Milwaukee Metal Fest 2025
POSTED:: May 22, 2025
FILED UNDER:: Concert Review, Concerts, General
Review by Steve Lampiris
Part 1: Overview
More than anything else, there’s a unique sense of camaraderie within heavy metal that becomes apparent during a metal show, and especially during the Milwaukee Metal Fest this past weekend. Suicide Silence’s Eddie Hermida—who, now with long gray hair and beard, looks like Deathcore Gandolf—made that clear during their Friday performance: “It doesn’t matter what kind of metalhead you are,” he said. “We’ll pick you up if you fall.” (You’d think that scribbling in a notepad or stretching your legs would be granted the same leeway as anything else, but I found out that it tends, instead, to generate the same flinty-eyed skepticism usually saved for cops.)
That familial sentiment was echoed roughly an hour later by the festival’s savior and owner Jamey Jasta: “Milwaukee Metal Fest is community,” he declared during his set with Stormbreeders of Death. With that inclusiveness comes a general politeness and deference of and towards metalheads by excusing each other when trying to get through, or complementing a fellow metalhead on the goriness of their t-shirt.
To that end, MMF, in its third year since being reactivated, was again a resounding success. This is a gathering where every (rhetorical) question asked of the audience by a given band would, if written, require all caps and an interrobang. Everything is purposefully outsized. To wit: the subculture of metal t-shirts is itself a kind of pageantry, and worthy of a doctoral thesis. The grotesqueness has become—and perhaps always was—a friendly arms race: “Oh, you think a goblin bursting through some dude’s chest is sick? I’ll see your gaping chest wound, and I’ll raise you this other dude being eaten alive by demonic cows.”
A few quick observations regarding t-shirts I saw this. Oldest tour: a tie between the 2015 US treks by Cannibal Corpse and Faith No More. Most obscure band: The Chats, (note to Steve – WMSE plays the Chats all the time :)) an Aussie punk band I had to look up. Best slogan: “The only walls we build are walls of death,” by Municipal Waste. Silliest: a Grateful Dead print with dancing bears of various colors. Most outlandish: Cradle of Filth’s Vestal Masturbation (a.k.a. the “Jesus is a C****” shirt), a piece of merch so infamous that it has its own Wikipedia entry.
Thus, outside of maybe Summerfest, MMF offers the city’s finest people-watching. You’ve got brightly colored hair—teal being the most popular option, with blue being a close second—and you’ve got quasi-paradoxes—cutting off your (shirt) sleeves to show off your (tattoo) sleeves, or societal outsiders meeting together—that are best handled via reluctant acceptance. Process, then move on.
So, OK, fine: the Milwaukee Metal Festival is a carnival of over-the-top maximalisms that, taken all together, become a sensory overload pretty much instantly. And that’s kinda the point. Metal, especially in a live setting, is enthralling because it overwhelms and cuts you to your core. Metal’s excitement, in other words, is the musical equivalent of an exposed nerve ending, activating any and all lizard-brain cells in one’s head in pursuit of some primitive release.
But MMF wouldn’t be the cleansing ritual it is—or, I guess, function at all—without sharp management. Impressively, there were no real delays all weekend, and the latest start was maybe ten minutes. The only thing tighter than the organization was the black skinny jeans seen throughout the whirl-wind three days. Naturally, being tightly-run is a prerequisite for any festival, but it’s especially important here: MMF is, undoubtedly, a superb sample-platter of metal, for n00b and veteran alike to enjoy. Every strain and sub-genre is represented at some point. You can—and, indeed, are encouraged—to binge. Which brings us back to Suicide Silence. Their most popular tantrum, a song called “You Only Live Once,” offered a succinct thesis of the Fest, and metal as a whole: “You only live once, so just go f****ing nuts.”
Friday
The day of surprises and rarities. The night’s headliner, Down, were the obvious draw. Phil Anselmo’s practically a patron saint in the metal community. (Side note: that’s probably why his other band, a hyper-speed tech-death outfit called SCOUR, was well-attended on Sunday, though not well-liked by some. I overheard someone complaining that they were “terrible,” because it “isn’t like Pantera.”) Anyway, southern-friend sludge metal from a supergroup played at ear-bleeding levels FTW.
More noteworthy, however, were the preceding acts. Chimaira—whose appearances since their breakup have had the consistency of a drunk monkey chucking darts—opted, somewhat disappointingly, to set aside some of their best(-known) songs in favor of deep cuts and early material, including the unearthed fossil from the Clinton administration called “Divinations.” The S.O.D. “tribute” act Stormbreeders of Death, meanwhile, featured a trio of metal legends—Scott Ian, Danny Lilker, and Jamey Jasta—and a cameo by Freddy Krueger boogie-ing all over the stage in a fascinating display of Lynchian surrealism. Yet, the real attention-grabber was their drummer: Ian’s 13-year-old (!) son Revel killing it for the entire set.
The silliest show of the day, and perhaps of the entire Fest, came from old-schoolers Pentagram. As a live-action cartoon, vocalist and founder Bobby Liebling offered (cheap?) amusement by swaying gently like grass in a breeze to the band’s crushing doom metal, looking as old and as frail—though not as meme-ably bug-eyed—as the very ghouls and ghosts being sung, screamed, shrieked, and shouted about all weekend.
Day One’s hidden gem was Fugitive. Basically, Power Trip with a pinch of death metal seasoning. Which makes sense, since Fugitive’s got a coupl’a PT members: guitarist Blake Ibanez and vocalist Seth Gilmore (replacing the late Riley Gale). The Fort Worth-based quintet sprinted through a no-fat set, playing like headliners that’ve been on the road for a month. Gilmore seemed in such a hurry to get from one song to the next that his between-song banter consisted of him snarling in chicken-scratch cursive. Their crowd-draw was impressive, given that (1) they played in the late afternoon, and (2) their entire catalog is eight songs, and no album. But that didn’t stop the audience from going batshit for every track, as if they were all radio hits—indeed, they went nuts for “Spheres of Virulence,” a song that was released the day before. These guys have a bright future.
The day’s most cathartic performance was, by far, Suicide Silence. They’re the face of deathcore, and the (scene-)kids came out in full-force, bringing with them the highest per capita of gauges and dreads of any crowd for the entire shindig. Their f****-it-all worldview can scan as juvenility— at one point, Hermida got the crowd to throw up middle fingers and scream “F**** everything” in unison—but what they did, really, was to reduce metal down to its atoms. Their pitch, in other words, was: “Why buy the cake and save the frosting for last, when you can just buy a tub of frosting instead?” The naked simplicity was refreshing, because teenage petulance is pretty damn satisfying when properly vented.
Saturday
The day of thrash, filled with legends like Death Angel, Demolition Hammer, and EvilDead, and current torch-bearers such as Wraith and Revocation. Of those, Revocation were the shreddiest, meaning they were the day’s most enthralling. It’s one thing to play highly technical death-thrash. It’s another to play it while growling. And it’s another-another to do those and then idiot-grin while ripping solos. (Metalface activate!) But that’s what vocalist/guitarist/founder David Davidson, rocking a mustard-yellow guitar and matching kicks, excels at. He’s clearly mastered his instrument, and was almost certainly the best guitarist of the entire Fest, but in no way did he look bored playing. Watching him shred was simply a joy because he’s one of the few who can make techy material look cool.
The thrashiest, though, set came from the mighty Exodus, whose steamrolling performance yelled at bullhorn-volume that they shoulda been the headliner. (Apologies to Black Label Society, and to Zakk Wylde, who still plays wearing a kilt and with his guitar at an 80-degree angle.) Exodus haven’t aged or become rusty at all, instead sounding rejuvenated from Rob Dukes’s return. He was always the better vocalist because he uses his whole body to vomit-bark their declarations of war. “I’m glad to be back up here, motherf*****s,” he asserted early on, and the crowd agreed enthusiastically. (Dukes’s favorite word seemed to be “motherf******r,” and its peppered usage became oddly endearing by show’s end.) The band’s goal, as stated by Dukes, was to make it “f*****ing miserable” for people in the pit, and for “you motherf******s to destroy this place.” The band and the audience accomplished both, with gleeful abandon.
But Saturday was also just fun. First up: 3 Inches of Blood. It was apparent from the crowd’s size and enthusiasm that metal fans missed the Canadian quintet. Watching Cam Pipes, their clean vocalist, sing about “metal warriors” doing swords-’n-shields stuff was just the coolest thing ever: Pipes even acted out lyrics while delivering them. (Yes, you read that correctly. Their singer, who is Rob Halford’s vocal doppelgänger, is named Pipes.) He leaned all the way into gesticulation like a true showman, even doing the “invisible oranges” gesture (defined as “the clutching gesture you make when the mighty force of metal flows through you”). Of course, the rest of the band matched his enthusiasm with their modernized take on NWOBHM, featuring twin leads and a wicked drum solo from Revocation’s Ash Pearson pulling double-duty. Being one of the few bands of the weekend offering something approaching groove or a hook, their merry performance featured more dancing than moshing, a welcome respite from the dark and the evil.
Yet, Devin Townsend mighta eked out the award for most-fun show of Day Two. Towards the end of his performance—right before “Truth,” fittingly—Heavy Devy said he’ll be taking an extended break after this tour, confirming his statement from last month. And he musta been thrilled about it, because his show was a dance party of pure joy and euphoria, complete with a wonderfully colorful light show. His adorable, aw-shucks giddiness—“I love you guys, and life is f****ing beautiful,” he proclaimed mid-way through—was delightful and intoxicating in equal measure. After the set, he stayed on-stage waving, shaking hands, throwing out guitar picks, and even gave one lucky attendee the setlist. But the high-energy material of his solo career was overshadowed by the room’s electricity when he busted out two (!!) songs from his beloved former band, Strapping Young Lad: “Love?” and “Aftermath.” If he’s truly done touring, at least for the foreseeable future, this was a helluva way to say goodbye.
Part 4: Sunday
The day of spectacle. Some of the craziest crowds were found on the final day, with top honors going to the audience for The Dillinger Escape Plan, a band whose members play their instruments with their whole bodies. They’re as spastic as their morse-code music, stomping around like Godzilla with a crippling hangover. Much of the show’s intensity, though, came from guitarist Ben Weinman and vocalist Dimitri Minakakis stage-diving during the set. They were then sucked into the crowd, and then were somehow spit back out, all while continuing to play. Weinman further stirred the pot by chucking a mic stand into the audience, which they vomited back at him. Their decision to rip through their batsh**** classic Calculating Infinity made this set the most intense performance of the entire Fest. There was simply no escape.
There was also the spectacle of anachronism in the form of Amigo the Devil, a solo act from guitarist and banjo player Danny Kiranos. His schtick is absurdist folk songs—one song involved the narrator’s struggle with coke-d**** after meeting an older woman in a bar—making his late-afternoon show the funniest of the weekend. And then there was his (purposefully?) meandering between-song banter. At one point, Kiranos observed that some audience members looked like they were “being held hostage,” and then quipped, “Must be nice to be held.” His goofiness was charming enough to win over the often-baffled crowd by the time he was done.
Arch Enemy, meanwhile, made presentation into a spectacle. Vocalist Alissa White-Gluz might be the best performer in metal, or at least in all of melo-death. Her electric-blue hair pinwheeling in time with the band’s riffage was a stunning sight by itself, but the key to their show was her command of the stage. Her movements had a ballerina-esque fluidity, complete with metal posing, flag-waving, and Elvis-esque karate kicks. Her movements suggested she was dancing with a partner only she could see. Her child-like enthusiasm elevated the enjoyment factor beyond the soaring, arena-ready songs. Oh, and she’s also mastered twirling her mic like a drumstick, a neat trick to watch. White-Gluz’s job is to entertain, and she knows it—which is to say: she’s performative in the best sense of the term.
Of course, when you talk about spectacle in metal, there’s everyone else and then there’s GWAR. Now, I could talk about how well they played—their new song “Lot Lizard” was a highlight and sat comfortably next to their comedy thrash classics—and that after forty years they’re still excellent musicians, especially in those costumes and especially-especially drumming in one of those getups. But that misses the point. If you wanna appreciate their music and musicianship, their albums are all available to enjoy.
The reason you go see GWAR—at least, what should be the reason—is what’s seen, not heard. They’re the epitome of spectacle, both within and -out of the metal community. The key to understanding GWAR and what they do is this: the only thing they take seriously is not taking anything seriously. Indeed, that was confirmed even before they went on. The pre-show music was a superb collection of pop hits and cartoon themes, with the four-song segue of “Pokémon Theme” > “Danger Zone” > “Party in the U.S.A.” > “Mother” being the most-satisfying chunk. When they did take the stage—to the audience chanting “GWAR! GWAR! GWAR!” with the uneasy zeal generally reserved for cults and campaign rallies—they set the tone by opening with “F**** This Place.”
We should probably talk about the term “troll”—as in, internet troll—then. It didn’t exist when GWAR was established four decades ago, but it is the best term for them. They sh**** on everything, even existence itself, both musically and artistically. Their brand of gleeful nihilism can be exhausting if you have a deeply-held belief about anything—politics, sex, your favorite food—and if you don’t wanna have an aneurysm, you’ve just gotta accept their “You’re f****ing stupid, and so’s your favorite thing” schtick. The paradox is that because they hate everything more or less equally, they can bring in the widest-possible audience. To wit: part of this tour’s show sees them dismember, and very likely end, Donald Trump and Taylor Swift, as if to say: “See? The Left and Right both get their hero skewered.”
The show, then, was a blur of gory mockery: playing with a baby and then chucking it offstage when the song was done; Putin being gutted and wrapped up in his own intestinal tract; Blöthar the Berserker asking the audience, “How many of you wanna f**** me?,” way too many people raising their hands, and Blöthar going, “Never mind, that’s OK”; and the return of their giant pet T-Rex Gor-Gor, and the crowd chanting “S***** my d*****” after its appearance. All of this is a (long) way of saying that it’s pretty much impossible for GWAR to make sense on paper. They’re the kind of spectacle that the phrases “you had to be there” and “you have to see to believe it” were meant for.