Review & Photography by Manny Manson for MPM
By the time we reached the Motorpoint Arena that familiar low thrum was already in the air, despite the cold drizzle which has seemingly plagued the UK for everyday this year. It was the kind of chaotic throbbing that tells you a heavy crowd has gathered before you even see it. Nottingham on a cold, wet night has a particular feel when there’s a show like this in town, black hoodies pulled tight, band logos worn like old flags, voices already hoarse from anticipation rather than singing, breath hanging in the early evening air. You could tell immediately this wasn’t a casual weekend gig crowd. People had travelled. People had planned. There was a purpose in the queue, that quiet, shared understanding that tonight wasn’t about ticking a band off a list, it was about feeling something properly, about getting reacquainted with an old friend
Inside, the Motorpoint Arena did what it always does best for shows of this scale: swallowed everyone whole. The floor filled quickly, a dense, restless mass already shifting before a note had been played. The stands hummed with movement as people found their spots, leaning forward over rails, scanning the stage, clocking the drum riser, the mic placements, the LED rigs hanging in wait. There’s a peculiar tension before a triple-bill like this, you’re not just waiting for a headliner, you’re bracing for an emotional arc, the intentional, curated journey of musical highs and lows that turns a setlist into a compelling, unforgettable story, even if you don’t consciously frame it that way. You know you’re about to be taken somewhere. You just don’t know how hard the first shove is going to be.
Eventually, the lights dropped without ceremony, no dramatic pause, no indulgent intro tape. Just darkness, then sound, immediate, confrontational, and Make Them Suffer were there, fully formed, no easing-in period, no asking permission.
Sean Harmanis hits the stage full of swagger, like a man stepping into a fight he knows he’s going to win, shoulders squared, mic already clenched, eyes scanning the crowd as if taking a headcount of who was ready. Nick McLernon and Jaya Jeffrey flanked him, guitars and bass slung low, while Jordan Mather settled in behind the kit with that unmistakable posture of a drummer about to do untold damage. Alex Reade took her position slightly to stage right, dark but never hidden, keys set, mic ready, the quiet counterbalance to the violence that was about to follow. “Ghost of Me” exploded outwards, its opening riff instantly recognisable, the song having first arrived in August 2023 as the statement-of-intent single for what would become part of the self-named album, Make Them Suffer, released in November 2024. Live, it sounded bigger, sharper, angrier than its studio counterpart, the guitars cutting through the arena with surgical clarity while the low end rolled beneath it like shifting tectonic plates. Sean’s opening vocal lines came in raw and feral, not screamed for effect but delivered with a kind of coiled restraint that made the eruptions hit harder when they came.
Concert Pits have a habit of just appearing, this one didn’t politely form; it burst. Bodies collided, rebounded, regrouped. There was no sense of chaos for chaos’ sake, there was movement with purpose, the crowd locking into the rhythm as if the floor had become one living organism. The Motorpoint’s acoustics, often criticised for swallowing detail, were dialled in perfectly here. You could hear the articulation in the riffs, the snap of the snare, the subtle electronic textures Alex threaded through the mix, adding atmosphere without softening the blow. They barely let the applause breathe before sliding into “Bones,” released in June 2019 from How to Survive a Funeral. That song carries a particular emotional weight, its lyrics circling themes of internal collapse and survival, and live it took on an almost communal quality. The chorus hit and suddenly it wasn’t just Sean screaming into the void, it was hundreds of voices around me shouting those words back, faces lit with that strange mixture of fury and relief that only heavy music seems capable of producing. Arms were thrown over shoulders of strangers. People screamed themselves hoarse and smiled while doing it.
Sean continually prowled the stage between lines, crouching low, leaning out, making eye contact with people in the front rows as if daring them to disengage. He didn’t need to bark instructions. The crowd already knew what to do. Jordan ’s drumming drove everything forward with punishing consistency, the double kicks relentless but never sloppy, while Nick and Jaya locked together so tightly it felt like a single, monstrous instrument rather than two separate players despite them being on opposite sides of the stage. “Mana God,” released in July 2019, shifted the energy again. The song’s stop-start structure turned the growing pit into a series of explosions, movement freezing for a split second before detonating all over again. Every breakdown landed like a trapdoor opening beneath the crowd, and the roar that followed each one was visceral. The lighting snapped into harsher whites and reds, strobes accentuating the jagged rhythm, turning the band into flickering silhouettes against the backline.
Reade’s presence became more pronounced here, her keys adding an almost eerie sheen to the aggression, while her clean vocal layers floated above the brutality like something fragile trying to survive in a hostile environment. That contrast has always been Make Them Suffer’s secret weapon, and live it felt amplified, the brutality mattered more because there was beauty being threatened beneath it. “Oscillator,” released in August 2023, leaned fully into that modern, mechanical edge. The song pulsed with an industrial tension, the arena responding accordingly. Heads nodded in unison, a sea of movement rolling from front to back. The lighting cooled into steely blues, beams slicing across the room in perfect sync with the song’s rigid structure. This was Make Them Suffer at their most contemporary, precision without sacrifice.
There was a brief moment between songs where Sean spoke, not with bombast but with genuine warmth, thanking the crowd, acknowledging the scale of the room, and it landed because it didn’t feel rehearsed. There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance on a stage this size, and Make Them Suffer walked it perfectly, fully aware of their power without overstating it. “Erase Me,” released in December 2019, shifted the emotional centre again. The aggression remained, but it was tinged with something more introspective. The lyrics, dealing with self-erasure and internal struggle, hit hard in a room full of people who clearly understood them on a personal level. I watched someone near me scream the chorus, only to be pulled into a hug by a stranger when the song ended. Those moments don’t show up on setlists, but they’re the reason nights like this matter.
They saved “Doomswitch,” released on 1 December 2022, for last, and it felt like a calculated act of destruction. Sean took a moment to dedicate this final song in their set to Motionless In White and fellow support band, Dayseeker. From the opening notes, it seemed the crowd knew what was coming. The breakdown hit and the floor became a controlled riot, bodies moving in every direction, yet somehow everyone stayed upright. There was a sense of trust in the chaos, people picking each other up, checking in, then diving straight back into the fray.
When the final notes eventually decayed, the band stepped back, the roar was immediate and sustained. This wasn’t polite applause for an opening act. This was appreciation, respect, adrenaline-fuelled gratitude. Make Them Suffer had done more than warm up the room, they’d exploded a veritable crater in the middle of it. As the lights lifted slightly and roadies moved with practiced efficiency across the stage, the crowd buzzed. Conversations overlapped, people replaying favourite moments, laughing breathlessly, shaking their heads in disbelief. There was sweat in the air, that metallic tang of exertion and anticipation mingling together. And beneath it all was a shared understanding: the night had already hit hard, and it was only just beginning. More beer was bought, toilet visits were taken, there was an urgency in the air, they knew what was to come…hydration is a thing, it was already hot, like a cauldron bubbling over hot…sweaty and moist!
When “Dayseeker’s” Rory Rodriguez appeared, the crowd leaned forward almost imperceptibly, a subtle wave of anticipation. It was quieter, more contained, but no less potent. His presence alone demanded attention, not theatrical dominance like Sean Harmanis, but quiet authority, a voice poised to pull at the corners of your heart rather than batter your ribcage. Ramone Valerio on bass, Zac Mayfield behind the kit, and the rest of the band followed, each settling into their positions with the precision of a machine built for feeling. They opened with “Pale Moonlight,” released in April 2025 as the lead single from Creature in the Black Night. The first notes drifted across the arena, soft but insistent, a shimmering contrast to the bruising intensity of the opener, Make them Suffer. Rory’s voice came through clear and aching, every vowel elongated, every phrase carrying that intangible pull that makes a lyric hit like a memory. The arena, still vibrating from Make Them Suffer’s attack, seemed to exhale collectively. Arms swayed, heads tilted back, and for a moment, the pit had ceased, people were holding themselves in place, absorbing rather than striking out.
“Shapeshift,” released in June 2025, followed, deepening the atmosphere. The song’s rhythmic shifts pulled the crowd into subtle movement, a sway of bodies rather than violent collisions. The verses carried a tension that Rory sold with minimal gestures, a tilt of the head, a squeeze on the mic, a slight bend in the knees, and the payoff in the chorus felt like a physical release. Ramone’s bass weaved beneath the melodic guitar lines, anchoring the emotional swells, while Zac’s drumming punctuated with precision, letting the softer moments breathe before hitting hard with rolling fills that tugged at the gut. “Burial Plot,” from Sleeptalk, released in July 2019, arrived next, and the arena responded with immediacy. The chorus was sung back with fervour, not as a reflex but with intent, voices blending into a singular expression of understanding. Here was the beauty of Dayseeker live: the band didn’t just get on the stage and perform their songs; they transferred their emotional core, they’re connection, to the audience. You could feel it in the pauses between lines, in Rory’s eyes, behind dark glasses, scanning the crowd, in the tiny nods he gave the front rows as if to say, ‘I know you feel this too.’ The crowd responded by lighting the arena up with their phones.
“Crawl Back to My Coffin,” released in March 2024, brought a darker, weightier tone. The pit didn’t erupt here, but subtle movement began, fists raised, heads nodding, small groups of bodies swaying together. The song’s themes of regret and confrontation resonated visibly; people’s faces reflected introspection, almost a mirror of the lyrical content. Each drum fill landed like punctuation; each bass note a tether to reality amid the emotional storm. “Bloodlust,” released in November 2022 from Dark Sun, came next, it pulsed through the arena with an unearthly, nocturnal energy. The rhythm had a heartbeat-like insistence, forcing even the back rows to move, subtly at first, then with increasing abandon as the chorus hit. “Without Me,” released in September 2022, followed, It was dedicated to the other bands and to Rory’s dad. Suddenly the audience seemed to remember something collectively, voices lifting, cracking, joining Rory in the words, not because they had to, but because it mattered to them. There was recognition here, across the ages and scenes, a shared history in a song that had reached people in ways beyond simple enjoyment.
Then came “Crying While You’re Dancing,” released in August 2025, and the arena softened almost profoundly. Hands were encouraged to clap, phones came out, casting pinpricks of light across thousands of faces, illuminating expressions of raw connection, some smiling through connection to the lyric, eyes welling with recognition, some mouths open in the quiet gasp of appreciation. Rory’s delivery was fragile but confident, leaning into the emotional peaks without ever overplaying. The crowd’s response was equally nuanced; no mosh, no slam, just a wave of humanity riding the song’s every rhythm. Every lyric seemed to land like a personal message, every note a reminder that heavy music isn’t just about noise it’s about intimacy at scale. The title track, “Creature in the Black Night,” released in October 2025, felt massive live. The band expanded the sonic textures, layering guitar and keys to create a shadowy, almost cinematic atmosphere. Each breakdown and lift was accentuated by crowd reaction, subtle roars, sharp intake of breath, hundreds of people moving in a loose wave across the standing floor. This was Dayseeker claiming their arena moment without needing to fight for it physically.
They closed with “Sleeptalk,” released in June 2019, and “Neon Grave,” released in April 2022. By this point, the energy in the room had shifted from visceral release to one of reflective engagement. Fists were raised, arms intertwined, painted faces glistening with sweat, eyes wide with the shared experience. The band lingered, letting the last notes breathe, letting the emotional arc settle, letting the audience absorb it fully before retreating. The applause that followed wasn’t frantic or performative; it was, again, one of gratitude and recognition.
And as the house lights brightened once again, it revealed the scattered remnants of movement, Dayseeker’s effect was undeniable. Make Them Suffer had shattered the floor, Dayseeker had shown us what was inside. The air was thick, electric, expectant, and the audience, still shuddering from what had just passed, was ready. The moment Motionless in White were about to arrive was intense, not just anticipated, but necessary. The back screens filled with the image of a cat and the Motionless in White logo; the speakers pulsed with “OIIA OIIA (Spinning Cat) the walk on track of choice.
Chris “Motionless” Cerulli, emerged, black hair falling across his face, tour jacket zipped tight. His eyes swept the arena, scanning, acknowledging, commanding. Ryan Sitkowski and Ricky “Horror” Olson flanked him, guitars ready, posture casual yet undeniably dangerous. Behind them, Vinny Mauro on drums and Justin Morrow on bass locked in, forming a skeletal frame for the sonic weight about to fall. This wasn’t a casual headliner; this was a band fully aware that the audience had invested every ounce of attention and emotion up to this point. It had been a number of years since they played Nottingham, tonight had the feeling that there were years of making up in the offing.
The opening notes of “Meltdown,” released in June 2022 from Scoring the End of the World, hit like a controlled explosion. The industrial guitars and synths cut through the arena with precision, Chris’s vocals snarling like a command rather than a song. The pit responded instantly, surging outward then inward in waves, bodies bouncing off one another with trust and abandon. The lyrics, about systems failing under pressure, felt prophetic; the crowd’s energy mirroring the song’s tension, the room a living manifestation of the track. Ryan’s guitar riffs were razor-sharp, alternating between grinding chords and melodic leads, while Ricky’s harmonies and backing layers thickened the sound without diluting its aggression. Mask wearing, tight body suited girls angle ground sparks from their groin plates, flames lit the arena like a pyromaniac’s best day, this was a full-on attack to the senses, a great opener to a monumental set.
“Sign of Life,” released in June, 2022, another from the same album, followed seamlessly, and here the band revealed their command of dynamics. The opening verse was tight, restrained, almost hypnotic, before the chorus opened up, and the audience sang back the lines as one entity. Chris moved across the stage deliberately, pacing and pausing, letting the crowd’s response carry parts of the song. A never-ending flood of confetti rained from the canons in front of the stage; green light turned the arena into an ethereal wonder. Vinny’s drums underlined every beat with mechanical precision, a heartbeat that you could feel, while Justin’s bass added warmth and depth that grounded the song without softening it. The arena felt alive but disciplined, a collective organism familiar to the band’s every gesture.
A rhythmic pulse, a feral beat, and then a throw-back to “A-M-E-R-I-C-A” from Infamous released in 2012, erupted, a nod to their American gothic aesthetic with a dance-able, almost industrial groove. It was musical adrenaline, a thrilling juxtaposition of danceable electronica and gnarly metalcore, like standing between two colliding storms. Chris prowled the stage, eyes alive, engaging with every side of the arena like it was a cathedral in which he was both preacher and preacher’s ghost. The audience responded in kind, fists raised and voices hoarse from the first blistering triad of songs. A lone banana crowd surfed to be swept up by the security waiting for this fruit to come over the crowd. Then came “Thoughts & Prayers”, from Disguise released in 2019. These are lyrics born of bite and criticism, and here they were given life in fire: jets of flame shot skyward in furious blasts, scorching the front-row crowd until eyebrows were singed and hearts were pounding double time. The impact of each line was accentuated by smoke and heat, making this not just a listen but a feeling, a confrontation with the ferocity of urgency and frustration made audible
The visceral intensity didn’t let up. 2017’s “Voices” hit next like a blast of mechanical thunder, massive, layered, and emotionally kinetic. The crowd screaming back every line, the arena roof seemed to shake with their collective force. This was Motionless in White weaving community and chaos into one thread; a song about inner turbulence become external thunderclap. The band briefly left the main stage during Chris’s chat to the crowd due to someone needing help in the crowd, but when they returned, Chris asked for the crowd to put their phones down and live in the moment. Then, he continued and asked if it was cool to play a brand-new song: “Afraid of the Dark,” the fresh-off-the-press single that had only just made its live debut earlier in the tour, Jan 29th 2026 to be precise. This was not just a walk-through performance; it was an unholy hymn to courage and confrontation, decrying fear the way medieval warriors might denounce demons. Chris delivered it with snarled conviction, his voice a blade cutting through the heat and smoke. The flames jetted like eruptions around the band, as, once again the intensity grew to fever pitch in front of thousands ecstatic fans.
“Werewolf,” from the latest album, released as a single in October 2022, injected a playful, swaggering energy. A werewolf bayed at the moon on the huge screens at the back of the stage. The groove was undeniable, nu-metal in its rhythm but layered with industrial aggression. Dancers in werewolf heads moved paraded the stage, bouncing, shoving, grinning while colliding. It was the first moment of joy after the relentless pressure of the opening tracks, a reminder that Motionless in White can balance chaos with charisma. The guitar interplay between Ryan and Ricky had a mechanical sync, each riff punctuated by subtle backing keys, while Chris’s voice oscillated between menace and invitation. “Disguise,” the title track from the album released on 17 May 2019, snapped the momentum back, the groove infectious. The pit moved in waves once again, while the chorus had everyone clapping and stomping in unison. Motionless in White had absolute control by now, every pause and flourish was intentional, every glance and gesture choreographed to maximize impact. The crowd followed with near-perfect synchronicity, proof of the emotional conditioning laid down by the opening turns and now magnified by the headliner’s utter command.
And when they dropped into “Necessary Evil” from Graveyard Shift, May, 2017, the pyrotechnics reignited with formidable force. This track already feels massive on record, but live it became something elemental. Flames roared like artillery, cracking and hissing, while underneath it all the guitars pounded like war drums. Faces glowed in the flickering light; eyes locked on the stage as the band hammered home this dance of darkness and disdain with visceral intent. Then came the hammer: “Slaughterhouse,” released in June 2022, another from Scoring The End Of The World. The opening hit was cataclysmic; the pit in the centre of the arena erupted once again, into controlled havoc. Every breakdown landed like a concussive, seismic strike, the low-end rumbling through ribs rearranging them as it went, Chris delivered lines with venomous intensity. Lyrically, the song explores dehumanisation and rage, and live it felt like an accusation cast into the room, daring every participant to respond. The crowd roared, a living echo, bodies colliding in a synchronised chaos that somehow retained momentum without disorder.
“Rats” followed next, from Graveyard Shift released in 2017, with its tight, driving riff and rabid groove, and dancing rats, this kept the adrenaline rising. Heads were rattling, hearts were pounding, there wasn’t a single soul in the Motorpoint who wasn’t locked into the throttle of sheer energy emanating, victoriously, from the stage. This was a song that commanded movement, and the arena duly obliged, crunching together like a living, breathing organism. The pulsing, sinister intro of “Cyberhex,” released in August 2022, another single released from the album Scoring The End Of The World, shifted the atmosphere yet further. Synths and guitar layers intertwined like circuitry, creating a dark, cinematic canvas. The lights cut in stark reds and whites, strobes slicing across smoke and silhouettes. The chant in the chorus rippled through the crowd, thousands of voices merging into something tribal, almost ritualistic. Chris bellowed into the mic, coaxing responses, letting the audience fill spaces between lines. Each moment of tension release in the song being mirrored by the crowd’s collective inhale and exhale. When the single “Nothing Ever After”, the ILLENIUM collaboration, washed over the room, the sparks returned, dotting the stage with molten stars. What could have been a soft moment became an embrace of kinetic beauty and unrelenting spark; MIW treated Nottingham to a wave of breathtaking production, fusing electronic flourish with metallic grit. It was like watching fireflies in a furnace, hypnotic, bizarrely gentle, and yet still full-on.
If any song could encapsulate the sprawling narrative of the Afraid of the Dark run, it was “Scoring the End of the World.” When this song played, the stage became a shower of sparks, heat, low synth growls, and stabbing guitar lines, all converging into this cinematic peak that resonated like a war march for the lost and the bold. The notes felt like titans, and you could feel the crowd lifting, eyes blanketed in haze, voices echoing back to the band like thunder off a canyon wall. Flag waving dancers came down the runway twirling logo emblazoned flags to finish. Then came “City Lights,” from 2010’s Creatures, a rarer inclusion, a deeper dive from the album, and a welcome escape into melancholic beauty. Sparks erupted from the stage like erupting geysers, but there was also something electric and joyous about this one, an odd marriage of gloom and glow. In the crowd you could see folks light in their loafers, singing along, caught in the moment, this captured a lighter shade of MIW’s depth, a bittersweet beacon in an otherwise dark procession. Chris asked the crowd if they were ok, if they needed water, a throw-back to earlier in the set during Chris’s chat with the crowd. Next, came “Not My Type: Dead as F** 2”* another from 2017’s graveyard Shift, kicked in, a gritty, snarling embodiment of pure rock-and-roll aggression. It was raw; it was dangerous sounding; it was everything fans had come to expect from this band’s unfiltered energy. Chris wielded his mic like a weapon and the and the dancers, this time Lycra wearing cheerleaders complete with pom poms, danced around him like a point winning NFL quarter back hero.
The live debut “Hollow Points”, released back in 2023, came next, played for the first time in Glasgow. It was fresh, bone-crushing, and visceral, with the fiery pyrotechnics popping off again, torches licking the edges of the stage like beasts waiting to be fed. This felt like a new chapter in MIW’s live mythology, a song that demanded attention and gave it back tenfold with gritty riffs and thunderous percussion. The song finished with a triumphant “Fuck Yeah” from Chris as he wandered off towards stage left. The 2020 single, “Another Life,” from the album Disguise released earlier, in June 2019, delivered one of the night’s emotional peaks. The room slowed almost instinctively. Phones glowed like fireflies across the arena, arms reached upward, and the lyrics landed like confessions shared collectively. Chris’s voice cracked just enough to feel human, pulling the audience into the narrative of regret and seeming self-reflection. Each note, each pause, each drum fill resonated not just as sound, but as shared memory, shared pain, shared catharsis. A raise fist in the air to finish. They closed with “Eternally Yours,” released in May 2017 from the momentous, Graveyard Shift album, this being an anthemic finale that left no room for pause. The arena glowed with raised hands, voices joining the chorus in unison, thousands singing back a song that had become more than just music, it was a shared declaration. Chris stood centre stage, growling the lyric, taking it all in as he did so, letting the energy of the crowd, carry the final crowd surfers. Every riff, every drum fill, every lyric had landed and resonated, and the audience had responded with the kind of sustained roar that only comes from total immersion. The dancers returned, in matching black dress and masks, the launched roses into the crowd, as Chris gave his final farewells to the fans. The stage went black and Tears for Fears, “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” sparkled from the house P.A.
When the lights slowly came up, it revealed an emptying Motorpoint Arena, scattered with the remnants of sweat-soaked clothing, spent bodies and empty plastic pint pots. Conversations buzzed in fragments. You could almost feel the fans reflecting on Make Them Suffer’s pit-shattering intensity, Dayseeker’s emotional depth, and Motionless in White’s controlled chaos and cathartic peaks. This was a lived experience, present in every body, every voice, every exhale expired by the face painted fans who’s waited patiently for MIW to finally return to Nottingham, and they didn’t disappoint!
Outside, Nottingham carried the residual pulse of the night. Groups wandered slowly, small flashes of phone light capturing moments not to record but to remember. Laughter, whispers, and shouts echoed across the cold wet Bolero square, named after local hero’s Chris and Janes triumphant Winter Olympics ice skating routine, oh did I mention it was still raining, tiny aftershocks of what had taken place inside. Walking through cold February rain back to the car, the night’s arc became clear: Make Them Suffer tore the floor open with raw aggression, Dayseeker guided the emotional currents with care and intensity, and Motionless in White delivered the climactic spectacle, balancing chaos, melody, and catharsis. Every breakdown, chorus, flag waving and whispered lyric had been absorbed, amplified, and returned by the crowd. Bodies moved, voices roared, eyes locked in fleeting moments of connection.
This night was one of sound, emotion, and human energy colliding with precision. The Motorpoint may eventually fall silent, but for those present, those hanging around savouring the ambience, the pulse remained. Chaos, catharsis, brutality, beauty, intimacy, and spectacle had collided, leaving this audience altered, exhilarated, and profoundly connected. Every scream, every whisper, every riff and lyric persisted long after the last note faded. It was raw, relentless, and unforgettable, a night where three bands didn’t just play, they created a living, breathing experience, a night that would linger in the fans memory for years to come, and not just on the ride home.
