throwthehorns
Credit: Nichola Nichols

Music Towers is bleary-eyed and sore from the night before, so the sun is well over the yard arm (or it would be, if we could see it through the clouds that have gathered over Donnington overnight) before we see our first band. Chimaira might not be subtle – “This song is called 'Pure Hatred'” – but when you’re curing a hangover with the hair of the dog for the third day running, they’re the kind of bone-rattling battery that’s a perfect way to start the day.

Rolling over to the Dimebag stage, if somehow Unearth could be distilled into an actual, really-real metal, they’d be lead, iron, or one of those other dense, heavy metals. It’s a wonder the sheer weight of their sound doesn’t cause the second stage and the surrounding area to sink into the magma beneath the Earth’s crust.

The exhibition in rock-hard metal is carried on by Devil Driver. “I want to see nothing but open land,” is frontman Dez Fafara’s curious demand as the band start playing ‘The Wretched’ towards the end of their set. At first there are confused looks, but the tiny vocalist sticks to his guns, and manages to open up something cataclysmic.

Seriously, have a look:

Now that is what metal festivals are about.

Music Towers rushes back to the main stage for Mastodon, who are crashing over the massed spectators like a series of tidal waves of riffage . The force of the assault is matched only by Lamb of God, who follow them onstage. LoG’s t-shirts all over the festival site have “Pure American Metal” emblazoned across the back – and that’s precisely what they play. Its metal done like the yanks do fast food, like the yanks do motorcycles, and how the yanks do movies –greasier, grimier and just plain bigger than their European counterparts. And like hamburgers, Harley Davidson’s and Hollywood, we can’t get enough of it over here.

Doubling back to the Dimebag stage, Paradise Lost are trudging through the tail end of their set, treating it the festival like it should be grateful to have them, rather than the other way around. Thankfully Napalm Death are soon on to clear the air. Birmingham’s nastiest should sound like a bowel cancer clearing its throat, amplified to the volume of an artillery barrage. Which is why someone needs to harpoon the sound guy for the second stage. In a tent where the sound has been spot-on all weekend, Napalm Death start sounding tinny and over-distorted. By the time they’ve settled into their skull-crunching groove with ‘Suffer The Children’, the brevity of their 30 minute set is working against them. That and Barney Greenway’s demented caveman dancing.


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