Review: Trivium, O2 Academy

Record Store Day looms, and the stock room is jammed, piles and piles of the black gold threatening to fall and bury me in their extremely limited, yet very expensive embrace. I rush to finish one more box, my stickering hand a blur, agonisingly aware of the ticking clock. It’s Power Trip tonight. At the O2 Academy. Supporting Trivium unfortunately, but still more than worth a look. I’ve had last years Nightmare Logic on repeat, and it’s a refreshingly nostalgia free return to the glory days of thrash and it rocks. So, I down tools, grab a can of Hop House from our inhouse bar and hotfoot it over to the Academy.

Getting into this venue is akin to entering the USA these days. Unsmiling security guards flank a huge human metal detector and my heart gives a quick judder as I realise I haven’t had my weekly pocket clearout. I’m not worried that I’m carrying something illegal, but as a busy dad of two they are usually full of interesting items that could be a little embarrassing for the large man in front of me to paw through. Luckily though, the 2 blister packs of Paracetamol I’m carrying divert his attention, so I’m not forced to explain what I’m doing carrying a toddlers sock, some pink hairclips and big brown lump of homemade playdough. Result.

Right, I’m in. Sounds like it’s between bands, so perfect timing. I go straight to the merch table, and resigned to the idea I’m about to lose £25, pick out a good looking tee. Ask the guy how big the large comes up. “Pretty big” is the helpful answer, so I settle up, get a beer and head upstairs to the balcony. The place is sold out and I want a decent perch where I can survey the stage, the pit and maybe grab the odd photo. Denied at every turn, it seems every spot, from left to right is filled with a Trivium branded female, their respective blokes forming an unbreakable second row of broad backs and unwelcoming expressions. Not wishing to promote the idea that the atmosphere isn’t great, and that punters aren’t friendly, but people get very tribal about their space at some indoor metal gigs, and the almost palpable yet unspoken murmur of “no space here mate” is like an invisible hand pushing me back. Nevertheless, I finally settle on a spot, far left and almost off in the wings that commands an impressive view of the stage (assuming of course, that I stand at my full extension, on the balls of my feet).

The rumble of feedback and the swelling roar from below suggests imminent action so I sip my pint and try to take a snap or two as Power Trip stride out and crunch into their first track. The pit swirls and the couple in front of me French kiss deeply, obscuring my view, so I raise my phone high for a blind shot (hoping that the lovers in my way don’t think I’m documenting their passion). I’m trying to peer round them to get a good look at the Texan thrashers, when, oh no…..

Slowly I come down off my tiptoes as if on hydraulics as the colossal weight of my faux pas hits me; It’s not Power Trip. That angular, spiky downtuned sound is of course the intro to My World by Code Orange.

Damn. Missed them.

Oh well. Nevermind. The Pittsburgh 5 piece get straight down to business and the heaving stalls start whirling to their unique blend of mathy, stop-start-groove metal. I’m not familiar with their material. I like it and it has impact, but it must be frustrating for them as the sound is a little quiet and subdued. Doesn’t stop them all charging around the (admittedly) small area of stage they have, getting in each others way and gurning at the crowd. They go down well. If there is the occasional riff that sounds borrowed from Pantera, SOAD and the like, I’ve no problem with that.

I head to the bar to avoid the queues during the chug of their final track Dream 2, only to walk straight into the iron barrier of a security guards’ forearm. I’ve tried to walk through a “hazardous area”. I can’t get past. Two guards form a circular barrier of crowd control, one of whom has a torch in her mouth, pointing down at a huge pile of steaming vomit. It is literally half a metre wide. A member of the bar team is inside this enclosure, shaking powder over the undulating mess, and then in a perfect blend of practice and military efficiency  swiftly scoops and sweeps it into a plastic lined dustpan, as myself and quite a few punters watch transfixed. The second the pan clicks shut, the torch snicks off and all three melt into the throng leaving no trace of any unpleasantness. Textbook clean up.

Maiden’s Run to The Hills played crushingly loud over the PA is an inspired piece of intro tape. The whole place is singing along, people are smiling and there are some guys on the front barrier moshing hard, but the gap between it fading and the headliners taking the stage lets the energy lag too much, and the effect is wasted. Shame.

I’ve never really liked Trivium, despite having seen them a few times at various festivals. The whole “grip and pull” style of emoting over galloping double bass and generic Metallica riffs, never worked for me, and any frontman who sticks his tongue out at the audience as often as Matt Heafy is not to be trusted.

Jokes aside, they play really well and the crowd is into it and judging by the roars, go some way to fulfilling a fans dream setlist while also pushing their latest record. I’m not so comfortable though, when they whip up some latent tribalism/xenophobia by inciting the floor to top other crowds on the tour. Paris is currently in top spot, we are told, which causes a disappointing rumble of booing. Pit goes wild though, so yay. They play for ages and ages, which as a fan is to be commended, but for me it starts to bore, and I’m relieved when they bang out crowd favourites Pull Harder on the Strings of Your Martyr and In Waves to close the show in suitably anthemic fashion.

They were quite good. And they have good songs. It’s just not for me. And I’m grumpy because I missed Power Trip.

On my walk home, I get halfway before I realise that the pile of salad on my kebab conceals the fact that I’ve only been given half of the Lamb Shish that I paid for. I can’t help but feel it’s a very apt analogy for the evening I’ve had.