Last night I feasted on the atmospheric dynamism of Opeth's The Last Will And Testament tour with local prog-metal legends Caligula's Horse as openers.
I follow punters – who have been lining up outside before clogging the merch line – into Brisbane's The Fortitude Music Hall (20 November), many doing the sheeple shuffle to their weird downstairs seats.
It's not uncommon to have seated concerts these days, but still pretty damn strange to see this place fully seated. I watch fans as they take their possies. Knees are jamming into chairs, hips twisting sideways to slip into rows already full.
No, not all of us are old and decrepit. It's just so packed they've even shoved seats into the wings near the bars under the balconies. The merch line has quadrupled since I walked in and is snaking halfway back to the stage.
As the venue fills to the brim, punters are already sweating like someone left them in a parked car at noon.
Caligula's Horse - image © Clea-marie Thorne
Lights drop. Caligula's Horse walk out to a blast of hometown-love energy. Josh Griffin (drums) kicks the ignition on 'Dream The Dead' and Vallen (guitar) drops straight into it.
Jim Grey (vocals) steps to the mic, gives the crowd a calm nod, then unleashes those soaring notes like he's exhaling a storm. The guitars sprinkle into a rain that rolls in slow. Thick. Heavy. Glowing. Even seated, I feel it. A bloke to my right lifts his hands like he's praising the riff gods.
The obedient sitters last maybe half a song before developing that classic Brisbane lean-forward twitch, pretending they're cool with seating but already ready to bolt upright. Up on the balcony the rail pack is forming, bodies draped over the edge like they're waiting to be baptised by distortion.
'Bloom' flicks the switch. Bright. Hopeful. Bouncy in that clever prog way that still hits ten years later. As soon as it starts, half the standers along the wing walls are moving, hips swinging, heads bobbing. Upstairs, the balcony snaps into rhythm like a single creature with 2,000 legs.
Warm rush hits as 'Marigold' blossoms through the hall. Grey holds the long notes like he's floating while Griffin hits so clean it feels illegal in a room this sweaty. Prinsse (bass) rumbles under my seat with such force I'm sure these chairs weren't built for prog metal.
Grey tells us the next song has only ever been played on water (on a boat – he's not Jesus or Peter). 'The Ascent' arrives for its first landfall in Brisbane. Soft at first, then rising, rising, rising again.
Caligula's Horse - image © Clea-marie Thorne
A huge slow-build climb, the whole room inhaling in sync. Pockets of punters stand again, unsure if security cares. They don't. No one does. The song peaks and the balcony glows white at the edges.
Then they slam into 'Mute'. Vallen fires off lines sharp enough to draw blood. Grey hits dead centre. The whole room surges despite half of us technically sitting. A dude in the aisle windmills an invisible lasso during the chorus. Respect.
Final hit. Caligula's Horse say adios and the hometown cheer sounds like they're sending off extended family at the airport.
The lights drop to dark blue. Temperature rising. Bar staff cracking tinnies and pouring liquid amber like champions trying to keep throats from turning to sand.
Opeth - image © Clea-marie Thorne
A smidge later than expected, Opeth walk out. Slow. Regal. Mikael Åkerfeldt (vocals/guitar) gives a nod that feels like a warning. A quiet little smirk. Then Fredrik Åkesson (guitar) brings in '§1' with warm, murky heaviness spiralling through the hall.
Waltteri Väyrynen (drums) hits the toms with thunder you feel in your ribs. Martín Méndez (bass) stands locked in, no expression, just pulse. Then the room gets walloped by 'Master's Apprentices'.
Downstairs seating starts collapsing at the edges as people stand in the wings to free their bodies. Åkerfeldt's growl hits like someone dropping a fridge down a staircase. Åkesson’s lines slice clean through the hall. A guy two rows ahead nearly spills his beer on his own shoes from shock.
Opeth - image © Clea-marie Thorne
'The Leper Affinity' turns the place feral. Blue strobe. White flash. Bodies swaying like haunted trees. People shouting the riff before it even lands. Someone on the balcony screams "YES MIKE!" like they're cheering for their mate at karaoke.
'§7' creeps in like a strange dream sequence. Slower. Stranger. Åkerfeldt sings with eerie calm that makes every heavy slam twice as brutal. People hush themselves without being asked. It feels like someone dimmed the oxygen. The chant of "Deus, Patriam, Rex, Sanguis," hits and the crowd roars like they're pledging fealty.
Then the band swing into 'The Devil's Orchard' and I'm suddenly FaceTiming my mate in Cairns, a diehard who couldn't make it. I'm that chic. Sharing is caring, ain't it?
Opeth - image © Clea-marie Thorne
Åkerfeldt keeps pausing the chaos to drop cheeky chats about shorts, long-haul flights, no sleep, stumbling off planes into stages. Dry. Self-mocking. Perfect. Every time he speaks, the crowd lean in like they're waiting for the next deadpan gem.
Right now 'To Rid The Disease' shifts everything, the room softening, people sitting again. Not all at once, more like a slow tide. Lights warm gold. Joakim Svalberg is barely visible behind the gear, but his keys are wrapping the whole hall.
The band hold the quiet like they're keeping us from breaking. Then the peace dies. 'The Grand Conjuration' barges in like a demon with a clipboard, Väyrynen beating the kit like a cheap steak needing tenderising.
Åkesson continues ripping riff after riff. A guy in the middle aisle is upper-torso moshing like he's summoning something. If the music cut out, he'd look possessed. Here at Opeth though? I trust him fully!
Then the whisper. The anticipation. The rabid edge. Some legend screams "DEMON OF THE FALL!" way too early. Mate, we all feel it, but timing; and when '§3' finally begins the place detonates.
Chairs shaking. Balcony trembling. People swarming forward trying to stand in the centre aisle. A woman up front is screaming every line. Åkerfeldt's growl is monstrous. Not human. Not logical. Perfect.
Security swoop in, ushering bodies back to their seats or at least the wings. My Cairns mate is watching them on my shaky phone like he's tuned into 'Blair Witch: Opeth Edition'.
Opeth - image © Clea-marie Thorne
Then the real eruption: 'Demon Of The Fall'. Total meltdown. Hands raised. Voices cracking. Floor shaking. I'm sweating from places that shouldn't sweat.
'Ghost of Perdition' follows like a victory lap made of fire. Rebels are back on their feet. Mini-pits forming on a pit-less floor. Balcony looking like it might break off and float away. A thousand voices yelling "Ghost of mother!" loud enough to rattle the chandelier.
Band vanish. Crowd chants. Pleads. Bargains. Opeth return. Åkerfeldt smirks. 'Deliverance'. Ageless. Towering. Euphoric. Jazzy inserts weaving between the heavy artillery. No one heading for the train station. No one moving.
The outro riff hits like a hammer and people lose the last scraps of sanity they were holding. Final hit and bows from the band. Lights vanish. Heart relocating somewhere wrong inside my chest.
I tell my Cairns friend I'm signing off as I stumble into Brisbane's humid night air with the outro riff chasing me. Let it. I've waited six years for it.
