head shrouded in a Sheev Palpatine type hood, a cavernous roar that made the crowd react instantly, no tentative warm-up, just pure immersion. Fans were already colliding in the pit as if drawn by magnetic force; the air itself seemed to quiver. Humanity’s Last Breath are not a band that relies on flashy stage antics. Their presence is suffocating by design; their songs engineered to twist and bend your perception of heaviness. “Väldet” demonstrates that: the timing is irregular, dissonant, brutal, but strangely hypnotic. The first surge of crowd surfers launched mid-song, boots scraping fingers, security already straining to catch the human missiles. Humanity’s Last Breath aren’t just loud; they are discord incarnate, blending deathcore with djent and atmospheric blackened elements to create something that feels like metal transmuted through a dystopian filter, causing heads to slam, bodies to surge, from the very first riff, the pit was active, a swirling cluster of arms and elbows that moved with collective intent. There was no tentative toe-dipping into the set. Birmingham wanted war and Humanity’s Last Breath supplied it in spades.
“Abyssal Mouth” from Abyssal (2019) continued the descent. Here, HLB showed off their mastery of dissonance and chaos. The massive riffs, low and dissonant, twisted and screamed like metal warped by fire. The lights flickered white and cold, like faulty fluorescents in a deserted asylum. The crowd reacted to the changes with frantic precision, moving like liquid, swerving and crashing with instinctive knowledge that the next beat would hit like a hammer. The first wave of circle pits and elbow-to-rib collisions was the crowds. This is where the early adopters’ faces twisted into that involuntary grimace from low-end frequencies, the sound crawling into their bones. The lighting throughout their set was cold, industrial greens, oranges and whites that flickered in sync with the guitars, it was as if shafts of moonlight had been ripped and refocused into beams trained on chaos. When “Godhood,” a standalone single released earlier in 2026, struck the speakers, the room flared again with energy. This wasn’t a deep cut from their back catalogue, it was new flesh, and no less punishing; the song lurches forward with a mechanical groove that feels like a massive machine dragging itself, slowly, into motion and the crowd recognised it instantly. Filip prowled the stage edge with predatory focus, delivering vocals that felt calculated, detached, and utterly terrifying. When that song dropped, the pit didn’t follow a pattern, it became its own pattern, bodies twisting, colliding, lifting, breaking, reforming.
“Tide,” another piece from Välde (2021), rolled in like a controlled collapse. Where the bass felt like it could crush bone and Blomgren’s drumming felt like pillars falling in slow motion, Buster’s guitar a seismic tremor. The bass hit like low-end hydraulic pressure. The crowd at the barrier gripped it like a lifeline; bodies were shaking involuntarily from the sonic pressure. It’s moments like this where HLB feel less like a band and more like an instrument of controlled chaos. Humanity’s Last Breath have a way of turning pitches so low they stop sounding like music and start sounding like gravity waves. You could feel it not just in your chest but in your perception of your own body, like reality had thickened, becoming denser with every note I hope that makes sense.
“Labyrinthian,” taken from Ashen, which dropped 4 August 2023, twisted that density into ever-changing time signatures that made you lose count of the bar, the odd time signatures of this instrumental piece forced the crowd to fracture and reform constantly. People were colliding, bracing, responding to riffs that seemed to bend physical space. The crowd’s response was delirious, as if they were trying to wrestle with the song’s very mathematical brutality in real time. As they barrelled into “Bellua,PT1” from the 2013, self-titled debut album, stomped in with an evil, primitive force. The groove was almost ritualistic. Security were now fully engaged, catching surfers one after another. Filip Danielsson’s guttural vocals held a terrifying precision; he wasn’t screaming, he was narrating apocalypse. The crowd surged forward with every breakdown, bodies colliding like some carefully orchestrated accident. You could see faces twisting with elation and pain, grinning through mouthguards, teeth bared. Humanity’s Last Breath do not perform for enjoyment. They perform to break the room.
“Instill,” the closing track of the set from Ashen (2023), was the final chamber of compression. Dense, heavy, and suffocating, it felt like the culmination of the night’s descent so far. The song’s long, punishing sections didn’t allow for breath. Every note pressed the air into bodies, forcing the crowd into spasms of reaction. The song ended without a flourish, no bow, no encore bait, no wave goodbye. Just silence, ringing ears, and the residual hum of adrenaline. The band left the stage as quietly as they had entered, and the pit stood trembling, dazed, already nostalgic for the chaos that had passed. Humanity’s Last Breath aren’t showmen. They don’t jump, shout, or pose. They command. And just like that, their set was over, leaving the floor rattling and begging for more. HLB had set the precedent: the night was not about safe enjoyment; it was about immersion, surrender, and endurance. The first wave of sweat, bruises, and raw intensity had been dealt. The crowd was warmed, wired, and utterly unprepared for what was coming next
And next up was Shadow of Intent, a contrast in ambition and scale. Their music is intelligent and merciless at the same time. While the Swedes had delivered doom in concentrated doses, Shadow of Intent bring something epic. Formed in 2014, the American quintet carved their own niche early by blending orchestral arrangements with crushing deathcore mechanics, like cinematic soundtracks for imaginary wars. Vocalist Ben Duerr and guitarist/producer Chris Wiseman have become pillars of symphonic deathcore, weaving melodies into chaos with the precision of composers who also smash you upside the head.
They kicked their set off with “They Murdered Sleep,” from their symphonic masterpiece Imperium Delirium, released 27 June 2025. The intro was a grand cinematic bombardment, orchestral swells building tension before the blast beats hit like artillery fire. And when Ben Duerr’s vocals kicked in, cavernous lows punctuated with harsh, and towering screams, the crowd went feral, swirling like a storm caught in slow motion, fists pumping in time with every drum hit. It was clear within moments that Shadow of Intent don’t just deliver heaviness. They paint it, with broad strokes and with intricate detail.
The lighting during their set shifted dramatically, deep reds, greens and purples that washed the floor in an infernal glow. “Flying the Black Flag,” also from Imperium Delirium (2025), was a tidal wave of tremolo picking and pounding drums, and the pit reacted accordingly, it pushed the room further. Shadow of Intent’s genius lies in their ability to combine militant groove with symphonic layering. Every riff landed with tactical precision. The pit widened into a whirlpool of chaos, bodies moving as if choreographed, yet completely freeform. Red lighting flared, and the stage became a command centre of orchestrated aggression. bodies flung forward in waves, racers running circles as if chasing the band’s sound itself. It wasn’t just brutal; it was theatrical, like Wagner with a chainsaw.
When “Mechanical Chaos,” another track off the same album, hit, the guitars sliced through the PA like razor blades. The combination of fiendish riffs and orchestral backing made it feel like the Academy had been transformed into a cathedral for a new faith, one that worshipped distortion and dissonance. The room convulsed with each synchronized hit. Crowd surfers were lifted with almost scientific timing, caught by security in an elaborate ballet of organized disaster. And then there was “Vehement Draconian Vengeance.” The lighting strobed violently, shaking the assembled throng. Duerr’s delivery was serpentine, snakelike lows winding through complex rhythms, then spitting out into shrieks that seemed to crack the very air. Layers of pre-recorded orchestration combined with live musicianship, creating a cinematic grandeur that contrasted beautifully with the raw aggression. Shadows of bodies cast by the rig looked gigantic, larger than life, as if the band had conjured something mythic onstage.
“Infinity of Horrors” pulled from the same Imperium Delirium arsenal but gave space for the complicated weaving of guitar leads and orchestral flourishes. And every time bassist Andrew Monias thumped a low end, the floor responded, not just in sound but in physical rumble. This wasn’t music you heard. You experienced it. You felt it in your feet, in your bones, in the way the air pressed against your skin. “Feeding the Meatgrinder” was, appropriately, a maelstrom of serrated riffs and blast beats, and the crowd revelled in it. Bodies collided in ecstatic fervour. Surfers rode like hunters in a storm. Security guards became mediators between violence and care, hands lifting heads, lowering bodies, guiding arms back to safety. In this space, the pit was violent but loving, controlled hatred in motion.
Then came the fan favourite: “The Heretic Prevails,” originally from Reclaimer, released 28 April 2017, a record that still stands as a landmark of their earlier style. When those opening notes hit, the crowd recognized it instantly. It was like calling something ancient back into existence. The lighting stuttered through shades of crimson and smoke, and Duerr roared like some damn preacher of doom. Shadow of Intent aren’t like most bands, where dynamics ebb and flow, their set felt like a series of volcanic eruptions, each track a fresh explosion designed to leave the listener shaken. When they stepped offstage, no doubt, drenched in sweat, guitars still humming, the sense of cinematic devastation lingered in the air like smoke. Then came the moment many in the crowd had been waiting for: Whitechapel.
If Shadow of Intent had felt like a battle sequence from a fantasy epic, Whitechapel felt like a reckoning. From Knoxville, Tennessee, they are one of deathcore’s originators, veterans who helped define the genre back in 2006 and have refused to be pigeonholed ever since. Frontman Philip Bozeman has a voice etched in grit and gravitas, a delivery that feels older than time itself, and their evolution over nearly two decades has turned their music into something both brutal and deeply textured.
The opening strikes of “Prisoner 666” from their 2025 album Hymns in Dissonance were almost ceremonial. the band didn’t ease into their set. Instead, they laid siege. Bozeman’s vocals were like broken glass dragged across a thundercloud, a deep, guttural roar hit the room first, immediately grabbing the crowd by the throat. The drums, precise and thunderous, were a wall of kinetic energy. The opening riff, tight and slicing, was met with a wall of movement; bodies surged and slammed, like the crowd itself had become an extension of the music. There was an immediate sense of reverence: Whitechapel are not a band that asks for attention, they taking no prisoners in demanding it. The lighting for Whitechapel was a brutalist palette, stark white flashes cutting through smoky ambers
“Hymns in Dissonance,” the title track from the same album, built on that momentum, showing off not just brutality but conceptual complexity. Whitechapel’s music has always had a deeper core, a feeling beyond mere aggression. Even their heavier moments resonate with intention, riffs that feel like emotional sinews pulled taut. The album, released in 2025, is the culmination of years of evolution, blending technical proficiency with raw aggression. Live, the songs feel amplified tenfold. Brandon Zachery’s drumming is merciless, hammering every breakdown with clinical precision while the guitars layered above provide a mesh of texture and menace. Phil’s vocals tore through the Academy like an incantation, highs piercing above the din of bass and drums, lows grounding the room in a visceral heartbeat. People were pushed into barriers, and yet the pit moved with unspoken coordination, the audience a single breathing organism responding to every cue, heads nodding as a congregation in an agreeance .
Then “A Visceral Retch” continued from the same 2025 album, tore at the air next. Its visceral ugliness seemed almost intentionally landing like a punch. It was not just played to be heavy but to make you feel the full weight of it. The song’s odd timing and dissonant, eclectic riffing had the pit jerking unpredictably. Bodies colliding, spinning, and launched into mid-air arcs only to be caught moments later. The lighting shifted between deep crimson, green and stark white, highlighting the band’s features in moments that felt oddly cinematic, Bozeman’s face a mask of focused fury, the guitarists’ fingers a blur over frets, drums flaring from the shadows. This track, with its layered vocals and riff interplay, is brutal to hear on record but catastrophic live. It felt like the room itself was being torn apart.
“Bedlam,” also from Hymns in Dissonance (2025), followed seamlessly. Whitechapel are masters of tension and release, and here they stretched it to breaking point. The pit reacted violently to every stop-start breakdown, arms and legs colliding, sweat spraying in arcs, and yet each surge was precise, almost ritualistic in its chaos. Phil’s gutturals cut through with surgical sharpness, and the triple guitar attack gave the song a sense of three-dimensional devastation. The Academy felt simultaneously massive and claustrophobic, a perfect Whitechapel paradox.
Then came a slight moment of reverence when the taped “Ex-Infernis” played, a throwback, a sort of pre ritual chant, but one that felt important in context. Older fans nodded, smiles breaking through grim expressions, as heads, full of closed eyes, rocked knowingly during this 75 second moment of darkness, also found on the 2025 album.
“Hate Cult Ritual” continued the swathe through the 2025 release, it smashed through the crowd next, the opening riff was a sledgehammer; every note reverberated through walls, bone, and eardrum alike. The lighting exploded in jagged bursts of red, the smoke machines adding a haze that made each band member appear spectral. Crowd surfers were caught and released rhythmically, almost like they had been choreographed by some unseen hand. Bozeman’s presence was magnetic, as he knelt on the riser, his face lit eerily by the spectral lighting, commanding the audience without once needing to speak between tracks. Every guttural exhalation, every high scream was met with mass echoing in the pit, a call-and-response of primal intensity. “The Somatic Defilement” from their 2007 debut The Somatic Defilement arrived like a piece of history walking onto stage. Older fans erupted, voices raised, bodies moving with knowledge and reverence. This song, rawer and uglier than the pristine production of the newer albums, felt like a relic of fury preserved in amber. The pit turned feral; circle pits collided, elbows and shoulders jostling like weapons. Bozeman’s vocals carried the same venom they did fifteen years ago, proving that mastery of extremity is something cultivated, not born.
“Devirgination Studies” (also from The Somatic Defilement, 2007) was next. Once again it felt like a direct confrontation, the kind of track that makes you both flinch and smile simultaneously. Triple-guitar harmonies clashed with rhythmic bass, drums slicing through the room like scalpels. The pit moved in chaotic unison, bodies surging forward, then recoiling as each breakdown hit. Lights flickered white and cold, making every movement a stark silhouette. It was perfect, brutal theatre. “Prostatic Fluid Asphyxiation,” another early classic from this 2007 album, kept the frenzy alive. Phil’s guttural delivery was utterly relentless, a living, breathing anchor in the middle of absolute chaos. Crowd surfers launched across the pit with frightening precision, each one landing safely thanks to the diligent barrier crew. The audience’s energy seemed endless, feeding off the band’s meticulous pacing.
“This Is Exile” the title track from the sophomore album released in 2008, closed out their set. From the first crushing note, the Academy became a pressure cooker of sound and motion. Bozeman’s vocals soared and dipped with terrifying fluidity. Drums thundered like artillery fire; riffs cut with cold precision. Crowd surfers became airborne missiles; pits collided and recombined. Every breakdown was met with ecstatic roars. This was a statement: Whitechapel exist to dominate, and live they are unstoppable. As the last notes died away, the room erupted in sheer applause, shouts, and chants, unable to contain the energy that had built up for the entirety of their set. Fans staggered back, sweat-soaked and exhilarated, you could lip read some saying things along the lines of, “did we just survive that?” yes it was brutal carnage at its best and the crowd where lapping it up like, liquor from a hand-maids goblet. By the time Whitechapel bowed and exited, their set had reshaped the room. It wasn’t just loud. It was sacred in its own incendiary logic.
The Academy’s air changed the instant Lorna Shore’s gear began rolling onto stage, even if it was behind a curtain. You could feel it, a tangible shift, like the atmosphere itself had been rewritten. Where Whitechapel had demanded obedience and delivered precise, brutal deathcore, Lorna Shore were here to obliterate reality. Formed in 2010 in New Jersey, the band has always been a statement of extremity; from their early Triumph EP (2010) to the sprawling conceptual fury of Pain Remains (2022) and I Feel The Everblack Festering Within Me (2025), they’ve never played small. Then… the air seemed to hum with tension. Bonnie Tyler played Total Eclipse of the Heart over the house P.A. The lights dimmed darker than night itself. The stage filled with Adam De Micco on lead guitar, Andrew O’Connor on rhythm guitar, Austin Archey on drums, Michael Yaeger on bass and their vocalist, Will Ramos, whose reputation as one of the most ferociously dynamic frontmen in modern extreme music precedes him. Nick Chance, the band’s photographer and live video collaborator from Beautiful Child of God, was perched on the side of the stage, lending a visual archive to the chaos about to unfold.
The L.S. logo’d curtain fell to reveal not just a band, but an institution of modern deathcore: Lorna Shore.
They kicked their set of with “Oblivion,” from the latest album I Feel The Everblack Festering Within Me, 2025, as it hit, the Academy erupted into a tempest of noise and motion. The opening riff from Adam De Micco cut like a surgical blade through the haze of smoke, immediately setting the tone. The previous bands had done a masterful job in preparing and warming the fans up, now it was time, time for Will Ramos’ vocals to tear through the room, high-pitched, guttural, and impossibly precise, matched perfectly with the triple-layered guitar attack. The pit responded instantly, bodies colliding, elbows brushing ribs, fans bouncing off barriers, flying through the air with reckless abandon. The sub-bass from Austin Archey vibrated through the floor and into the crowd’s chest cavities. This wasn’t just music; it was physical. The crowd became a breathing organism, responding to every tremor in the low end.
“Unbreakable,” also from the latest release, followed without on without a pause. Here, the band’s mastery of tension and release became obvious. The song opened with crushing chugs, drums stomping like warhorses, and then exploded into a breakdown so sudden it threw a dozen surfers into the air simultaneously. Will’s screams weren’t just loud, they were commands, ripping through the Academy like a banshee calling the pit to obedience. Strobes flickered violently, red and white slicing through smoke, illuminating thrashing bodies in a dance of cha
os. This was Lorna Shore at their most ritualistic, drawing energy from the audience while giving back an equal measure of destruction. And the destruction continued with “War Machine,” again from the 2025 album, turned the venue into a battlefield. The main riff was mechanical in its brutality, drums a relentless machine gun pattern. Will’s gutturals shook the rafters, each growl a seismic hit against the crowd’s perception. Pit-goers launched from all sides, a dozen surfers mid-air at once, creating a tornado of limbs and chaos. The walls seemed to pulse with low-end fury. Here, Lorna Shore displayed their signature ability: to make technical proficiency feel like pure, unbridled violence. Every note felt like it landed in the pit itself, a direct line from instrument to body.
“Sun/Eater,” from the 2022 album, Pain Remains continues the onslaught, it featured Nick Chance stepping onto stage to join forces with the vocal barrage, the song became a fusion of sonic apocalypse and theatrical spectacle. The band’s rhythm section locked into a hypnotic groove, while Will and Nick delivered high and low extremes of vocal madness, twisting phrases into impossibly guttural growls and piercing shrieks. The stage lights bathed the room in eerie reds and violets, smoke swirling like a living organism. The crowd moving in hypnotic waves, responding to both the aggression and the beauty of the orchestration. The song built to a massive breakdown, and the Academy’s floor trembled as surfers were launched into the air, bodies colliding in a perfect storm of human energy. “Cursed to Die,” also from Pain Remains, 2022, landed next, and it was a masterclass in controlled chaos. Drummer Andrew O’Connor’s precision was terrifying; every blast, every cymbal crash, drove the pit into deeper frenzy. Adam and Will’s guitars danced in and out of sync with bass lines that were physical in their heaviness, pounding through floors, walls, and skulls. Will’s vocals here were almost cinematic — a storyteller of apocalypse narrating the pit’s descent. Fans screamed along, feeding the energy, giving back as much as they received.
“In Darkness,” takes us back to the latest 2025 album drop. It made the stage feel like a cathedral of doom. Smoke and lights combined into an ethereal haze, yet the brutality never wavered. Breakdown after breakdown hit like tectonic shifts. Surfers were mid-air for moments too long, and the barrier crew moved like a well-oiled machine, catching and releasing bodies in a dance of organized chaos. The crowd’s energy was nearly physical, a swirling, writhing mass of devotion and violence. Next came “Glenwood,” again from the fifth studio album released in 2025. This was slower (if that could be a thing!) but no less punishing. The atmospheric intro, built tension, then exploded into rhythmic destruction. Will’s vocals here demonstrated his dynamic range, moving from feral growls to near-inhuman shrieks without losing intensity. The crowd responded with a series of spinning circle pits, elbows brushing ribs, the collective weight of bodies pressing forward like a tidal wave. Adam’s guitar lines soared above the mayhem, a melodic thread through the sonic devastation. “Prison of Flesh,” again, from the latest 2025 offering, followed, and the room went further into madness. The triple-guitar attack collided with relentless drums and bass to create a wall of sound that was physically oppressive. Will’s gutturals became incantations; the audience’s reactions were immediate and unfiltered. The pit riders collided, surfers flew, and the air itself seemed to pulse in sync with the sub-bass, that was being registered in Tokyo and Honolulu. Smoke machines flared in perfect timing with each breakdown, highlighting the chaos in sharp, ghostly outlines, and plunging the stage into an ethereal horror set.
Then came the monumental Pain I: Dancing Like Flames, from Pain Remains (2022). This was theatrical extreme music at its most perfected. Smoke flared at the edges of the stage, synchronised with the song’s fiery crescendos. Will’s vocals tore through the Academy like molten metal, the fans convulsing with every pulse. Crowd surfers launched mid-breakdown, bodies twisting, spinning, and colliding. The pit was no longer just a crowd, it was a battlefield, choreographed by sheer intensity in the tightly packed in O2, did I mention the place had sold out, you’d be lucky to squeeze a fag paper between the crushing onslaught of all the grinding bodies. You were joining in, thrashing around whether you wanted to or not. Lights painted the stage and audience in reds and ambers, turning smoke into a living sea of flame. The song ended with a massive collapse into silence before the band seamlessly moved into the next movement. Pain II: After I’ve Done, I’ll Disappear followed, also from Pain Remains (2022). The energy shifted slightly, becoming more desperate, more apocalyptic. The guitar work layered intricate harmonics over crushing rhythm riffs, while drums punctuated every moment like cannon fire. Will’s dynamic range became almost unbearable, moving from whispered gutturals to high-pitched screams that forced the crowd into involuntary reaction. Surfers launched in all directions, the barrier crew again heroically keeping chaos from tipping into danger. Smoke and strobes created a hellish cathedral; every frame of vision was alive, trembling. Pain III: In a Sea of Fire, the final chapter from Pain Remains (2022), reached levels of sheer extremity rarely witnessed live. The song opened with near-catastrophic speed, riffs spiralling and drums detonating like explosions in the pit. Smoke cascading in tandem with breakdowns, making the stage appear as if it were being consumed by the very “Sea of Fire” the song described. Will’s vocals pierced the inferno; the guitars screamed over top. The crowd had become fully a part of the performance, every scream, every slam, every movement synchronized into the ritual of destruction. Bodies flew, circle pits overlapped, and the Academy itself seemed alive, reacting to every beat, every breakdown.
Finally, the encore of sorts: “To the Hellfire”, from the 2021 E.P. …And I Return To Nothingness, closed the night with apocalyptic grandeur. The song is a monolith of contemporary deathcore, and live it was nothing short of cinematic terror. Smoke cannons erupted across the stage edges, shooting into the smoky ceiling. The pit was unrecognisable as anything human, a chaotic storm of limbs, sweat, and pure visceral energy. Will’s vocals became almost inhuman, alternating gutturals and shrieks at impossible speed.
The triple-guitar attack shredded any semblance of calm. Drums and bass hit like a tsunami, and the audience responded in kind, voices raised in unison, a chorus of controlled madness. The song concluded with a final, resounding blast, and the Academy erupted in deafening cheers, claps, and exhausted screams. Fans staggering from the floor, drenched, exhilarated, and euphoric, knowing they had just witnessed something rare and historic. Lorna Shore commanded, annihilated, and sculpted the atmosphere of the Academy. Every song was a fully-realised chapter in the epic saga of Pain Remains and I Feel The Everblack Festering Within Me, a journey through darkness, chaos, and pure deathcore artistry. Will Ramos, Adam De Micco, Andrew O’Connor, Austin Archey, Michael Yaeger and for song 4, Nick Chance had transformed the venue into a cathedral of extreme music, and by the time they left the stage, it was impossible to remember what calm felt like. The energy, the violence, the precision, the light show, the pit all of it became a living statement to the apocalyptic power Lorna Shore have mastered.
