Walking through the familiar streets of Digbeth toward Supersonic Festival felt like returning to an old friend’s house, one who’s been forced to move several times but somehow always lands on their feet. Before moving to Montreal, I’d spent years with a photography studio in this corner of Birmingham, back when the area was scruffier and the rents were perhaps more sane. Gentrification may be squeezing the life out of Digbeth, but Supersonic refuses to be squeezed out.
The festival’s survival story reads like David versus an army of Goliaths, property developers, rising rents, and civic indifference all conspiring against Lisa Meyer and her team’s annual celebration of musical outliers. Yet here we were again, proof that stubbornness and vision can triumph over spreadsheets and municipal short-sightedness. The fact that a poutine stand had materialized in the food court felt oddly fitting—a little taste of Montreal in the Midlands, confirming that weird cultural cross-pollination is alive and well at Supersonic.
Friday: Setting the Stage
Though I had to miss Friday’s opening salvo, the lineup card reads like a carefully curated fever dream. Mermaid Chunky brought their trademark blend of fairground psychedelia and children’s theatre gone rogue, with Skloss bringing their atmospheric dark psychedelia to the proceedings. Zu reportedly delivered their usual sonic assault, Italian jazz-noise that hits like a brick wrapped in saxophone solos.
Saturday: The Day of Reckoning
Saturday arrived with Penelope Trappes offering ambient respite before the storm. Her beatless soundscapes provided the calm that made what followed feel even more volcanic. OMQ bridged the gap before local favourites Meatdripper took the stage, proving that Birmingham’s feminist metal scene is in rude health. Their slow-burning witchy grooves felt like watching a coven tune up for battle.
Buñuel, Eugene Robinson’s post-Oxbow project, cranked the volume to uncomfortable levels, exactly where Robinson likes it. The punk-metal outfit made Saturday afternoon feel like Saturday night in all the best ways. Rún followed over at XOYO with their pagan folk-psychedelic workouts, somehow making metal saucepan percussion sound mystical rather than ridiculous.
But Saturday belonged to Witch Club Satan. Their first UK appearance was worth the wait: a masterclass in how to make black metal feel genuinely transgressive rather than merely theatrical. The Norwegian trio’s bare-breasted, goblin-energy performance art piece transformed extreme metal into something approaching ritual. When they briefly retreated for a filmed interlude before returning nearly naked, the audience realized they were witnessing a manifesto set to blast beats.
Their stage-diving, consciousness-raising tsunami of sound made their stance on Gaza crystal clear without sacrificing an ounce of musical brutality. This wasn’t shock rock; it felt far more dangerous: intelligent provocation with the chops to back it up.
Death Goals brought queercore fury to XOYO, using panic chords and righteous anger to create a space for marginalized individuals. Their battle cry of “strength in unity” felt especially relevant given the weekend’s political undercurrents.
The evening’s climax came from Backxwash, the Zambian-Canadian rapper I know from Montreal’s underground scene. Seeing Ashanti Mutinta headline in Birmingham felt surreal in the best possible way. Clad in a distressed black dress and her trademark face paint, she commanded the stage with the authority of someone who’s spent years perfecting her craft from dive bars to festival stages. Tracks from “Only Dust Remains” hit harder live, particularly “Wake Up” and the gentle hope of the title track. Her declaration of war on inequality felt personal rather than performative. This is an artist who’s lived these battles.
HIRS Collective closed out the smaller stage with their schizophrenic pop-meets-noise assault, somehow making Shania Twain samples work alongside grindcore blasts. Jenna Pup’s “Fucking… uh-oh!” became the weekend’s unofficial mosh call.
Sunday: Folk, Drones, and Revelations
Sunday traditionally belongs to the folkies at Supersonic, though this year’s definition of “folk” stretched like elastic. Bridget Hayden & The Apparitions eased everyone into the final day with ethereal ballads that felt like morning mist made audible. Jackie-O Motherfucker followed with their improvised freak-folk, proving that “Hey! Mr Sky” and “Good Morning Kaptain” remain as lush and trippy as ever.
Hedgling occupied the experimental fringes, occasionally sounding like three people who’d never seen their instruments before, which, in Supersonic terms, counts as high praise. Poor Creature and Dawn Terry pushed boundaries in their own ways, the latter’s repeated requests to be “fucked against a tree” over accordion loops making for one of the weekend’s more memorable moments.
Six Organs of Admittance‘s Ben Chasny proved that a Kreator t-shirt and Nick Drake-ish songs aren’t mutually exclusive, while Divide & Dissolve delivered their usual classical-doom fusion with the kind of apocalyptic guitar work that makes you reconsider your life choices. I’d seen them opening for Chelsea Wolfe in Montreal last year, but this time they were tighter and more compelling.
Cinder Well‘s Amelia offered traditional folk music that felt authentically traditional, as opposed to the curated style often seen on Instagram. It was a shame that the music from outside the room was bleeding into her gentle songs on occasion, but she had the entire room transfixed nonetheless. Afterwards, she told me that her partner lives in Montreal, which meant we’d likely see more of her here: small world, getting smaller.
Rich(ard) Dawson brought Geordie pub-folk energy that had the audience eating from his hand. The Newcastle troubadour’s performance felt like stumbling into the most entertaining corner of a working men’s club, if that club happened to book genuinely brilliant songwriters. His voice, part Tom Waits growl, part medieval minstrel, wrapped around songs like “Jogging,” “Black Dog in the Sky,” and “Black Triangle” with the kind of theatrical commitment that makes you forget you’re watching someone with an acoustic guitar. Dawson has this rare ability to make the deeply personal feel universal, spinning tales of modern malaise and ancient mythology with equal conviction. His between-song banter crackled with dry Northern wit, and by the end of his set, half the audience looked ready to follow him to whatever pub he was heading to next.
The evening’s revelation came via Funeral Folk—Sara Parkman, Maria W Horn, and Mats Erlandsson’s Scandinavian death-meditation project. What began as unobtrusive spoken word gradually built into a howling crescendo of feedback and dry ice before ending as an audience sing-along. Their performance deserved every second of its standing ovation; there were tears!
Abdullah Miniawy bridged the gap before The Bug and Warrior Queen arrived to demolish what remained of everyone’s hearing. Swimming in dry ice and bathed in red light, their modern dub assault felt less like a concert and more like a religious experience conducted at unholy volume. When Warrior Queen demanded a “hardcore lover” and asked if we wanted to hear her “pussy talk,” the response was unanimous and deafening. By the time “Poison Dart” reached its extended climax, everyone was spent, deafened, and thoroughly converted.
The Bigger Picture
Supersonic is a festival that curates experiences that challenge and expand. Scattered across Digbeth’s industrial maze, the programming creates sanctuary for music that lives on the margins. The entire enterprise radiates purpose, celebrating the misfits and the musically curious while thumbing its nose at the sanitized entertainment that dominates elsewhere.
Supersonic remains defiantly analogue, a place where discovering something completely new isn’t just possible but inevitable. You could arrive knowing nothing about Water Damage‘s maximal repetition or Funeral Folk‘s existential elegies and leave feeling like your musical universe had expanded exponentially.
The festival’s precarious annual existence makes each edition feel precious rather than permanent. Every year brings fresh threats, yet Meyer and her team continue to pull rabbits from increasingly expensive hats. This resilience isn’t just admirable; it’s essential. In a world trending toward homogenization, Supersonic stands as proof that the weird, the challenging, and the genuinely experimental still have a place.
That poutine was excellent, by the way. Some traditions cross borders beautifully, while others, like Supersonic’s commitment to musical adventurousness, deserve to be fiercely protected.
Review & photos – Steve Gerrard
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