Review & Photography by Manny Manson for MPM
AIRBOURNE. Fucking hell yes. None of your Gen-Z, sanitised, phone-out, vibes-only bollocks. This is backs-to-the-wall, face-stripping, beer-soaked, old-school Australian rock ’n’ roll, loud enough to rattle teeth and proud enough to not give a single shit who it offends. No irony. No clever angles. Just volume, velocity, and enough testosterone in the air to set off alarms, and impregnate the girls for blocks around. Organised chaos only in the loosest sense of the phrase, barely controlled, just enough discipline to stop it turning into a full structural incident. These Antipodean lunatics don’t pussyfoot around their gigs. They turn up to kick arse, and just like the cricket, they leave you knowing you’ve been absolutely pistol-whipped by the end of it.
AVALANCHE. Are first out, a little later than expected. No warning shot. No polite little “hello Birmingham.” Just beer, feedback, and the smell of hot valves cooking under stage lights. If Airbourne are the explosion, Avalanche are the lit match flicked into a petrol trail. Sydney blood. Denim and danger stitched into every seam. Steve Campbell steps up front with that bass hanging low like a weapon. Veronica “V” Campbell rolls her shoulders, flexes her fingers over the fretboard. Blake Poulton locks in at stage right, rhythm guitar primed and ugly. Bon Lowe twirls a stick once behind the kit and then, bang.
No gentle easing in. “Blondie” detonates straight out of the gate. The riff doesn’t strut now, it lunges. In the shadows, ‘V’ rips into it with a grin that says she knows exactly how much damage she’s about to cause. Blake doubles it thick and filthy, turning the whole thing into a two-guitar bar fight. Bon slams the snare like he’s breaking furniture, and Steve’s bass growls so deep it feels like the building’s foundations are being tested for weaknesses. The chorus? It’s not a singalong. It’s a riot chant. Shoulders slam. Beer arcs through the air. The O2 Academy floor starts moving like it’s trying to shake the band off. Steve spits the vocal like he’s chewing broken glass and loving the taste. This isn’t warming up. This is kicking the doors off the hinges and asking who’s next.
They don’t let it breathe. “Bottle of Sin” rolls in with a sleaze-soaked swagger turned vicious. ‘V’ bends the opening notes until they squeal for mercy, while bending herself over trying to see what she had for dinner, Blake grinding underneath her like a diesel engine refusing to stall. Bon’s kick drum hits like a fist to the sternum, steady, brutal, unrelenting. Steve prowls between vocal lines, his white Thunderbird bass still hammering that low-end pulse into your gut. The groove is dirtier live. Heavier. You can see heads tipping back in the pit, eyes half-closed, letting it sink in. When the solo comes, ‘V’ doesn’t just play it, she attacks it. Strings bent to snapping point, notes held until the room feels like it might tear open. Avalanche aren’t here to impress. They’re here to leave dents.
Then the curveball. “Land Down Under.” No irony. No wink. They take that Men At Work anthem and supercharge it like it’s strapped to a V8. V roughs the riff up, Blake beefs it until it’s practically metal-edged, and Bon drives it harder than the original ever dared. Steve grins into the mic and the crowd absolutely loses it. The whole Academy is bouncing. Arms in the air. Voices at full throttle. It’s chaos in stereo. That chorus hits and Birmingham roars it back so loud it nearly drowns the band. Nearly. Avalanche crank it harder. Louder. Faster. The joke becomes a war cry. “On the Bags Again” hits like someone’s kicked the tempo into overdrive. V’s picking hand becomes a blur, Blake glued to her flank, rhythm tight as barbed wire. Bon goes full piston-mode, double hits snapping through your ribcage. Steve spits every line like it’s a dare. The pit finally rips wide open. Bodies collide. Trainers skid on beer-slicked floor. It’s glorious, reckless carnage.
Then “Get Back (To Fuckwit City.)” No filter. No apology. The riff is thick, blunt-force trauma. ‘V’ and Blake stand shoulder to shoulder and grind it out like they’re trying to split the stage in two. Steve shoves the mic toward the front row and they scream it back with venom. Bon keeps it pounding, no frills, just pure impact. The Academy floor physically flexes. You can feel it under your boots. “Armed to the Teeth” turns everything darker. Heavier. Meaner. V drags that opening riff through the mud and sets it alight. Blake locks in, thickening every chord until it feels like the air itself is vibrating. Steve plants his boots wide, bass rumbling like distant artillery, voice shredded at the edges but refusing to back down. Bon’s kick drum is relentless, like boots marching straight through your chest. The chorus lands and fists go up everywhere. It’s not nostalgia. It’s not cosplay rock ’n’ roll. It’s sweat in your eyes and volume in your bloodstream. They lock in tight here, four bodies, one pulse.
“Going for Broke” doesn’t dip the intensity, it spikes it. V tears into the riff like she’s trying to outrun it. Blake clamps down and keeps it thick. Bon chases them both, cymbals crashing like sparks off grinding steel. Steve leans into the mic and spits the lyrics like he’s got something to prove. The crowd doesn’t bounce now. It surges. Forward. Back. A living organism with teeth. Then “Dad, I Joined a Rock ’n’ Roll Band.” And suddenly it’s defiance with a grin. Steve sells it like confession and celebration wrapped into one sweaty, distorted package. V throws in lead lines that scream classic rock arrogance, Blake hammering the rhythm like its gospel. Bon gives it lift without softening the blow. Pints raised. Voices cracking. It’s a middle finger delivered at 110 decibels.
“Down for the Count” drags the tempo into something heavier, nastier. Steve’s bass thickens until it feels like you’re breathing through smoke. Bon leans into that mid-tempo stomp like he’s setting the pace for an execution. V slices through with jagged chords, Blake keeping the undercurrent grinding. The breakdown hits and the room holds its breath for half a second, just enough space to feel the drop, before they slam back in twice as hard. It’s physical. You feel it in your spine. They close with “Ride Or Die.” And this is where the dial snaps clean off and rolls under the stage. ‘V’ launches the riff like a flare into the dark. Blake reinforces it, thick and uncompromising. Bon is relentless, no let-up, no mercy. Steve roars the chorus like it’s carved into bone, bass rumbling like an engine about to blow through the bonnet. The crowd? They’re all in now. Arms over shoulders. Shouting it back like it’s personal. Like it’s a pact. Sweat drips from the balcony. The air tastes metallic. The floor is sticky, boots peeling off it with every step.
When the final chorus crashes down and the last chord rings out, it doesn’t fade. It hangs there, vibrating, daring someone to turn it down. And then there’s the obligatory band selfie with a bludgeoned crowd eager to pose for the camera. By the time Steve Campbell, Veronica “V” Campbell, Blake Poulton and Bon Lowe walk off, the O2 Academy isn’t warmed up. It’s detonated. Blood pumping. Ears ringing. Shirts stuck to backs. Bloody good on Ya! Steve tells us all the tracks, except Land Down Under, (released on a separate ep in 2025,) are on their debut album “Armed to the Teeth” available from the merch stand.
ASOMVEL were meant to bring the thunder next, but illness in the camp pulled the handbrake hard before they could hit the stage. No drama, no diva exits, just one of those brutal tour realities. Avalanche, though? They didn’t flinch. They just rolled out, as said previously, a little later, grinning like pirates who’d just found extra rum, and cranked out a righteously extended set that felt anything but second best. More riffs. More sweat. More volume. If anything, it just meant Birmingham got a double shot of Aussie grit, and let’s be honest, it probably didn’t help the whinging Poms stereotype when the Sydney crew powered through like it was just another Tuesday night bar brawl. The fans weren’t complaining. Not even close.
The O2 Academy is now sweating, and that’s before Airbourne even show their faces. Avalanche has done their job properly, warmed the room, rattled the bones, loosened the joints, and now the place feels primed for impact. The air is thick with heat, spilt beer, sweat and anticipation, that buzzing hum that creeps under your skin when everyone in the room knows something is about to happen to them. This isn’t a crowd here to be impressed. This is a crowd here to be battered. Bodies are pressed in, pints clutched like lifelines, ears already half-ringing in expectation. Their Terminator 2 tape strikes up. There’s no dramatic pause. And definitely no bullshit.
AIRBOURNE hit the stage like a flashbang going off in a confined space. Joel O’Keeffe is already in motion before the sound fully lands, white Gibson hanging dangerously low, eyes lit up like a bloke who’s just been handed the keys to something fast and illegal. This is a band that crawled out of Warrnambool, Victoria, a coastal town better known for shipwrecks than rock stars, raised on Bon Scott, pub stages, and the belief that rock ’n’ roll should feel like it might go wrong at any second. Since Runnin’ Wild tore through the world in 2007, Airbourne have made a career out of doing exactly one thing and doing it harder every time anyone tells them to stop. Five albums deep, Runnin’ Wild (2007), No Guts. No Glory. (2010), Black Dog Barking (2013), Breakin’ Outta Hell (2016), Boneshaker (2019), and not a single note wasted on restraint. They don’t ease in. They never have.
They kick straight into “Gutsy,” their first proper new punch since Boneshaker, released in June 2025 like a reminder that they’ve not been sat around knitting cardigans. Live, it doesn’t feel like a new song, it feels like a continuation of a long-running bar fight. Pure dynamite. A freight train of riffs and hooks that concusses the first ten rows and gives everyone else a delayed nosebleed. Ryan O’Keeffe’s kick drum is obscene, each hit slamming into your chest cavity and forcing your breathing to change, like your body’s being recalibrated without consent. Justin Street’s bass crawls under your ribs and stays there, vibrating organs you forgot you had. Joel’s vocal isn’t pretty, isn’t meant to be, it’s raw, serrated, spat straight out of the gut. When the chant section hits, the crowd grabs it instantly, still messy, still learning, but loud enough to count. Heads start bobbing involuntarily, like those nuns wobbling down cobbled streets on bicycles, ridiculous, chaotic, and impossible to stop. We’re barely minutes in and it already feels like O2 Academy has been forcibly relocated.
If you’ve never been to an Airbourne gig, it’s hard to explain the full-throttle nature of it. There is no build, no gentle climb. It’s pinned from the first second and it never comes off. You don’t leave refreshed. You leave exhilarated but wrecked, heart racing, legs rubbery, ears screaming like they’re filing a complaint. And honestly, who gives a fuck? It’s the bloody weekend.
“Fat City” comes roaring out next, hauled from Runnin’ Wild. (2007), and the reaction from the hardcore is immediate. This one’s been missing from setlists for years, and when that riff lands it hits like a slab of concrete. Slower by Airbourne standards, but heavier for it, a beat that hammers straight into the sternum and stays there. Brett Tyrrell is locked into the groove like it’s bolted to him, while Ryan and Justin form a pulverising backline, all thump and weight, the kind that makes your insides wobble. Lyrically it’s about excess, living large, burning fast, bad decisions made loudly, and live it sounds like the band enjoying every filthy second of it. Joel gives it everything, veins standing proud in his neck, sweat already flinging from his hair. The O2 Academy doesn’t so much move as sway under pressure, bodies pressed together, breathing synced whether they like it or not. The groove hits your guts, like someone cranked up the world’s volume knob and then shoved it straight down your throat.
Then “Cradle to the Grave” from Black Dog Barking (2013) slinks in with all the subtlety of a horny alley cat on the prowl. Riffs fly. Drums crush. Joel spaces his vocal delivery between those concussive kick hits like he’s dodging punches in a back alley. This is no lullaby, it’s designed to keep you wired, like a testosterone-fuelled teenager sneaking a look at Readers’ Wives with the volume up too loud. The songs about the whole ugly ride, birth to death with no safety net, and live it feels relentless. Brett and Joel lean into each other mid-riff, guitars snarling, while Justin prowls the stage edge, feeding low-end punishment straight into the gut of the crowd. You feel every chord in your chest, every cymbal crash in your solar plexus, every barked lyric in the back of your throat. It’s a lesson in overstimulation and euphoria all at once.
“Hungry” follows, last seen in sets back around 2013 but born on Black Dog Barking (2013), and the O2 Academy absolutely loses its shit. This is early Airbourne hunger, feral, raw, unpolished. The screaming guitar and seismic bass line smash your senses so hard your face locks into a grin because you don’t know what else to do. People bounce like possessed Santa toys in a department store display, getting smashed around the venue like peas in a water bottle. It’s abuse, pure and simple, and the crowd are fucking loving it, lungs burning, legs screaming, sweat dripping off chins and noses. This is the sound of a band that has never compromised, that learned to survive and thrive on chaos, and the room responds like prey recognizing a predator. And standing there in the middle of it, already drenched and battered, it’s painfully obvious, this isn’t just a band playing songs. This is a philosophy being enforced at volume. Airbourne aren’t here to impress you. They’re here to test how much you’ve got in the tank. And judging by the state of O2 Academy already, nobody’s tapping out early. The history is tangible. Every riff from Runnin’ Wild, every shout from No Guts. No Glory., every new stab from Boneshaker is sewn directly into the crowd’s sinews. You can feel the evolution and the lineage as it crashes down: Warrnambool pubs, sold-out arenas, five albums of pure, unrestrained rock, and every fucking note delivered live like it owes them money.
By the time “Back in the Game” from Black Dog Barking (2013), slams into the room, there’s no question, Airbourne aren’t just playing a set, they’re enforcing a lifestyle. That deceptively measured intro lasts a heartbeat before the walls start vibrating like they’ve been challenged to a fight. Bollocks to catching your breath. Guitars scream like they’ve seen the last devil on Earth, and Ryan O’Keeffe’s kick drum drives deep into your chest, rearranging organs like furniture in a house that refuses to be tidy. Joel is everywhere at once, sprinting, leaping, arms flailing, guitar slung low like he’s got something to prove to the ghosts of Runnin’ Wild and the punters that scoffed at a Warrnambool pub band thinking they could ever matter. Brett Tyrrell is locked into the riff like a rabid dog, Justin Street’s bass punching through the mix with seismic force, and the crowd is screaming along, not for nostalgia, but because they feel it. Every chord, every shout, is survival, pure, unfiltered, loud-as-fuck survival.
“Raise the Flag” from No Guts, No Glory (2010), doesn’t even wait for applause. Justin’s bass rumbles first, a low growl under the blood-red stage lights, then the rest of the band hits like a freight train. Heads snap instinctively, knees buckle, and the riff doesn’t just move you; it owns you. This is a song about unity, standing together when everything goes sideways, and in O2 Academy it feels like a declaration, a war cry. Joel stomps time with his left leg like he’s digging trenches in the floor, Angus Young comparisons unavoidable as he tears across the stage, sweat flying in every direction. The solo doesn’t soar, it rips, claws at the walls, scrapes skin and eardrums alike. Then it goes fully feral. Joel’s up. Not metaphorically. Actually up, hauled onto a roadie’s shoulders, guitar strapped on, cable trailing like a live wire through the pit.
The crowd part as the roadie carry’s him deeper into the chaos while he’s still ripping the solo to “Raise the Flag” like it’s wired straight into a generator. No safety net. No barrier. Just sweat-slick hands and sheer madness keeping him aloft. I leg it after him, camera up, ducking elbows and flying pints, because you don’t miss this. He hits the peak of the solo slightly off dead centre of the floor, grinning like a lunatic, then, crack, smashes a beer can off his own head. Foam explodes everywhere. Over the crowd. Over my lens. Over everything. He sprays it like a baptism of lager and bad decisions.
Sticky. Blurred. Perfect. That’s not a stage move. That’s Airbourne religion. The crowd are loving it, rough, ragged, voices hoarse, timing scattered, but volume undeniable. Ugly, loud, human, Airbourne’s DNA distilled into sound.
They barely let it breathe before sliding sideways into “Cheap Wine, Cheaper Women.” Runnin’ Wild (2007), And Christ, if that title doesn’t tell you exactly what you’re in for, you’ve not been paying attention for the last fifteen years. This one, reeks of sticky pub carpets and bad decisions made proudly. The riff struts rather than sprints, a dirty, shoulder-rolling groove that hits somewhere between AC/DC sleaze and pure Warrnambool bar brawl. Joel delivers the verses with a wink and a snarl, half storyteller, half instigator, demanding the crowd to get on each-other’s shoulders as he launches pints of beer into the mass of hands being passed to him from the wheeled-on Lemmy’s bar, while Justin and Ryan lay down a backbeat so thick you could trip over it. The chorus is instant, shameless, built to be roared with a pint in hand and zero regrets. Bodies sway, beers slosh, arms hook around strangers’ necks. It’s messy, it’s loud, it’s gloriously unsubtle. Brett rips a blues-drenched solo that feels like it’s been soaked in petrol and set alight, bending notes until they squeal. No poetry. No apology. Just rock ’n’ roll in its most irresponsible form, grinning through broken teeth.
Then comes “Alive After Death,” another track, fresh from the up-coming July release Joel’s been banging on about all night, and it doesn’t arrive politely. It detonates. A jagged, snarling riff tears out of the stacks like it’s been locked up too long, all teeth and intent, and Ryan counts it in with that caveman precision that feels less like timing and more like execution. Joel steps to the mic grinning like he knows something we don’t, spits the title line once, twice, and suddenly the entire O2 Academy is shouting it back like it’s a survival mantra. The song’s pure resurrection fuel, built on that classic Airbourne stomp but with a darker edge running underneath, a reminder that this band have taken hits, swallowed setbacks, and come back swinging every single time. Justin’s bass grinds low and filthy, Brett’s rhythm guitar locking in so tight it feels welded, and the solo? Not flashy. Not delicate. Just violent and triumphant, like clawing your way out of a grave with a Marshall stack strapped to your back. Joel leans into the crowd, sweat flying, eyes blazing, screaming that we’re “alive after death” and meaning every syllable. It’s not nostalgia. It’s defiance at full volume.
And then “Diamond in the Rough.” Runnin’ Wild (2007), No soft edges despite the title. The intro creeps in on a taut, grinding riff, tension coiled tight before Ryan smashes it open and the whole thing surges forward like a pub door kicked off its hinges. There’s grit in this one, something stubborn and proud, a song about scrapping your way up when nobody’s betting on you. Joel’s vocal cuts sharper here, less party, more purpose, veins standing out as he spits every line like it’s carved from experience. You can feel the history in it, the Warrnambool nights, the years of hauling gear, the refusal to smooth the edges for anyone. The chorus lands huge, fists in the air, voices cracked but committed, and suddenly the whole room is that “diamond,” rough, flawed, but unbreakable under pressure. Brett and Joel trade licks mid-song, guitars snarling at each other, while Justin’s bass keeps it anchored and Ryan drives it home with sledgehammer fills that rattle your ribcage. It’s triumphant without going soft, uplifting without losing its snarl. Airbourne don’t polish their diamonds. They throw them at you at 100 miles an hour and dare you to catch them.
“Too Much, Too Young, Too Fast,” another Runnin’ Wild (2007), classic, obliterates what little restraint remained. Guitars fly over heads, bass rattles teeth, the front rows are crammed into a writhing, heaving mass of sweat and adrenaline. This song is pure excess, life burned at both ends with no apologies, and live it feels immediate, essential. Joel stalks the stage like a predator, shoving the mic out to the crowd, eyes wild, feeding off the chaos he’s created. Justin and Brett headbang in perfect unison, Ryan powers the engine relentlessly, an unstoppable force, refusing to quit even as your body is screaming for mercy.
By the time the set is barrelling toward its final stretch, the room isn’t a venue anymore, it’s a pressure cooker with a PA system. Sweat’s dripping off the ceiling, forearms are burning, throats are already shredded but nobody’s backing off. This is the point where Airbourne stop playing to the crowd and start dragging it behind them by the collar. The songs aren’t just songs now, they’re triggers. Riffs land and bodies react before brains have time to catch up. It’s pure muscle memory, fight-or-flight stuff, that caveman response that AC/DC baked into the DNA back in the 70s and Airbourne have been weaponizing ever since they crawled out of Warrnambool with Marshall stacks and zero interest in subtlety.
Then “Breakin’ Outta Hell” from Breakin’ Outta Hell (2016), slams the O2 Academy into overdrive. Two minutes of compressed velocity, zero fat, all fire and bar-fight energy. Airbourne prove they aren’t mellowing with age, aren’t polishing their edges for anyone’s comfort. Joel looks possessed, sprinting like the devil’s chasing him over unpaid debts, sweat spraying like a baptism of fire, guitar slung dangerously low. The riffs cut like broken glass, drums smashing, bass thudding, vocals ripping. By the time it ends, you’re not catching your breath, you’re recovering from being flattened by sheer volume and intent. The song doesn’t so much finish as it collapses, leaving a crater of noise and adrenaline in its wake.
And now, the air raid siren howls like it’s the end of the world. Beams of red-light slice across the stage, the wall Marshall amps (each head sat astride it’s stack of cabs, a different model, might I add,) hum with barely contained violence. The sounds of Spitfires dogfighting over-head batter your senses with incendiary precision. This is pure bar room thunder, all sweat, grit and diesel-soaked attitude, this is “Live It Up” from Black Dog Barking. (2013), and it doesn’t just raise the intensity, it bloody detonates it. The Marshalls sound like they’re being tortured with molten lead, cranked past sense into pure aggression. This is Airbourne at their rawest, born on sticky pub floors where spilled pints were as much part of the furniture as the battered carpet. Joel barks the title like a command and the crowd obeys immediately, lungs burning, legs shot, sweat blinding vision. Chugging guitars lock in with Ryan’s kick drum like pistons in a V12 Merlin engine running on beer fumes and sheer insanity. Justin Street’s bass crawls through your guts, thick and relentless, reminding you exactly why Airbourne are still standing five albums deep. Brett Tyrrell leans into each riff like it owes him a life debt, his fingers bending strings the way gravity shouldn’t allow. Guitar over-head, Joel leads the way off stage, the lights dim!
A split second of darkness, and the roar begins. Not polite applause, not careful cheering, a tidal wave of raw, primal energy bouncing through every beam of O2 Academy. The “whoas” start almost immediately, and when Airbourne explode back onto the stage with “Ready to Rock” from Black Dog Barking (2013), it’s not an encore, it’s a second life you didn’t know you had. The room moves as one organism, floor flexing, lights rattling, every person in the space connected by sweat, adrenaline, and the sheer insistence of four Aussies who refuse to compromise. Joel’s guitar feeds back like an electric scream, slicing through the wall of sound. Justin and Brett flank him, grinning like men who’ve just nicked something expensive and gotten away with it. The O2 Academy is alive, responding in time to riffs that feel older than the walls themselves. Voices are hoarse, fists pumping, hearts pounding, this is an arena-sized anthem condensed into a sweaty, human crucible, a living, breathing testament to everything Airbourne have fought for since Warrnambool pubs were the only stages that would let them play loud enough to be heard.
Finally, it’s “Running Wild,” the song that started it all, full-circle, apex, from Runnin’ Wild (2007). And here, now, it is more than a closer. It’s a statement. Joel’s white guitar screams through the stacks like its marking territory, Ryan’s drums hammer forward like a stolen Ute careening down a dirt road at three in the morning with no lights and no plan, Justin’s bass holds the whole chaotic structure together like scaffolding in a tornado. The crowd doesn’t sing because they’re prompted, they sing because this song has been living in their blood for fifteen years, coursing through veins every time they’ve played it, whether in Warrnambool, London, or a sweaty Sheffield shed like this. Brett’s riffs cut deep, Joel’s vocals bite like fists in your chest, every note a reminder that Airbourne have never, and will never, give less than everything.
The closing run doesn’t taper. It doubles down. Louder. Faster. Dumber in the best possible way. The amps aren’t just on, they’re living, breathing weapons, and every hit of drum, strum of guitar, and shout of vocals is calculated to break your body in the most delightful way possible. Sweat drips off the ceiling, forearms scream, throats shredded, yet nobody backs down. Every chord triggers instinct, a fight-or-flight response wired straight into the spine. This is Airbourne at their most honest, a four-piece on fire, ripping through history and discography in one unbroken, feral, glorious assault. You glance around and see it in every face, the same mess of exhilaration, fatigue, elation, the pure fucking joy of being part of something that refuses to be tamed. Arms around strangers, voices gone, ears ringing, hearts still hammering like they’ve been dared to stop, and the band? They keep going until there’s nothing left.
The final note hits like a hammer to the chest. And then… silence. Not polite, not reflective. Just the echo of destruction. The O2 Academy shivers from the aftermath, the crowd gasping, staggering, grinning, bruised, drenched in sweat, beer, and adrenaline. The history is palpable, Runnin’ Wild, No Guts. No Glory., Black Dog Barking, Breakin’ Outta Hell, Boneshaker, every album, every riff, every defiant scream distilled into this one night of total, unrelenting madness. Airbourne have proven exactly who they are: a band that doesn’t compromise, doesn’t ask, doesn’t pause. They take and they give in equal measure, leaving you wrecked but wanting more, alive but raw, exhausted but grinning like a mad bastard who’s just survived a controlled explosion of sound.
Joel grins, wipes his face, and surveys the wreckage, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving, guitar still in hand, you could imagine him dropping the punchline that would sum the night up perfectly:
“Cheers, ya’ mad Pom bastards, ya’ not bad for a bunch of whingein’ fuckers, eh?”
And honestly? Fair play doesn’t even begin to cover it. The O2 Academy is technically still upright, but only just, like a pub at chucking-out time clinging to its last legs. Pints drained. Plastic cups crushed into the floor. Beer slicked across concrete like battlefield residue. The lights sway overhead as if they’ve taken a few hits themselves. Everyone inside knows it. We didn’t just watch a gig; we survived a detonation. Something raw. Something feral. Something that didn’t ask permission and sure as hell didn’t apologise.
Airbourne didn’t perform tonight. They tore through it. Full tilt. No governor. No off switch. They rammed it straight down the throat of a packed room and dared it to keep up. And that memory? It won’t fade politely. It’ll stick. In ringing ears. In shredded vocal cords. In bruised ribs and stiff necks and that faint smell of stale lager that refuses to wash out of your jacket. Because this is Airbourne. Loud enough to rattle teeth. Proud enough to mean every word. Dangerous enough to leave scorch marks. Somewhere in the smoke, in the sweat-hazed glow of overworked Marshall amps, you can almost hear them cackling at us Brits trying to hang on for dear life. “Not bad for a bunch of whingeing fuckin’ Poms, eh? Now quit sookin’ and grab a beer.”
They came. They flattened the place. They left us blinking in the wreckage with grins we couldn’t wipe off if we tried. No polish. No mercy. Just beer, voltage and bloody-minded, back-against-the-wall, boots-on-the-monitor, sweat-in-your-eyes rock ’n’ roll. Proper “Aussie.” Proper “Loud.” Proper “GUTSY”.
