Morbidfest 2025 crashed into B90 with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball dipped in sulphur. The shipyard district already has its ghosts, but tonight it felt like more of them came out to watch. Five bands, six hours, and a crowd split beautifully between veterans who lived through the earliest days of death metal and younger wolves hungry for something raw.
Ater And Nightfall, Lost To The Clock
I arrived late, fighting time harder than any moshpit. Whatever the universe threw at me on the way, it won, I missed Ater and Nightfall entirely. The frustration was real. Two bands I wanted to see, swallowed by the clock before I even stepped through the doors of B90.
But the second I walked in, the darkness hit me first, a stage lit like an underworld corridor, deep shadows, cold tones, and a sense of something rumbling just under the surface. If I had to miss the opening strikes, at least I landed right in the heart of the storm. The sound alone was enough to pull me in by the throat.
Suicidal Angels, Thrash In Its Favourite Clothes
Replacing Massacre on this tour, Suicidal Angels took the stage with that familiar Greek fury. Raw riffs, tight rhythms, nothing softened or polished. The lights were low, the colours almost swallowed, but it worked, the gloom wrapped around the music like it belonged there.
The drums bulldozed the mix, the guitars occasionally submerged, but the energy was impossible to deny. Their music flipped the room inside out. Thrash doesn’t need ideal conditions. It just needs bodies, sweat and the will to move.
Terrorizer, Pure Detonation
Then the avalanche hit. Terrorizer walked on and simply rewired the room. No warm-up, no easing into it, just the blunt force of “World Downfall” delivered with the conviction of a band who knows they helped shape the spine of grind itself.
Pete Sandoval’s drumming rattled the core of my cells. David Vincent’s bass rolled like a landslide. Brian Werner barked with a venom that sliced straight through the concrete.
Meanwhile, Richie Brown stitched the chaos together with razor-tight, surgical riffing, a precision strike that pushed the entire assault into overdrive.
This is where the night truly shifted for me. The riffs gave me goosebumps, the sheer vibration of the drums shook something primal awake. People who don’t get this music love to call it depressive or evil. But standing there, wrapped in distortion and vibration, all I felt was joy. Loud, overwhelming, stupid joy. This is the part of extreme metal people never talk about, how alive it makes you.
Possessed, The Architects Return To Their Blueprint
Possessed closed the evening with “Seven Churches” performed in full. It felt alive, volatile, almost ceremonial, like watching the blueprint of death metal being redrawn in real time.
Jeff Becerra rolled onto the stage with that unmistakable grin, the kind a man wears when he’s survived far more than he ever expected to. And the joy was real. You could see it in every line he delivered, every interaction with the crowd. He was treating them as something still breathing and sharp. Even after all those years.
For me, this set was simply a delight. The sound wrapped itself around the room with that raw, slightly warped edge that makes early death metal so compelling. The riffs had that rough brilliance you only get from bands who helped invent the language.
Jeff’s happiness on stage was contagious. It softened the brutality just enough to make the whole set feel strangely human, almost tender in its own feral way. A reminder that behind all the chaos, this music is built on passion, survival and the stubborn will to keep creating noise against every possible obstacle.
By the time the final notes dissolved, we were close, or past midnight – I don’t remember – and somewhere deep inside a rare kind of hapiness. B90 wasn’t packed, which turned out to be a blessing: more room to move, less people waiting to get a beer, space for pits to breathe without losing limbs.
Old ghosts, young wolves, clashing styles, shared fury. That was Morbidfest in B90.
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