The fact that Silverstein had the guts to even attempt this is incredible on its own. Right now, they’re in the middle of their 25 Years Of Noise world tour, a statement that feels totally incomprehensible when Silverstein’s largest, deepest footprint was itself about two decades ago at their emo generation’s height. But indeed, it’s their 25th birthday this year, and with a catalogue that’s still holding strong as of exactly a week ago with the release of Afterbloom, they deserve to celebrate. Granted, it’s hard to overlook the allure of a nostalgic Friday night to Manchester’s elder emos, especially when this is one of just two UK dates. There’s also a ludicrously stacked support bill to contend with, something which our headliners might not be totally equipped to do, but let’s not get ahead of things, eh?
At least with Bloom on first, there’s a reachable baseline set from a band who still exude opener energy. That’s to say, they’re clearly still finding their feet and a proper identity, but their also precocious enough to do some good stuff, even now. For their first UK show (the product of a 28-hour journey), they seem dying to impress, with the frame and motion of a hardcore band to really ramp up their widescreen metalcore. It’s a generally positive impression, as this sort of thing tends to be, though also subject to young metalcore’s usual array of snags. When things slow down, that’s really where they go through the motions, and some shoddy mic’ing for clean vocalist Jarod McLaren has nowhere to hide. Frontman Jono Hawley’s desire to win people over can also seem a mite tryhard, when an all-around solid scream would perfectly suffice. “If your hands are down, you’re not emo,” he opines, after a command for the crowd to raise devil horns to play the field in as many directions as possible. Less of that—and sticking to the harder stuff that’s unequivocally better—is really all that Bloom need.
It’s also a shame they’re ahead of The Callous Daoboys, who’d make even the most valiant of live stalwarts seem inadequate by comparison. On this bill, they actually hold a number of distinctions. They’re the only band with a violinist, for one, and although Amber Christman is a mile away from having the most sonically dominant presence, she’s good at bringing some eeriness among the discord when necessary. That’s the other big one about The Callous Daoboys—of everyone on tonight, no one leans into and shines through their own chaos more. Just a look at their mismatched aesthetics could give that impression, fleshed out by knife-sharp hardcore and its keenly-hewn blocks of melody. With the six of them cramped onstage, there’s a contained electricity that bounces and ricochets in what ultimately feels like a headlining-grade performance. Star Baby is the obvious big gun, a sweeping, eclectic suite that never falters or dips, and leads into an interlude of Natasha Bedingfield’s Unwritten over the PA, because why not? In hardcore and even outside, The Callous Daoboys have no limits to what they can achieve. The single bump comes in frontman Carson Pace’s assertion to “fuck this place up like Erik ten Hag fucked up Manchester United,” landing to a bewildering thud. Otherwise, absolute gold from front to back.
But even then, the shock and awe around Thursday being on this lineup trumps most other things, and yet has been given surprisingly little attention. For the magnitude they hold in emo and post-hardcore, they’ve not really been acknowledged in the preceding weeks. After all, they’ve got the clout of genuine legends behind them, and longer, more storied (albeit spottier) career than tonight’s headliners. Fortunately, on the night, the reverence is in full force. Even for a band whose last album was in 2011, it’s incredible to see the excitement for Thursday just aerate the room, and bloody hell, do they not disappoint. Geoff Rickly is visibly elated to be onstage, and clearly cognisant of how his band’s spottier schedule can make this hit; opener The Other Side Of The Crash/Over And Out (Of Control) is described as “kind of a new song, it’s only 20 years old”. There’s a wonderful magnetism steeped all the way through, as the least immediate band of the night thrive on a tremendous sound anchored in faultless bass-work (from Rickly’s No Devotion bandmate Stuart Richardson, no less).
More than anything, there’s an aura of prestige that fits Thursday like a glove. There’s nothing close to a phoned-in old guard appearance, not with the white-knuckle spirit that fully justifies their standing as legends. When Rickly throws himself to his knees to deliver a stellar shriek on Cross Out The Eyes, the silhouette can be pretty remarkable. In a similar vein, there’s not a speck of rust to be found on anyone’s part, as it’s all blown away by raw fervour. Compared a more spectacle-oriented approach with The Callous Daoboys before, Thursday barrelling forward like this is like the opposite side of a wholly excellent coin. Theirs is a more classic, elder-statesman-appropriate approach, without a fault to be picked at all the same. Understanding In A Car Crash finds itself nestled towards the end with the biggest reaction—Rickly’s strident, infectious punk verve will do that—but there’s never not a second when Thursday feel any less than essential.
So, here’s the question after all that—how do Silverstein top it? Sure, they’ve assembled this colossus of a bill to ensure that their birthday party goes off with an H-bomb-level bang, but have they inadvertently stacked the deck against themselves? …Maybe? Look, there are people here tonight being exposed to Thursday and The Callous Daoboys for the very first time, and walking away awestruck by how good they both are. Silverstein, meanwhile, are on a dedicated legacy campaign, and there’s only so much you can do with that as the primary objective. But wherever that bar is, they’ve got no issue in hitting it. 25 years is a long time to refine your style and live capabilities, and when Silverstein seem to have dedicated their time to sharp, note-perfect, high-octane recreations of a now-vast emo and post-hardcore catalogue, they obviously nail it.
It definitely doesn’t hurt when that catalogue is the focal point of this whole endeavour, represented in its entirety and aired in reverse-chronological order to keep the wheel of hype cranking. Perhaps to some it’d be off-putting to have the brand new stuff at the very head, but Skin & Bones and Confession are the sort of cuts with a real friendliness for sets like this. They play to the big, broad strengths of Silverstein’s newer works, executed with a range and technique that both feel great and natural. Shane Told’s vocals could do with being turned up a touch, but he’s a strong singer even through that barrier, and it seems his own enthusiasm does rub off. By no means is the Silverstein fanbase the most vocally fervid in the wild—you’re not getting your address leaked for some critical words, put it that way—but the receptiveness to essentially everything fosters a comfortable atmosphere throughout. The Afterglow gets a notably rowdy singalong, and for a Silverstein song from 2017, it’s a little heartwarming, actually.
From there, that’s about the standard that Silverstein operate on. They’re not showy at all—other than drummer Paul Koehler being on a raised platform way at the back—but the appeal comes in the reliability of these songs. Even if time constraints don’t allow for a thorough deep-dive, the ones plucked out keep things going at a nice, steady pace. It’s good that they tend to allow Silverstein to lean more into their brusque punk and hardcore tendencies, too; for the overall sound of the night, it works quite well. Saying that, the quickest standouts are where that’s broken away from. An acoustic The End and My Heroine obviously have some lovely texture and land more stridently for it. There’s also the matter of a more fun, strictly emo bent that comes when the aforementioned nostalgia wheel is at its most taut. “We’ve now reached the Discovering The Waterfront portion of the set,” declares Told to jubilant cheer, “you guys know that one?” Clearly they do when the uptick for Smile In Your Sleep is considerable and patent, the kind of emo anthem that teenage exposure will guarantee never leaves your consciousness again.
Danger of overrunning leaves things a little truncated towards the end, but that proves an exceptionally small gripe overall. There’s already been well over an hour of Silverstein justifying their longevity, and doing so with flying colours, at that. Exercises in preaching to the converted don’t come much more airtight than this, a showcase of a band who’ve made the most of their persistence and consistency, and whose fanbase is compact but excited to see the rise continue. Silverstein are much more than the nostalgia points they racked up in 2005; all this time later, the strength they still flaunt is undeniable.
Words by Luke Nuttall
Photos by Will Robinson (Instagram)
