A Wednesday night in early October, Café Campus half lit like a theatre in pre-show hush, half buzzing like a Métro platform when the train is late. Three bands, three flavours of blackened intensity, one room that knows how to amplify a riff until it rattles your boots.
Gudsforladt opened and set the temperature low, not cold, just measured. They walked into the room with the poise of a choir processing down a stone nave, guitars chiming like bells before turning iron. Their frontperson sang with a voice pitched somewhere between oath and confession, clear lines that held their shape against the storm. At one point, a hush actually fell, the kind that has bartenders freezing mid-pour. The melodies carried a folky contour without pastiche, more like a memory of a hymn than a quotation of one.
Swedish-Dutch collective Dödsrit followed with the confidence of a band that understands momentum. No preamble, just a bright white wash of guitar and a rhythm section that locked into a sprint and never looked back. Three guitars bring heft and shimmer in equal measure, chords blooming into the room, then cinching tight for the next assault. A melodic line would surface, stubborn and singable even at speed, then vanish beneath a blastbeat. The crowd leaned in, bodies moving in that shared sway. Between songs, the band were almost shy. During songs, they were a weather system.
Then the lights shifted to deep violet and the room tilted. Blackbraid emerged to a low roar. The project belongs to Sgah’gahsowáh, but live it is a proper band, each player a hinge in the machine. They opened with new material and the first two minutes felt like a fuse being burned. Drums struck with clipped precision, guitars carved brisk, ascending figures, and the vocal tore straight through the mix without sacrificing shape or pitch.
What sets Blackbraid apart is how black metal and folk elements speak to each other without tripping over one another. On one mid-set highlight, a wooden flute line ghosted the main riff for a few bars, threading through distortion like a stitch. The crowd caught it, then the blast returned and the stitch held. Later, a break dropped to almost nothing, then the band slammed back in on a downbeat that arrived half a beat later than expected. You could hear the room gasp, then laugh.
Songs from across their catalogue appeared, older tracks sharpened by travel, newer ones carrying extra reach. Where the records stretch into long arcs, the stage versions prioritized clarity and punch. The rhythm section kept things dynamic, quick feints into halftime, triplet kicks that lifted phrases without clogging them. Sgah’gahsowáh introduced songs with a quick smile, thanked the locals in crisp French, and asked for the lights to drop lower. His stage presence is not theatrical, no poses, no props, just a steady focus that lets the songs do the talking.
Photos – Ryan Rumpel
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