If this exact scenario for a show seems strange—a UK run of three arena shows culminating in Liverpool—it’s been like that since the beginning. It’s the big metal gig blindspot most of the time, and the way it was thrown out as a final addition to what was originally a Wembley-only affair makes it seem even more of an afterthought. And then there are the rumblings of how drastically it’s undersold, compared to a full house in London and a near-enough one in Nottingham. The entirety of the upper tiers have been closed off here, so you’d presume that to be true. Finally, while an opening DJ set is a tough fit for the ‘and more’ that’s dangled under the tour poster’s proclamation of special guests since the beginning, Liverpool seems notably short-changed there too. Opening the other dates was Radio 1 DJ and well-loved alternative personality Alyx Holcombe; here, it’s one of the house guys from Krazyhouse. If you’re not from the area and don’t know what this is, it’s the rock club you go to when you’re, like, 16, and at no other point.
But even with all of that, you should never underestimate the potency of nostalgia for roping at least a couple of thousand in. Although a tacit change eases back on the some of the momentousness—from an original billing to celebrate Infest’s 25th birthday to the more blanket rebrand of ‘Rise Of The Roach’—Papa Roach are fully in the window of childhood faves pervading after all this time. It helps that their live prowess precedes them, but the number of older punters sporting T-shirts of nu-metal’s usual suspects tells you exactly what you need to know. Even that opening DJ set is fully locked-in, a combination of alt club staples and the same collection of millennial rock hits that Kerrang! TV would rinse all day, every day until its dying breath.
When we get to the proper music, it doesn’t let up. Wage War are the most contemporary presence to be wheeled out this evening, but the equation to make them falls in the pre-established line—part nu-metal chugsters on one side; part previous-gen metalcore mob in serious need of an upgrade on the other. They shine most in the live arena, though, almost entirely thanks to sloughed-off constraints on how big and meaty they can get. At their best, there’s the lead-heavy tone and chest-beating thunder of Godspeed and Happy Hunting, but cuts of melodic beef in Circle The Drain and Magnetic feel a little less disparate. Maybe it’s not because of Cody Quistad though, whose tighter clean register is pretty ineffectual in how it’s mixed, especially when pitted against Briton Bond actively trying to be a gruff, brusque mainman. That translates to a demeanour that’s textbook metalcore frontman, but as part of an outfit as beholden to note-perfect recreations of their recorded works as Wage War are, it’s as good as it can be. Even if the targets they’re aiming at are about a hundred miles wide each, they’re all still hit, at the end of the day.
Papa Roach, meanwhile, operate a much tighter ship. You’d hope so, anyway, for a band who are still at these heights after over three decades, and seem to actively balk at the idea of slowing down. They even open with their new song Even If It Kills Me to reinforce that, and dousing it with bursts of fire and CO2 to hammer things down further. Clearly there’s been a lot of resource and preparation gone into this, and when it hits, any initial quibbles about some thrown-together, offhand extra stop promptly vanish. If it were true, you can’t tell. It’s not like anyone’s game face slips, or there’s a particularly conspicuous loose thread that’s just left to hang. After all this time, the fervour in Papa Roach remains steadfast, and they reliably seem to treat this like it’s the most crucial show they’ve ever played.
The effort is obvious from all involved, though Jacoby Shaddix radiates with iridescent mainman energy. He’s not let up since the nu-metal boom that gave him this career, though it’s channelled into a leaner, swaggering arena-rock personality these days. Where a song like …To Be Loved serves a sleazier, driving hard rock palette, Shaddix has no issue at all keeping up. Later on, on ballads like Forever and Scars that require his emotive range, that’s no problem either. It might all seem like faint praise—‘a frontman who can hit the range that’s required of him’ is no impressive summation—but the spark ties it together. It’s all executed without even a beat of slowdown, or a perfunctory undertone that one might expect from a third of a century in this business.
The mood is too earnest to feel staged or forced for the public. When Tobin Esperance comes to the head of the stage’s walkway to peel out Getting Away With Murder’s bassline, the look and positioning he gives makes it obvious how hard he’s drinking it in. Similarly, an instrumental cover of Tupac’s California Love not only retains some sizzle, but Shaddix popping out towards the end for some ad-libs never has its charm subsumed by cringe. As a band who are roughly a few light years from the technique that’d legitimise rap-rock, it’s hard to argue against some genuine appreciation, even if Swerve has Shaddix swinging around his durag in a way that definitely feels 25 years old.
Earnestness translates to more reflective emotion as well, and this is one of the key pieces of modern Papa Roach that really works. There’s still such a deep well of gratitude baked into this, especially from an angle of mental health that Shaddix never strays away from discussing. An interpolation of Linkin Park’s In The End comes at the end of Forever, a song about dancing with the tragic lows that Chester Bennington would ultimately succumb to, weighted further by Shaddix’s frank appreciation for him and his art. Honestly, from most other bands (particularly younger bands), pausing the set to play a PSA about mental health and suicide awareness would feel like a bridge too far; there just wouldn’t be the same open sincerity. But here, you do feel the impact. Papa Roach’s well-meaning warmth gets there with such remarkable ease, and when it parlays into a medley of nu-metal riffs for no other reason than to shout out their friends and colleagues (where, by My Own Summer (Shove It), Shaddix will name the exact address it traces back to), it’s way more fun than the usual soup of arena-rock flexing that’s so commonplace. (Shame the same can’t be said about another set with a drum solo, but hey, what can you do?)
Of course, the songs themselves do still have to work, which is fortunately not an issue in the slightest. Considering there hasn’t been a good Papa Roach album since 2017, the only dead duck is Roses On My Grave, a deep cut from The Paramour Sessions in 2006 that takes far too long to get going for how muted it lands. That means that, pleasantly, the newer cuts that stack up rather high actually find some legs here. Liar is a little blocky but is rescued entirely by dazzling visual accompaniments and Shaddix’s inimitable personality. Elsewhere, Kill The Noise and Swerve seriously come into their own with some arena-grade muscle behind them; both have genuine potential when given a bit of verve.
But the classics are what people want, and naturally, they steal the show. This isn’t an Infest-centric affair anymore, but a final run of oldies will pluck out the best and more beloved, and let them fly out. Who cares if things are overrunning when there’s a starting platter of Between Angels And Insects, Infest and Broken Home, before a sumptuous final course of Last Resort? In 2025, there’s none more peak for nu-metal love than that, executed by a band whose determination and love for the game hasn’t dwindled by a fraction of an inch. Perhaps there isn’t the same aura of grand importance as the original Wembley one-off, but does that actually matter? Not to Papa Roach, clearly; any arbitrary hierarchies have been pushed far out the window. And to tonight’s attendees…well, the show speaks for itself.
Words by Luke Nuttall
