KVELERTAK

aster Friday. Everyone’s itching to flout quarantine and celebrate thebabyjesus™ – got to stay put for the Kvelertak show,’s opening chords summon vocalist Ivar Nikolaisen, the visage of Iggy Pop and Axl Rose’s Scandinavian lovechild, screaming into the camera l ike it’s been bulk-buying loo roll. He’s so cool, it’s inconsequential that his one-way stage patter sinks like a hefty turd. Bulging with songs from new record , the set’s reliably tight – punky black metal meets rock’n’roll in unholy union. But tonight shines for three reasons. One: it’s amongst the slickest sound and camerawork of any quaranstream thus far. Two: Ivar isn’t Kvelertak’s ‘new’ singer – he’s just Kvelertak’s singer. Three: someone needs to give them a proper production budget. closes the main set, fire consuming the backline after Ivar ignites a bin with a massive flaming stick. This is what every Kvelertak show should look like: raw power flanked by pyrotechnic drama. Then the fire alarm abruptly ends everything. Fy faen, lads.