Despite being no strangers to arenas over here, Halestorm have headlined them fewer times than youâd think. Perhaps itâs a misconception that comes from them being among the more prestigious of the US hard rock set. Alter Bridge might be the closest reference point for a meat-and-potatoes rock band that everyone tends to be okay with, and thus, youâd bucket Halestorm in with them, and presume that an environment like this is their usual stomping ground. As a counterpoint, the fact their Live At Wembley album and DVD only came out last year (with the show itself at the very tail end of 2023) suggests a milestone arriving later than predicted. Still, though, this is Halestorm weâre talking about, one of the most routinely celebrated live acts in this space. Their moment is here to be grabbed, not dampened by an AO Arena that takes longer than preferred to fill out.
Thereâs a degree of confidence thatâs clearly seeped down into Kelsy Karter & The Heroines, though itâs not like there isnât a baseline to work with. After all, their titular frontwoman did once pretend to get Harry Styles tattooed on her cheek for a publicity stunt; a shrinking violet, she is not. Karter therefore winds up somewhere between a classic blues-wailer and a TikTok-friendly cursive-singer, as vocally strident as you like and committed to being the centre of attention. To treat that as admonition would be missing the point entirely, of course. As far as ârock chickâ demeanour goesâa lot of big gestures, falling to her knees and throwing her head back multiple timesâKarter pushes all the necessary buttons. A blindsidingly impressive cover of Aerosmithâs Cryinâ seals it, though the added pop-rock pizzazz of a song like I Get Off makes for just as nice a garnish. Some mottled edges really donât matter when thereâs so much enthusiasm radiating out, at least enough to where the growing crowd can be won over.
But do you wanna see a crowd really getting a working? Karter and her Heroines impress, but theyâre still small potatoes next to the veritable feast of Bloodywood. For starters, the first glimpse of them comes from Sarthak Pahwa and his dhol, itself an alien sight in the world of western music, let alone metal. But when the band get going (which doesnât take long at all) and their fusion of nu-metal, metalcore and Indian folk music is given the arena space it deserves, itâs something else. Theirs is a dense, rampaging sound with a groove that could bring the roof down, made all the better when you can still hear the texture within it. Rarely has a flute break been as chock-full of hype as Aajâs, and thatâs not just a runoff from the crush that Karan Katiyar normally delivers with his guitar.
The whole band just exudes this unstoppability that, for something so maximalist, you might expect to wear itself out before long. Bloodywood donât; theyâre goliaths in sound, presence and ethos. As much as Raoul Kerrâs affirmations can sound like recited soundbites eventually, you still feel mightier just from being in earshot than with your garden-variety jock-rocker. And with mention of how metal isnât popular in India but the embrace of the UK has been such a defining factor, the powerhouse fortitude of Bloodywood feels undeniable. If you truly want to nitpick, some of Jayant Bhadulaâs biggest notes donât quite carry, but amongst everything elseâthe steamroll of Dana Dan and the certified riot-starter Machi Bhasadâheâs still singing like every last breath in his lungs is dedicated to this very moment. That kind of go-for-broke-and-keep-going mentality is what will ultimately push Bloodywood to their own arena shows and beyond. Even just now, what theyâre doing is pretty incredible.
In fact, youâre almost led to believe that Halestorm are going in on the back foot for a split second. The standing crowd is thinning out a bit towards the back, like theyâve had their fill for the night before the names on the ticket has even arrived. Thatâs wholly conjecture, of course, and nixed with an inhuman swiftness. Silhouetted behind a curtain with an overture of Black Sabbathâs Black Sabbath, itâs already the perfect confluence of Halestorm momentaâa flair for the dramatic, and a devotion to rockâs hall-of-famers that, you can tell, they hope to one day join. Itâs the most obvious thing in the world, especially in their arena-rock philosophy. Fallen Star is the opener proper, packing its meaty, churning sound, the first of many flashy solos, and the inaugural workout for the nightâs CO2 cannons. I Miss The Misery follows and kicks things up a few dozen gears with its simultaneous maelstroms of confetti and pyro, and one almight scream from Lzzy Hale as a primer.
It should go without saying now (mostly because itâs been said an incalculable amount of times already), but Hale is every inch a superstar. Here, sheâs fully in her element, a titan as both a singer and a shredder, and an indisputable heavy hitter among the pantheon of modern-day rock icons. The mind boggles when you consider the logistics of her performance, in how thereâs definitely effort put into wrenching these protracted screams out to seemingly no vocal detriment. From the juggernaut hook of I Get Off, to the brimstone centre of Like A Woman Canâs austere blues shiver, to the raining knives that make up I Gave You Everythingâs climactic shouts, itâs all practically peerless. Add in her jolting solo on Love Bites (So Do I) and keyboard contributions to Shiver, Like A Woman Can and others, and the pool of immaculate rockstar excess only deepens.
The rest of the band are far from unimpressive, too, mind. It tends to get less attention when their frontwoman is this incontrovertibly awesome, but Halestorm as a unit are as tight as any hard rock act gets. Joe Hottinger is every bit Haleâs equal in riff-smithery, taking physical form in their dual doubled-necked guitars on I Am The Fire. Josh Smith gets the fewest opportunities to flex on bass (though the taut chug of Everest comes close), but thatâs in no way indicative of a sub-par performance when rock like this thrives through its low end. And as for Arejay Hale on drumsâŠwell, his sisterâs contributions are already hanging some heavy expectations on the Hale bloodline, so itâs a good thing that he can match up. Heâs often been viewed as the secondmost head of the Halestorm Hydra as it is, thanks to some tremendous playing thatâs as strong as ever. Even as the arena-set drum solo continues to limp along as a tradition, at least Haleâs talent can be recognised within it, and the giant drumsticks that have been his novelty calling-card for years is a slight variation on the formula. (Calling a drum solo moshpit ârock ânâ roll historyâ is pushing it, but whatever.)
Put it all together and you get one hell of a capable unit. Itâs no wonder that one fan in the front row has now reached their 70th Halestorm show; for as broad as the swings they take into hard rock archetypes are, every one is a point-blank hit. Love Bites (So Do I) is a shot of the purest, more unrelenting rock pleasure; Freak Like Me is a locomotive banger; Mz. Hyde has its playful, almost maniacal bounce. Even among the semi-progressive new material from Everest, thereâs still room to wedge in a true fist-pumper in Rain Your Blood On Me and an old-fashioned thrashabout with K-I-L-L-I-N-G. By the end, with a tribute to Ozzy Osbourne in a cover of Perry Mason, and the last-orders knees-up Hereâs To Us, itâs just the umpteenth reinforcement of how brilliant Halestorm can be that we all already know. Thereâs a reason they became arena-rockers by birthright, thrust up to these heights because itâs the only place good enough for them. Now, theyâre already treating it like seasoned veterans, and every second of it is thrilling to see.
Words by Luke Nuttall
