The Rickshaw Theatre was the site of a sonic ritual this past Sunday night—a sold-out show that pushed the limits of volume, velocity, and visual chaos. With a lineup as diverse as it was unrelenting, the evening summoned an unholy communion between black metal, symphonic soundscapes, and avant-garde horror. Even before doors opened, the air was thick with anticipation. Fans stood outside, hoping for last-minute miracles—ears pressed toward brick and steel, trying to catch fragments of sound bleeding through the venue’s walls. Inside? Total annihilation.
NEW SKELETAL FACES opened the night, performing in what little stage space they were afforded—but what they lacked in room, they more than made up for in presence. Their signature vertebrae-wrapped mic stands set the tone before the first note hit: eerie, raw, and unmistakably punk in spirit. A wall of gothic post-punk energy, their set was tight, brooding, and atmospheric—a funeral dance lit by strobes.
IMPERIAL TRIUMPHANT took the stage like golden specters from another dimension—equal parts jazz ensemble and apocalyptic cult. Their gold masks caught the venue lights in such an entrancing way that I found myself transfixed, almost hypnotized by their presence before the first note hit. And then it did—chaotic, complex, and completely overwhelming in the best way possible. Their blend of experimental black metal, dissonant jazz, and freeform structure is a mind-bending experience. Every member played with a level of precision that made the chaos feel intentional, yet still unpredictable. This wasn’t just a band performing—it was a ritual unfolding, one where we all bore witness to a sound that felt like it was warping time and space. A long-awaited personal highlight to finally cover them live.
Also—Steve, great meeting you. Let’s lock in that steak dinner next time you’re in town. I know just the place.
MORTIIS followed with a complete tonal shift—a slow burn of dark ambient and symphonic tension that soaked the Rickshaw in eerie stillness. It felt like standing alone in the ruins of a once-grand hall, haunted by echoes of past glory. Mortiis doesn’t perform; he conjures, and on this night, his spell was rich, cinematic, and beautifully uncomfortable in the most haunting way.
And then came MAYHEM. The legends. The architects of Norwegian black metal madness. For two full hours, they held the Rickshaw in a vice grip. The crowd? Insatiable. It didn’t matter if you were a veteran of the scene or a newcomer—once they took the stage, everything else ceased to exist. They came armed with a devastating setlist that spanned eras, igniting chaos with classics and dragging us deeper into darkness with newer offerings. Attila Csihar’s stage presence was otherworldly—equal parts high priest and unhinged prophet—his voice cutting through fog and fire with inhuman resonance. Whether he was cloaked in tattered robes or extending arms like a conductor of the apocalypse, it was impossible to look away. The band behind him was just as lethal: tight, calculated, and ruthless. They weren’t just playing songs—they were opening portals. This was Mayhem in their purest form: fierce, theatrical, and absolutely relentless.
This wasn’t just a concert. It was an experience—an auditory possession that left us all stumbling out into the night, ears ringing, hearts pounding, and minds a little more twisted than before.
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