By Monk

There can be no doubt that few, if any, other festivals are as committed to or invested in the cultivation and development grassroots metal scene quite as heavily as Bloodstock, as evinced by this annual showcase of the finest rising talent, which this year alone offers the invaluable opportunity for bands from 30 different locations across the Über Kingdom, and beyond, to burst out of their native environments and onto at least one, and hopefully more, bigger stages. 

In this particular wee corner of the Überverse, the Metal 2 The Masses contest is now into its second decade, with yours truly having been involved in the judging process since the beginning. Over the course of nine weeks, 24 bands had literally been quartered, slowly but surely whittled down to the half dozen who would lay it on the line this fine May evening. Now, normally at this final stage the judges step aside, as Bloodstock chief booker Simon Hall traverses the Irish Sea to cast down his final judgement; but, this year, the big lad decided not to make the trip and instead place his trust in those five darkened souls who had overseen the process to date… Ah well, in for a penny in for a pound and all that shizzness…

Before we get down to the business end of tonight’s proceedings, in terms of the six bands battling it out for that coveted slot on Catton Hall’s infamous New Blood Stage, please permit me a few sentences once again to reflect on this year’s competition as an overall entity.

And, yet again, what a competition it was… Being a part of the judging panel is always a huge honour and privilege. It is also a massive challenge: after all, at the very minimum it takes ten weeks out of your life, spending five hours every Friday night for two and a half months knowing that you could be holding the future prospects of the artists laying their souls in front of you in the palm of your hands, deciding whether or not they go on to greater things or sulk back down that dark back street outside the venue to go and consider their very futures in this cut-throat business (as one band ultimately and unfortunately did, deciding to knock things on the head…).

Let me make one thing clear. This may be a competition but, in the eyes of myself and everyone involved (and I know I include the top echelons of the Bloodstock hierarchy in this), everyone who participates in this battle is a winner. Every single artist gives everything they have to doing the best they can do. They pour their blood, their hearts, their souls and, above all, their belief into their performances, leaving everything they have behind them. And, for that, each and every person who stands on that Voodoo stage has, and always will have, my utmost admiration and respect. You make my job extremely difficult, but I love you all for it…

So, down to the business in hand and the final titanic clash of the six bands who had successfully battered, battled and rampaged their way into this climactic showdown… And, once again it’s a diverse and eclectic bill with the running order, as ever, drawn at random just an hour before the doors opened and the sold out horde of local metalheads ascended Voodoo’s narrow and well-worn stairs to gorge on the feast laid on for their delectation and enjoyment.

The #luckofthedraw means the onerous task of kicking off proceedings falls to proggie trio Airies Air, who definitely have been one of the pleasantly pleasing surprise packages of this year’s contest.

Weirldly reminding me of early era Rush, they fall at the heavier end of the prog spectrum, especially in terms of their big thick bass lines, which drive a collection of songs which have deeply personal, emotive and philosophical yet accessible lyrical themes, with opener ‘The Wedge’ addressing neurological degeneration and ‘Elsewhere’ the negative aspects of the refugee experience (of which their frontman has first-hand knowledge). A band whose progress I definitely will be monitoring.

Things definitely take a darker and heavier direction with Merys, another of those “out of nowhere” bands that characterize M2TM every year. Their brand of post-metal gothic noir darkwave, emphatically conducted by their keyboard player, has a dank, brooding, apocalyptic feel that would not be out of place at the likes of the Whitby Goth Weekender.

However, as far as Bloodstock is concerned, they make one fatal error, and that is to start off with a cover, albeit an almost unrecognizble one to all but the most astute of Eighties pop-tuned ears, in the form of Visage’s ‘Fade To Grey’.

The phrase “this is more fucking like it” implants itself fairly and squarely in the middle of my thoughts as Shortest Straw waste no time in, erm, laying waste to the now packed-out room with their frenetic and furious Fit For And Autopsy/Whitechapel vibing deathcore, opening up a pit to full effect by the end of their second song.

My only complaint is that their vocalist, who has an immensely impressive range of cleans, growls and pig squeals in his mix, needs to do a bit less talking between songs, but he more than makes amends for this when he dives not into but onto the crowd and surfs his way around the room and back to the stage without dropping a syllable. Fucking intense stuff and another young band with shit tonnes of promise. I look forward to them returning next year…

Kicking off the second half of the bill are very much the wild cards of the night. Sandwiched between the two heaviest bands, the alt-rock groove of Arc Dakota does seem a bit out of place, but they are a band who have nevertheless earned their place in the line-up through sheer determination and grit, especially on the part of Olga, who once again proves to be both the driving force and focal point, especially with her incredible voice, which is capable of sending shivers down your spine when she really lets rip, as she does on undoubted set highlight, and current single, ‘Not My Time To Die‘.

Next up, the band who were admittedly the bookies’ odds-on favourites before they’d even struck a note, and a band who epitomize the ethos and spirit of this competition, having progressed from last year’s raw newbies to one of the most devastating forces on the Irish scene at the moment.

Microtonal defiantly grab the night by the balls, rip them off and stuff them straight down our throats. Marty McAllister immediately shows how he has progressed from the over-talkative bundle of nerves I first saw 15 or so months ago into a defiantly confident frontman, as he leads things from the middle of the seething pit before their first song has even reached its halfway point.

This is the dogs bollocks: tight, confident, in your face, solid brutality from start to finish; old school deathly thrash delivered in new school style with shit tonnes of postive attitude and at an unrelenting pace that leaves no room for niceties. Last year may have been their baptism of fire (also the title of their debut album), but 2026 is their coming of age.

So, how in the name of all the metal gods do you follow that and close out the night? Well, with a dose of heavy instrumental prog-infused doom/space rock of course, courtesy of Muted Tweed. To be brutally honest, while their sound is captivating, cinematic in its scope and tighter than a choirboy’s buttocks, and would be extremely well suited to a late evening slot on of the lesser stages at the likes of ArcTanGent, it’s something of an anticlimax. But, I won’t rule out signing up for the passenger list the next time they sail into the dark waters of Belfast’s back streets…

But, at the of this long road, there can be only one “victor” and on this occasion the laurel wreaths are, as widely expected and by way of a unanimous fought by the five-man judging panel, deservedly bestowed upon the heads of Microtonal, who undoubtedly will stomp the muddied field of Catton Hall more than a few new ones at some stage over the weekend of 6-9 August.

As I said at the top of this piece, everyone who enters this competition is a winner in their own right. But, the biggest winner is the Belfast heavy metal scene, as evinced by the fact that, for the third year in a row, not just tonight but almost all of the six heats and three semi-finals had the “sold out” signs on the door days in advance, itself a defiant middle finger to the mainstream media and the corporate conglomerates who do their best to ignore its living, breathing vibrancy. And long may that raised finger, and the horns (well, we have two hands after all) be defiantly held aloft.

Long live heavy fucking metal \m/ Now, where’s me wellies and that promised barrel of Stowford?