As we stand shoulder-to-shoulder inside Brisbane's The Fortitude Music Hall, boots are already gluing themselves to the floor.
The bass-heavy EDM thumping through the PA pre-show turns the room into something halfway between a metal venue and a Valley nightclub (15 January). People milling, restless, already loud. Everyone knowing this room is about to get feral.
Darkness drops hard as Mélancolia detonate the room with that blackened nu-metal chaos they do so well, the low end hitting like a physical shove, bodies compressing forward, heads snapping in time to 'All Is Rust'.
Alex Hill (vocals), wrapped in a white fur coat and shredded lace top, barks at the crowd through vampire-like incisors with zero patience for half-measures.
The band demand energy, getting it back in fists and movement, from the floor right up to the mezzanine. 'icanseethroughtheholesinmyhands' grinds through the room, sweat already starting to bead.
Melancolia - image © Clea-marie Thorne
'Spit!' then takes hold, converting new fans on the spot – and then the vibe snaps sideways. Fire alarms blare sharp and unavoidable, cutting straight through distortion and confusion. The band bail from the stage, a little confused, the crowd clocking fast this is not theatre.
No announcements = no panic. Punters chat amongst themselves, waiting for the rip-snorter support to return, only for the message to land when they come back to pack up their kit – their set is over, rover. A supportive cheer rolls through the room as they pack down under house lights that feel way too bright.
A rough break. A shared disappointment. Energy simmering instead of dissipating. Hoards head for the bar or outside for a smoke or a vape, wondering if the headliner can proceed on time – or at all.
Firies arrive and head backstage to confirm what security has already deduced: smoke machines pumping way harder than needed.
Till Lindemann briefly steps out to rattle the curtain, giving the crowd a two-second glimpse of his mohawked boffin – just enough to let us know he's still in the building – before disappearing again.
Lights dim. Symphonic sounds layer up as cheers of relief roll through the room. 'Meine Welt' fills the space, anticipation thickening instantly. Keys swell and masked imperials march out, faces stamped with Lindemann's likeness as 'Fat' implodes into life.
Till Lindemann - image © Clea-marie Thorne
Then the spotlight snaps on, Lindemann emerging centre stage for his first Queensland appearance in 15 years, as the room absolutely loses its collective mind at the opening night of the tour.
Phones fly up. People scream like pressure valves blowing. First words cut clean and human: "Mélancolia, so sorry you could not finish your set." Respect landing hard. Crowd roaring approval, especially those fans who showed up early for them. A moment grounding everything before chaos ensues.
'Und die Engel singen' rolls straight in, Lindemann pacing the front edge, voice booming and sharp, parading past the barrier like a shark on patrol. 'Schweiss' turns the floor slick almost instantly – the pit opening properly, bodies colliding with purpose, sweat flinging, security locking in early.
'Altes Fleisch' drags the room somewhere darker and heavier, heads nodding in unison, bass sitting square in the sternum. 'Golden Shower' flips the mood nastier and funnier, laughter mixing with shouting, the crowd fully complicit.
Till Lindemann - image © Clea-marie Thorne
When the line 'let it rain from your pretty c...' hits, the C-word is screamed back at full volume. It's like Australia's favourite swear word reclaiming its throne, there's no pretending this is just a song anymore.
'Sport frei' detonates the pit again, circle forming clean, rough, but watchful. Brisbane style. Following on is 'Tanzlehrerin', easing the pace just enough to reset lungs, Lindemann and the crowd dancing as one.
Then 'Blut' punches straight back in, strobes firing fast enough to fragment movement through the lens. Lindemann's five-mic stand is kicked nearly every other song – no wonder I'm not shooting from the pit tonight. I'd be taken out by flying hardware!
'Allesfresser' is pure spectacle with cheesecake flung into the crowd by band members, Dani Sophia (guitar) and Emily Ruvidich (guitar) launching it without mercy. Cake ends up in my hair and down my back.
Till Lindemann - image © Clea-marie Thorne
Joe Letz (drums) escalates the insanity, contorting and pirouetting atop the kit, pulling fake tampons, kegel balls – or maybe actual ball sacks – from a strap-on vagina. Hard to tell. Nothing about this show pretends to be polite.
'Prostitution' lands thick and filthy, Lindemann smashing mic stands while his human mic stand diligently retrieves and stacks the gold-topped microphones with ceremonial care. Good doggy.
I make the wrong decision to move to the back of the room as the air turns heavy with humidity – sweat, beer, body heat. Right as 'Platz Eins' starts and Lindemann, in neon glasses, walks among his doting fans. It's as intimate as it gets. The rest of us barely see a thing through a forest of phones.
There's no easing off with 'Du hast kein Herz' and 'Skills in Pills', the crowd hitting full voice, choruses screamed back without hesitation. The floor vibrating under stomping boots, sweat raining from heads rocking in time. Feels like the end.
Till Lindemann - image © Clea-marie Thorne
There is a thick undercurrent running through this room that has nothing to do with music and everything to do with debauchery. Power, submission, humiliation, excess. This isn't just spectacle – it's fantasy being acted out in public; safe because it's theatrical, dangerous because it feels too real.
People aren't just watching anymore. They're leaning into it. Laughing, shouting, shouting filth back at the stage, letting masks slip for a few minutes at a time and not apologising for it.
The digital backdrop screams 'DO YOU WANT MORE!?'. The crowd answers instantly and deafeningly. The encore kicks in heavy with 'Übers Meer', arms wrapping around shoulders, voices lifting together without losing edge.
'Knebel' tightens the tension again, the pit snapping back into motion like it never stopped. Letz, off the kit now, is disturbingly dressed in a horse-like mask, clambering on hands and knees atop a vet's examination table.
Till Lindemann - image © Clea-marie Thorne
Surreal imagery unfolding in full absurdity – fish props, bodies laughing, music still hitting hard. I'm not entirely sure whether the full-bosomed human-horse is giving birth to fish or having them extracted from somewhere far less polite. My imagination is not helping.
'Ich hasse Kinder' closes it out with one final, defiant explosion, the crowd screaming every word, middle fingers raised here and there, sweat flying like a workplace hazard. House lights snap on too fast, ears ringing, applause refusing to die.
Standing there soaked, camera hot, arms shaking from shooting above phones, hands and tall humans. Shirt ruined by cake and sweat – exactly how this room is going to smell tomorrow, maybe with a hint of fish – walking out hoarse and buzzing, not needing closure, not wanting it wrapped neatly. Just needing it filthy, loud and unashamed.
Lindemann isn't frontman so much as ringmaster of consented transgression. Without him, it's noise and shock. With him, it's performance – uncomfortable, absurd, darkly funny, and entirely intentional.
The band and visuals create the chaos. Fans amplify it. Lindemann sanctions it. It's an experience you didn't know your darkest self was already asking for. Get a ticket!
