Avatar at o2 Manchester Academy w/Alien Weaponry & Witch Club Satan - 15/02/26

On February 15, Manchester Academy transformed into a swirling pit of face paint fury, Māori haka firepower, and a coven of Norwegian witches, as Avatar’s Don’t Go In The Forest tour rolled into town with the uncompromising force of Alien Weaponry and the ritualistic chaos of Witch Club Satan in tow. From the first flicker of stage lights, it was clear this was never going to be a normal night.

Witch Club Satan I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction Witch Club Satan were going to get when they walked out at Manchester Academy. I’d already spoken to someone in the queue outside who said he’d come just to see them. Within minutes, though, it was obvious this wasn’t going to be a normal support slot. The Norwegian trio didn’t so much open the show as drag the room into a strange, incense-lit ritual that felt equal parts black metal, protest art and theatre.

Their set lurched between chaos and eerie stillness. At points the instruments dropped away completely, leaving high, piercing screams and spoken-word passages that felt like death metal a cappella, unsettling poems delivered straight into the crowd’s face. One piece, “Mother”, landed like a haunted sermon, all tension and atmosphere before the guitars tore back in.

Musically it was savage: shrill vocal attacks, filthy guitar tones, drums that felt like they were collapsing in on themselves, and a bass sound that punched through the room. But it wasn’t just about noise. Audience interaction felt like part of the ritual, the band locking eyes with people in the pit and pulling them into the moment. They looked completely committed too, surrounded by tribal textures, homemade headwear, and stark naturalistic imagery that made it impossible to look away. Shock hung in the air at first, but curiosity quickly turned into support.

Alien Weaponry

After that eerie confrontation, Alien Weaponry strode onstage and flipped the switch from ritual to riot. The New Zealand trio wasted no time. Thick, groove-laden riffs and laser-tight drumming snapped the Academy into full movement. There’s something seriously powerful about how they blend modern thrash bite with rhythms and cadences drawn from their Māori heritage, and starting with a full haka made it all the more dramatic.

The set was stacked with favourites. “Rū Ana Te Whenua” rumbled through the floorboards, all low-end groove and clenched-fist energy, while “Te Riri o Tāwhirimātea” whipped the pit into a frenzy with its sharp dynamic riffs. “Mau Moko” and “Taniwha” carried a darker, more atmospheric weight, the chants and pounding rhythms locking the crowd into something that felt almost primal. When “Kai Tangata” hit, the reaction was instant, bodies crashing together, a few surfers going up, and heads snapping forward in unison as the band delivered it with absolute precision.

What really lands live is their conviction. The vocals move between English and te reo Māori with total confidence, and even if you don’t understand every word, the intent is crystal clear. There’s pride there, and defiance too, themes of identity, history and resistance wrapped inside riffs built to move a room. It’s heavy music with roots, and that gives it extra punch.

Avatar

By this point, the night was already a contender for gig of the year and Avatar hadn’t even taken to the stage yet. It was instantly clear this wasn’t just another metal gig. The stage production Avatar had cooked up was staggering: lights slicing through the darkness like search beams, grotesque carnival props looming at every corner, and a drum kit that literally tore itself in half and glided across the stage like some possessed machine. Subtle? Not remotely. Spectacular? Completely.

They emerged from the split drum kit like some possessed version of The Traitors, Johannes Eckerström in a cloak and holding a lantern as they opened with new track “Captain Goat”.

Born from the teenage minds of John Alfredsson and Jonas Jarlsby before Johannes Eckerström, Henrik Sandelin and Simon Andersson completed the lineup, Avatar have evolved into one of metal’s most inventive live forces. They orchestrate chaos onstage with a full-blown metal machine at their base. Pulling cuts from their latest record Don’t Go In The Forest and unleashing fan-worshipped anthems like “Hail the Apocalypse”, the set was a masterclass in controlled madness.

Frontman Johannes Eckerström is the ringleader of this unholy circus, his voice flipping from feral, throat-ripping howls to soaring, almost tender melodies without breaking a sweat. “Captain Goat”, “The Dirt I’m Buried In”, “Smells Like a Freakshow” and “Hail the Apocalypse” landed like hammer blows, each one bigger than the last. There’s savage thrash energy colliding with theatrical harmonies, and somehow it all locks together perfectly.

The musicianship was absurdly tight. Even the bassist had a mic stand with a kickstart. At one point the drummer commanded a mass sing-along with nothing but raised sticks and sheer presence. Later, Eckerström vaulted onto a piano mid-set, hammering out a strangely delicate passage that felt both eerie and mesmerising before the band plunged back into glorious noise.

Avatar exist in the sweet spot between grotesque beauty, bone-crushing brutality and slightly camp humour. Like bastard sons of Alice Cooper, their shows aren’t your average concert, more like twisted stage productions, with Eckerström constantly baiting and charming the crowd, pulling them further into the metal circus spectacle with every grin and every snarl.

When they finally stepped offstage, the audience wouldn’t have it. The band toyed with them, teasing how much more they had left in the tank. Three final tracks erupted in a blaze of strobes and a shower of pink confetti, with “Hail the Apocalypse” ending the night in delirious technicolour mayhem. It was surreal. It was overwhelming. It was utterly essential.

This was a meticulously crafted assault of theatre and thunder, fusing grand ambition with pure metallic ferocity. An unmissable spectacle from start to finish.