Live Review: Thursday at Roadburn 2025
Posted in Reviews on April 18th, 2025 by JJ Koczan
Not too much wandering for today, but I did check out the Archiving Heaviness showcase downstairs at the 013 full of the cultural detritus of past editions. There were even a couple old Weirdo Canyon Dispatch issues in there. It’s nice to think of that as being a part of this whole thing when it was. It was a ‘zine in the truest sense of being a labor of love, and apart from the fact that it was about the fest, I think that’s what tied it most into the fold of Roadburn.
I missed the opening of the art gallery by minutes, but got to see Walter say a few words to the 
first-timers meeting, welcoming them to the festival and encouraging them to interact with each other, go off schedule and wander, and so on. I also signed the guestbook. The meeting was downstairs at the 013 at the bar near the Archiving Heaviness displays. Walter’s right, of course, about all of it, and it’s the most Roadburn thing ever that the guy who started the fest would take time 25-plus years later to greet the people who’ve never been here before. Roadburn is a lot. It can be overwhelming. Walter radiates a warmth and kindness few people know. When he welcomes you, you stay welcomed.
Xiu Xiu were going on up at the Koepelhal, on the The Terminal stage, but I hadn’t had endnote half a meal since Tuesday, so I grabbed a few slices of kaas and some greens for nutritional reconciliation. Lee and I had come to the office this morning to put some shortb text in the TMSQ app that has the schedule and all that info, and that went quickly enough that I’d gone back to the hotel to sit quietly for a bit, nod off, answer email, etc. I was dragging before food. Headache, a little nauseous. But the thing about Roadburn is no matter how crowded it gets, there are always pockets and places where you can be. If it feels like the whole world is in one place and the line’s out the door and it feels like too much, all you ever have to do is step back, realize that, and find a corner, or a chair, or a bench, whatever it is, and take the minute you need.
For me, that’s usually up on the balcony of the 013, though of course there are times where that’s packed as well. You make it work.
In the main hall, Costin Chioreanu’s animated film ‘The Hunter’ screened to open
the day. Oranssi Pazuzu were soon to go on to perform last Fall’s Muuntautuja in its entirety. The one led very well into the other. I remember when Oranssi Pazuzu were here last, circa 2012 or thereabouts — Archiving Heaviness has a wall outside Koepelhal with all the years’ lineups printed on it; I should check that — they were at Het Patronaat, and it was a very big deal. Line down the block. Good to know the ensuing decade-plus hasn’t dulled the reception. I took one song’s worth of pictures in the photo pit, and made my way up to the balcony, because when engaging with intermittently furious groundbreaking cosmic experimentalist black metal, I’ll take the bird’s eye view anytime.
No doubt I was in the minority among the room for not knowing the album, but I was fine hearing a thing for the first time and appreciating the unexpected twists that have helped the band become a generational presence, like the intro to the first song sounding like Nine Inch Nails’ “Mr. Self-Destruct,” or how prone they were to locking in a bigger groove when not channeling dissonance or shred, or, more likely both. I don’t know that they’ll ever be my ‘thing’ as far as that goes, but that didn’t keep it from being awesome.
Spent a few minutes in my own head sitting upstairs on the balcony. Shit self-talk, just tearing myself down because I worry about THINGS and it’s a terrifying moment. Thinking of seeing Dool on the big stage last year, feeling that empowerment resonating, was restorative. Oranssi Pazuzu are on a different trip entirely, and I didn’t expect the 
same experience twice because I’ve been to Roadburn before and I know better, but there was a sense of freedom conveyed alongside so much catharsis, and I tried my best to home in on that. Also this weird thing had been happening where every time I sat in a place for more than five minutes, no matter what else was going on or its volume level related to human tolerances, I started to fall asleep. I assure you that’s not a dig on the set.
Oranssi Pazuzu finished droned out and fair enough. I thought about popping over to the Next Stage for Toby Driver’s new trio, Alora Crucible, but there was a line outside the room by the time I got there, so I broke off downstairs for a water and then was back up to the Main Stage for the coming of Kylesa. I don’t know how many times I saw them during their ‘original run’ in various lineups and constructions of the band, mostly because I was drunk and it was a long time ago (having a archive of nearly every show I’ve seen in the last 16 years has its advantages in not relying on my memory; Kylesa and my affection for their work pre-date this site), but with Phillip Cope and Laura Pleasants reigniting the band now completed by journeyman metaller Roy Mayorga (Ministry, Stone Sour, Soulfly, etc.), who hits hard enough to remind you Kylesa once had two drummers, and NY-based artist John John Jesse (Nausea) on bass, they were a must-see for me. Something of a silly feeling, being nostalgic for the aughts, but it was 20 years ago. Brains are ridiculous.
Kylesa were last at Roadburn in 2010, but I missed
them because volcano. One assumes the irony of “Keep moving/Don’t look back” as a signature hook at a reunion show isn’t lost on Kylesa, but never mind that shit, here comes Mongo, and in this case, Mongo is the guitar tones of Pleasants and Cope at the forefront of this band. And hey, sometimes a path brings you somewhere you’ve been before. With punk in their metallic hearts as it always was, Kylesa renewed their individual blend of elements, influences and craft, dug into some of the rawer ends of their catalog as well as the later and proggier fare, and though it was their first Euro show in more than a decade, I don’t think it took long for them to remind the room who they were and what they were about. That space was packed and rightly so. Kylesa was always just a little different than everybody else, sound-wise. Cope and Pleasants sharing vocals was always part of it, for sure, but for me it goes to the shape of their riffing and their ability to take what seem like straightforward ideas like “here’s a fuggin’ thrash riff in your face,” and beat them into more complex shapes.
As to what their going-forward plans might be, I haven’t a clue, but there’s life in them, and where I can think of an act like Jesus and Mary Chain, who were here for a reunion last year — different band and context, but still — and it felt pretty hollow. Kylesa, on the other hand, were always about the soul and the charge put into their songs, and they remain so. And the lineup, in the parlance of 2023, is fire. But of course it is. Nodding heads front to back. A mosh opened up. Dudes were dancing on the balcony. Hail hail.
They closed with “Running Red,” which, yes. I lurched my sad physicality up to Koepelhal when they were done 
to catch Faetooth at The Terminal. The Los Angeles three-piece self-tag as ‘Fairy Doom,’ and I wouldn’t argue if I could. Bringing together doomed nod, sludge nod and, indeed, some more nod, their dual-vocal approach moved between harsh and cleans, and the songs didn’t want for dynamic, but the overarching impression was heavy and dug-in. I think this is their first time in Europe? I don’t know that, so don’t quote it, but yes I just checked and it’s true. Quote away, I guess. In any case, they drew a massive crowd to bask in the largesse of fuzz, and the darker shoegaze side of what they were doing was balanced by both the screams and the tonal heft. They didn’t look like a band to fuck with. Someone yelled out they were beautiful before they played and I was embarrassed to be a dude. Cringe shit.
Speaking of, walking back to the 013 after Faetooth, there was a street preacher in a tshirt with a cross on it yelling about god in Dutch. He started in on me and I let him go a few seconds before I told him I didn’t even speak his language and to fuck off. He switched to English to thank me and say god bless you, to which my shouted reply was “only if he gives me a handjob first — again, fuck you.” I could live a thousand years and there would be no time in my life for that fucking garbage. I was completely lucid. I didn’t hit him.
An abrasive noise wash after that kind of adrenaline spike turned out to be just the thing, and after breaking a kick drum pedal right off the bat, like, with the first kick, The Body and Dis Fig tapped electronic and organic malevolence. I knew it would be heavy. But feeling the bass wub in my chest was nonetheless affecting. There was a big part of me that was ready to call it a night — arguably it was still evening — but I was scared to go back to the hotel and crash too hard, lest I
sleep then instead of overnight. I had screwed up Wednesday so much in how I did and didn’t sleep that I’d been feeling it all day, but the lonely conscious fragment of my mind knew the room was a trap. Brutal noise, drone, thud and melodic-vocal cutthrough it is. Roadburn means I’m lucky to be alive. I can sleep later. I hope.
I hid my face in my arms at one point to get away from the strobe. They were droning at the time and yeah, I kinda nodded off. That’s how it was today. Adrenaline and lots of coffee were a help, likewise good music, but at no point in the day did I feel like I was at my best or even functioning beyond the basics and yelling at that jeezaroo. I know that’s not rock and roll. It’s not cool. It’s not positive. It’s not hey I’m here and let’s be an influencer and here’s some content isn’t it contenty? It’s real life. If you’re going to be a lifer at this shit or anything else, including just life itself, some days are going to be easier than others. Did not the Ben Ward sayeth, “Some you win, some you lose?” Well I won today outright, even if I had to pull myself by my collar to do it.
Back at the room afterward, I put in a video call to home, got to talk to The Patient Mrs. and The Pecan, which was a treat, I’d gotten myself one more espresso from the machine in the lobby of the hotel, of which I drank about half in a single sip and poured out the rest. Yes, absolutely for all my Nespresso homies. You know who you are, you classy bastards.
Sorting photos and finishing the writing were precursors to screwing off and going to bed, so that was the order of it. Tomorrow and Saturday nights are more packed for me, so resting while I can while my body gave me fewer and fewer choices in the matter anyway made sense. In the end, I slept like a bastard for like nine hours, which I very much hope brings me closer to whatever vision of ‘caught up’ might apply.
Thanks for reading. A couple more pics after the jump.
