Karnivool

Okay, now what? Shall we just go home?

This is the thought that crosses our minds half an hour after good old Ian Kenny's first greeting to the crowd, a heartfelt "welcome my friends!". Our bones still feel like they've been run over by a train; what more could we possibly want at this point? Four songs were enough for his Karnivool to turn the Live Club into something resembling a sonic pressure chamber. "Ghost", "Simple Boy", "Aozora" and finally the devastating "Goliath": a surgically calibrated sequence, perfect in blending the immediate, melodic punch of the recent "In Verses" with two pillars from "Sound Awake".
What we're feeling isn't real surprise; it's hard to claim we expected anything different. Over the years Karnivool have built a formidable live reputation: impressive technical rigor, obsessive precision and, at the same time, a dirty, raw sound, far removed from the sterility that so often plagues modern progressive acts on stage. After thirteen years away from our country, the anticipation surrounding this date had taken on an almost emotional weight. You could sense it well before the house lights went down, watching the crowd pour into the Lombard venue with unusual eagerness.

Openers Intervals – with their hyper-technical instrumental prog-metal – had done a fine job warming up the crowd, but it was clear the whole room was living through a kind of countdown. The roar that greeted the five Australians as they walked on stage betrayed that anticipation, mirroring the warm reception given to their latest record "In Verses". Perhaps the biggest surprise is exactly this: not just the unconditional love for the classics, but the almost identical enthusiasm reserved for the new songs. Every riff was met with cheers, every chorus turned into a mass singalong.
From our spot near the mixing desk, it took the sound a few natural minutes to find its ideal balance, but one thing was clear from the start: that massive wall of sound generated by the Australian quintet was never going to let anyone off the hook. Every element emerged from the controlled chaos, every rhythmic interlock hit with the force of a train barreling at full speed. There was no time to recover from one of those four monsters before another carriage slammed into the front.

And so here we are, back to the opening question: after those four bombs, what else could there be to expect? Fortunately "Drone" arrives to let us catch our breath with its swaying gait. But it's a calm that doesn't last, because next come "We Are" and, above all, "Deadman". The show slips into an almost hypnotic dimension. The former showcases the band's full technical prowess, while the latter turns into a giant collective surge, with the whole venue singing its refrain. It's remarkable how naturally the Australians shift between rhythmic explosions, melodic openings and sudden atmospheric lulls.
Live, what strikes you most is the deeply democratic nature of the Perth quintet. Ian Kenny doesn't occupy center stage like your typical frontman: he stands on the same level as bass and guitars, off to the left, with an essential, decidedly non-theatrical dynamism. It's almost as if he wants to proudly showcase the strength of a band that survived over a decade of difficult, nerve-wracking waiting, before coming back to perform here in front of us.

Their music, after all, reflects this approach, built from the interlocking of five equal individual voices: Drew Goddard and Mark Hosking's guitars intertwine without ever overpowering one another, the bass pulses organically within the rhythmic fabric, while Kenny's voice becomes just another instrument, exceptional and sturdy in finding its own space within the tight sonic weave without ever taking center stage for itself. Guiding it all, almost invisible behind the kit, is Steve Judd. If we really have to name a technical, silent leader, it would be him: he pounds away with rock-solid confidence, never missing a beat, dragging the crowd's continuous head-banging through often twisted time signatures.
The stage's visual setup is consistent with all this. No monumental scenery, no dazzling gimmicks: just four small LED towers, a handful of colored beams and good old smoke machine. A clever use of backlighting is enough to create powerful, evocative images that never distract from what those five musicians are doing with their instruments. At certain moments it really feels like watching the heart of an erupting volcano, red and violet magma pouring over the crowd in layered waves of distortion.

The return to "In Verses" with "All It Takes" and "Animation" immediately brings the show back to almost absurd levels of pressure. The volume becomes exaggerated, yet the sound stays remarkably tight, legible, never muddled. Then comes one of the most striking moments of the entire experience. The opening chords of "Themata" alone are enough to trigger a collective explosion: for an instant, the roar of the crowd seems to drown out the band itself. From there the show picks back up the brutality of its opening minutes, as "Roquefort" comes crashing down on the front rows without mercy, greeted by a satisfied, perfectly synchronized pit riding the song's lopsided groove.
Kenny looks out at the crowd and calls the Italian audience "f**king incredible!". He's right. When "New Day" starts, the Live Club literally becomes the band's sixth member. The bridge – “Are we waiting?/ For the savior?/ Someone to heal this/ Or erase us” – is sung in unison by nearly 1,500 people, before the song's iconic instrumental surge sweeps everything away with devastating force.
Ian's voice seems truly inexhaustible, carrying him through more than an hour of vocal feats and power, as he heads toward the night's most meaningful moment: "Opal" and "Salva". An almost programmatic choice, confirming just how much Karnivool truly believe in the material from "In Verses", closing the night with the very same songs that close the album. Live, these two tracks take on an even more epic, immersive dimension than their studio counterparts, even if the sheer instrumental impact inevitably sacrifices some of the more delicate details, like the refined bagpipes of the finale.

Anyone who wasn't there might think an hour and a half is a relatively short set for a show of this caliber. In reality, once you're outside the venue, the feeling is almost the opposite: it seems impossible you could have withstood even one more minute of such a sonic shockwave. And yet it was magnificent to let ourselves be swept away, sinking into that sea of intricate distortions and impossible rhythms, as if Karnivool had found a way to turn technical complexity into something deeply physical, emotional and alive. Let's hope we don't have to wait another 13 years.

(Photo contributions courtesy of Carlo Carraro)

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