If this exact scenario for a show seems strangeâa UK run of three arena shows culminating in Liverpoolâitâs been like that since the beginning. Itâs 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 itâs 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 youâd presume that to be true. Finally, while an opening DJ set is a tough fit for the âand moreâ thatâs dangled under the tour posterâs 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, itâs one of the house guys from Krazyhouse. If youâre not from the area and donât know what this is, itâs the rock club you go to when youâre, 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 momentousnessâfrom an original billing to celebrate Infestâs 25th birthday to the more blanket rebrand of âRise Of The RoachââPapa 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-metalâs 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 doesnât 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 lineâpart 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, thereâs 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 itâs not because of Cody Quistad though, whose tighter clean register is pretty ineffectual in how itâs mixed, especially when pitted against Briton Bond actively trying to be a gruff, brusque mainman. That translates to a demeanour thatâs textbook metalcore frontman, but as part of an outfit as beholden to note-perfect recreations of their recorded works as Wage War are, itâs as good as it can be. Even if the targets theyâre aiming at are about a hundred miles wide each, theyâre all still hit, at the end of the day.
Papa Roach, meanwhile, operate a much tighter ship. Youâd 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 thereâs 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 canât tell. Itâs not like anyoneâs game face slips, or thereâs a particularly conspicuous loose thread thatâs just left to hang. After all this time, the fervour in Papa Roach remains steadfast, and they reliably seem to treat this like itâs the most crucial show theyâve ever played.
The effort is obvious from all involved, though Jacoby Shaddix radiates with iridescent mainman energy. Heâs not let up since the nu-metal boom that gave him this career, though itâs channelled into a leaner, swaggering arena-rock personality these days. Where a song like âŚTo 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, thatâs no problem either. It might all seem like faint praiseââa frontman who can hit the range thatâs required of himâ is no impressive summationâbut the spark ties it together. Itâs 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 stageâs walkway to peel out Getting Away With Murderâs bassline, the look and positioning he gives makes it obvious how hard heâs drinking it in. Similarly, an instrumental cover of Tupacâs 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 thatâd legitimise rap-rock, itâs 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. Thereâs 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 Parkâs 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 Shaddixâs 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 wouldnât be the same open sincerity. But here, you do feel the impact. Papa Roachâs 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), itâs way more fun than the usual soup of arena-rock flexing thatâs so commonplace. (Shame the same canât 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 hasnât 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 Shaddixâs 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 isnât 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 thereâs a starting platter of Between Angels And Insects, Infest and Broken Home, before a sumptuous final course of Last Resort? In 2025, thereâs none more peak for nu-metal love than that, executed by a band whose determination and love for the game hasnât dwindled by a fraction of an inch. Perhaps there isnât 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 tonightâs attendeesâŚwell, the show speaks for itself.
Words by Luke Nuttall
