27 January 2026 – The Triffid, Brisbane – words and pictures by Clea-marie Thorne
Walking into The Triffid on 27 January 2026, finding the air already hazy and the early arrivals looking like pasty blue ghosts under the dim stage lights. Brisbane’s summer humidity is playing nice tonight, but seeing plenty of black tees already sporting dark patches or being glued to backs before a single note is even struck. Feeling the floor getting tacky under my Vans as the room is filling with the kind of punters who know exactly why they’re here. No tourists. No curiosity seekers. Just legends ready to cop it.
Sydney’s Bastardizer are already setting the tone, obliterating ears while the room is still swelling. Chris Beesley (vocals) is barking from the front like a possessed kennel-boss, George Delinicolis (drums) is hammering like he’s hallucinating rattlesnakes on his skins, and Bill Morgan (guitar) and Nick Wilks (bass) are pushing a filthy low-end grind that is leaving rib cages pleasantly rattled.
‘A Dose of Vengeance’ is ripping straight through the early chatter, dragging bodies forward. ‘Crimson Trenches’ is calling for movement—heads snapping, shoulders colliding, and beers sloshing dangerously. The sound is dirty, punk-infused thrash ’n’ roll, blackened at the edges and being delivered with zero interest in subtlety.
Bastardiser – The Triffid – photos by Clea-marie Thorne
Beesley is taking a breather, introducing the band to the late arrivals, then growling out ‘Whiskey ’til Death’ while wearing that Lemmy tribute loud and proud. Fists are going up, chants are starting, and that Motörhead spirit is hanging heavy in the air. ‘Mark of the Storm’ is locking in next, hitting with groove-heavy time changes that are pulling involuntary stank faces from the pit. ‘Up the Ante’ is following, aggression spiking again, and a ripping solo is getting cheers even from the blokes stuck at the bar. ‘Midnight in Hell’ is keeping things nasty before ‘Unholy Allegiance’ closes it out—death-soaked and weighty, leaving the floor sweaty and primed. Bastardizer aren’t warming anyone up gently; they’re sharpening blades.
Werewolves are stalking on next, Melbourne’s extreme death metallists already infamous for their mission to drop ten albums before 2029 and apparently determined to empty every pair of lungs in the building. Sam Bean (vocals, bass) is grinning like a man enjoying total chaos, Matt Wilcock (guitar) is slicing riffs with surgical precision, and Dave Haley (drums) is detonating behind the kit.
‘Sublime Wartime Voyeurism’ is kicking things off, instantly thickening the pit. ‘Crushgasm’ and ‘Under the Ground’ are landing like blunt force trauma, bodies bouncing off each other and sweat flinging in arcs under the lights. Bean is politely asking if certain expletives are allowed and the crowd is roaring back in the affirmative. With the crowd on side, they are launching into ‘I Want to Be Offended,’ with Bean ending it with a nasty chortle and a cheeky merch plug. ‘Know Your Place’ and ‘Beaten Back to Life’ are keeping the momentum feral. ‘Showering Teeth’ and ‘Crushing Heaven’s Mandate’ are piling on that dry, aggressive humour buried in social commentary. ‘I Don’t Like You’ is landing like a punchline delivered with a steel-cap boot.
Werewolves – The Triffid – photos by Clea-marie Thorne
Abbath is setting up, and the room is steaming. I’m checking my cameras, wiping my lenses, and watching as security is doing that familiar pre-headliner scan. From the darkened side stage Ukri Suvilehto (drums), Raud (guitar), and Andreas Fosse Salbu (bass) take their places on the stage. Seconds later Abbath Doom Occulta (vocals, guitar) is emerging, and the place is erupting before a note even lands.
They’re unleashing ‘Withstand the Fall of Time,’ and the reaction is immediate. A surge forward, chants breaking out, and hands clawing at the air. ‘Sons of Northern Darkness’ and ‘In My Kingdom Cold’ are following, and the floor is properly moving now. Circle pits are opening and closing like giant lungs, while a good portion of the crowd is hanging back toward the edges, taking it all in while headbanging and fist-pumping with a beer in hand. Meanwhile, the absolute units in the middle are full-heartedly getting into the mosh, losing themselves in the frostbitten chaos.
Abbath – The Triffid – photos by Clea-marie Thorne
‘Tyrants’ and ‘All Shall Fall’ are pounding through chests, the bass thumping hard enough to blur vision at the barricade. ‘Norden on Fire’ is living up to its name, and if it weren’t for the lack of a burning stench, you’d swear the room was actually igniting. Fog machines are working overtime, a frosty haze swallowing the stage until the band are barely silhouettes. It’s dense enough that I’m glad my first three songs are done, as any autofocus would be giving up the ghost.
Luckily, this isn’t detracting from the fans who are absolutely drinking it all in. ‘At the Stormy Gates of Mist’ and ‘One by One’ are driving the crowd deeper, chants bouncing off the walls and voices getting hoarse and unbothered. ‘Mountains of Might’ is towering, fists pumping in unison. ‘The Call of the Wintermoon’ is hitting that deep nostalgia nerve, the room screaming lyrics back like a shared incantation.
Abbath – The Triffid – photos by Clea-marie Thorne
‘Blashyrkh (Mighty Ravendark)’ is absolute bedlam, and when ‘The Sun No Longer Rises’ is closing it out, the moshers are still pushing, still shouting, and still refusing to let the cold lift. This is a room full of people actively choosing frostbitten riffs while sharing sweat and collective release.
Eikemo is standing there, paint smeared and grinning, while the Triffid floor is slick, the air is spent, and ears are ringing hard—there’s no soft landing. Just bodies filing out buzzing and satisfied, carrying the cold intent of the music in their treasure trove of live show memories.
Abbath – The Triffid – photos by Clea-marie Thorne
As I am walking out with them into the thick Brisbane night, ears ringing like a dropped toolbox, knowing I’ve just copped a world-class ear-bashing. It’s the ultimate contrast, leaving the icy, frostbitten shadow of the North and stepping back into the sticky city reality, feeling the roughness in my throat of every hoarse shout, like a badge of honour. This isn’t just another Tuesday night; it’s a reminder that even under a Queensland moon, the gates of Blashyrkh are swinging wide, leaving a room full of sons of northern darkness claiming their throne in the humidity and carrying the cold, grim heart of the Raven Realms back into the night.
