Last Friday night, the Rickshaw Theatre became ground zero for one of the most punishing sold out lineups to hit Vancouver this year, as Cattle Decapitation brought their savage Terrasitic campaign through town with support from Brujeria, No Cure, and Bayonet Dismemberment. By the time doors were barely behind them, the room was already shoulder to shoulder and ready to erupt.
Bayonet Dismemberment wasted absolutely no time setting the tone. Their set was pure blunt force trauma—filthy, ugly, and exactly what an opening band should be. No wasted breath, no drawn-out banter, just a straight-up sonic assault that hit the room like a cinderblock. They walked on, chose violence in riff form, and left the early crowd fully awake and significantly less comfortable.
No Cure followed with all the subtlety of a bar fight in a burning building. Where Bayonet Dismemberment came in swinging, No Cure came in stomping. Their set was all adrenaline and hostility, packed with the kind of unhinged energy that turns a floor into a war zone. The pit opened instantly, bodies started flying, and any illusion of personal space in the Rickshaw disappeared on impact. Controlled chaos, pure and simple—and Vancouver ate up every second of it.
Then came Brujeria, and with them, the room shifted from violent to volatile. By the time they took the stage, the Rickshaw was already hot, packed, and running on pure adrenaline—but Brujeria pushed it into something far more dangerous. Their set felt less like a performance and more like an incitement. A wall of grind, death metal, and chaos came pouring off the stage in waves, each track landing with the force of a riot. The room responded accordingly: louder, uglier, and far more unhinged with every passing minute.
Brujeria have always thrived in that space between performance and provocation, and Friday night was no exception. Their set carried the kind of menace that very few bands can convincingly weaponize—equal parts spectacle, intimidation, and raw sonic violence. Every riff came in filthy and punishing, every blast beat pushed the room harder, and every second of their set felt designed to escalate the tension another notch. There was no breathing room, no soft edge to grab onto—just relentless pressure and the kind of atmosphere that makes a packed room feel suddenly much smaller.
What made their set hit as hard as it did wasn’t just the music—it was the presentation. Brujeria has always understood that image is part of the weapon, and they know exactly how to use it. Their stage presence carried all the threat and theatricality the band has built its name on, turning the Rickshaw into something far more hostile than a club stage. By the end of the set, that tension hit its peak as vocalist El Sangrón closed things out with machete in hand, standing center stage beneath the lights like an executioner delivering the final warning. It was pure theatre, but theatre delivered with enough menace to make the room lean in. That final image—masked, still, machete raised—landed like a threat and left the room roaring. It was confrontational, unforgettable, and exactly the kind of closing statement Brujeria was built to make.
By the time Cattle Decapitation took the stage, the Rickshaw had already been worked into a frenzy—but Cattle Decapitation didn’t just meet that energy, they sharpened it into something surgical. Where the bands before them dealt in blunt force, Cattle dealt in precision. Their set was a calculated demolition: vicious, technical, suffocating, and executed with terrifying control. From the moment they hit, the room was locked in.
Cattle Decapitation have long mastered the art of balancing chaos with precision, and Friday night was a perfect demonstration of exactly why they remain one of extreme metal’s most dominant live acts. Every part of their set was dialed in with machine-like discipline, but never at the expense of impact. The band moved as a single destructive unit, tearing through their material with a level of control that somehow made it all feel even more violent. Every blast beat landed like a detonation. Every riff came down with punishing weight. Every transition hit with the kind of precision that makes technical death metal feel less like performance and more like calculated devastation.
Travis Ryan remains one of the most uniquely vicious frontmen in extreme music, and live, that becomes impossible to ignore. His command of the room was absolute, shifting from his signature shrieks into guttural, inhuman lows with an ease that still feels deeply unnatural in the best possible way. It’s one thing to hear those vocals on record—it’s another thing entirely to watch them tear out of him in real time. Every scream sounded feral. Every guttural hit like something dragged up from the floorboards. He doesn’t just front Cattle Decapitation—he stalks the set like the eye of the storm, controlling the chaos while the band detonates around him.
Behind him, the band was untouchable. Ruthless and locked in, they tore through the set with the kind of confidence only a band at this level can carry. Tracks from Terrasite landed especially hard in a live setting—massive, punishing, and built to crush. The newer material carried all the suffocating atmosphere and grotesque weight of the record, but with an added physicality that hit even harder in a room this size. The Rickshaw floor churned from front to back, the pit stayed in constant motion, and every breakdown landed like structural damage.
What made Cattle Decapitation so devastating wasn’t just how heavy they were—it was how controlled the destruction felt. Nothing was loose. Nothing was accidental. Every second of their set was deliberate, honed, and delivered with total conviction. It was suffocating in the best way possible: relentless, punishing, and precise enough to feel almost clinical. By the time they closed, the Rickshaw was wrecked, the crowd was spent, and Cattle Decapitation had done exactly what headliners are supposed to do—take an already volatile room and reduce it to rubble.
From the first note to the final collapse, this was one of those nights that reminded everyone exactly what the Rickshaw does best: sweat, volume, and absolute carnage. Four bands, no weak links, and a sold out room that gave every ounce of energy right back. A relentless, filthy, beautifully hostile evening of extreme music at its finest.
But wait! What about that cow losing its head that I mentioned in the headline, you ask? It wasn’t a real cow. It’s a fella named Erik who goes dressed up in costume to every show he attends – This time as a cow. He’s a nice guy. Funny enough, him and I were in a BLACK HALO’s video many years ago. He was front and centre and I was off in the back as I was told I was too intimidating looking for front row. I took it with a laugh and a high five. Go to a show and you’ll meet him.
Hi Erik.
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