LIVE REVIEW: Ice Nine Kills – Co-Op Live, Manchester – 08/12/2025

It gets to a point during Ice Nine Kills’ set where you wonder how this was ever planned to not be in an arena. The Co-Op Live wasn’t originally supposed to house this; demand meant it had to be upgraded. That’s the first part of all of this—Ice Nine Kills are just that popular. It helps that they’re one of the scant top-enders of commercial metalcore with personality and colour, and thus, the embrace of them makes a lot more sense than with some of their contemporaries. But now that they’re all in on the horror-movie theming, it couldn’t be more noticeable how much capital-S Show they want to squeeze out of that. A stage as big as the Co-Op Live’s is the ideal outcome for Ice Nine Kills, serendipity at its absolute finest. After all, you’re not getting Art the Clown from Terrifier whirling a flaming baby around by its umbilical cord at Viccy Warehouse, now, are you?

Before we get there, though, we have to start with the actual clown opening this bill. Somehow, TX2 has escaped from TikTok Land and is moonlighting as an actual musician. He’s doing it very poorly, too. As a baseline, this is the most generic metalcore known to man that desperately believes it’s something more. What that ‘something’ is remains to be seen, but it involves TX2 sliding on his knees like a child at the school disco on Feed and HOSTAGE, for whatever reason. At its worst, you get the closer I Would Hate Me Too, the one where our frontman famously describes himself as a “five-four man-whore” and declares “If you’re able to and don’t put your hands up, go fuck yourself and cry yourself to sleep”. He also struts around like he’s trying to be Mick Jagger, instead of some gobshite who’s weaponised the TikTok user base’s lack of taste to get here. So, yeah, of course it’s awful and cringe and a headache-and-a-half to even be around, but there’s also an album coming in February, so let’s put a pin in the ire towards this one for now, eh?

We’re still not in the clear yet, though, as it’s time for The Devil Wears Prada to prove that every worry for the Flowers era on the live stage remains founded. They’ve certainly been having a time with how miserable the reception to that album has been, but even so, they can work on it. Instead, from the very first song Ritual, Mike Hranica’s new role as ‘auxiliary presence’ is cemented with depressing dependability. He’s either way quieter than he should be, or trying to facade some enthusiasm and engagement in the big stretches where he’s just not needed. On the cottony ballad For You, especially, he seems stumped for purpose most of the time, a pseudo-hypeman if anything about this dishwater-core would warrant ‘hype’. Hell, when the crowdsurfers begin spilling over to Chemical’s trundle, it’s almost like they’re doing the band a favour. At least there’s still Danger: Wildman in here, a night-and-day experience where—for the first and only time—every member seems geed up and excited to be here. Obviously, it’s not to last; the impotence of The Devil Wears Prada in its current state means they have a tough time not dragging their feet, let alone soaring.

Honestly, thank God for Creeper. After a bitter disappointment and an outright bomb, some reliability is a joyous outcome. What colours it even further is how this just feels like another day at the office for Creeper. They’re so attached to highfalutin gothic pomp that there’s not a chance of them coming down; their bar is just that naturally high. It’s a little disheartening, then, to see how the crowd don’t appear to be as immediately taken with them as you might want. It’s likely due to the different flavour of horror being served, where Creeper carry a loucheness that’s distinctly British in feel, never to the cartoonish, OTT fare of tonight’s headliners. It’s more classic in execution, too, expectedly so from a band whose current drapery is as Sisters Of Mercy-coded as it comes. As deserving as Creeper are of the bright lights of arenadom (and have been for ages), supporting Ice Nine Kills mightn’t be its most opportune form.

That said, they’ve become the sort of band that you can’t fault. From song choice to execution to the smallest bit of aesthetic coordination, gone are the days in which a loose end will errantly fall from Creeper’s form. The rush as Mistress Of Death opens establishes that good and early, and Will Gould’s presence—the leather-clad, barrel-chested embodiment of a gothic rockstar—leaves it crystallised like a matt-black diamond. It’s the incomparable storms of Blood Magick (It’s A Ritual) or Lovers Led Astray that thrive off it the most. Not only do they bang like no one’s business, there’s that arena prestige that courses through them and makes them even huger. It’s the same with The Ballad Of Spook & Mercy looming over the blanket of attentive phone lights, and the flying brick of a closer Cry To Heaven that’s felt like a signature anthem from the second it dropped. Even without the easiest of layups they’ve had this time, Creeper’s accomplishment genuinely knows no bounds.

In any other circumstance, it’d probably be Creeper’s night to take. Yeah, their set seems to whizz by, but they’ve got more concentrated excellence than both who came before. And yet, Ice Nine Kills aren’t to be outdone. In no uncertain terms, they can’t be outdone. In any branch of alternative music, this is one of the most fully-formed, dynamic and straight-up incredible stage shows currently in operation. The number of jaw-dropping moments can’t be overstated, not when Ice Nine Kills are constantly on the move, bringing in new elements and making the visual element of their work as strong as it can be.

It’s the spectacle of this Grand Guignol that takes up the lion’s share of attention, too. It’s clearly designed that way, given the opening gambit of a giant, inflatable knifeman overlooking the Co-Op Live from the back of the stage would usually be saved for later down the line. Here, though, it’s quite literally just set-dressing. Across every song, there’s a new set of props and supporting characters introduced, fully costumed to act out whatever horror movie is being referenced at the time. So that does mean a fair number of murders, starting nice and early when a straitjacketed individual breaks from his restraints and stabs a couple of guards of Meat & Greet. (Side note: it probably works better when you’re standing dead centre, not in the seats near enough at the side of the stage, but oh well.) What’s good is how Ice Nine Kills never downplay how much of this is cheap schlock. With some of the sources they’re pulling from, they couldn’t anyway, but to deny the gory exploitation of it all is to severely diminish the fun.

With that being the keystone of this entire enterprise, there are way too many highlights to go through one by one. The set is built that way, where looking away for even a second is to risk missing another dismemberment, or a new axe or chainsaw wielded by frontman Spencer Charnas. When his more thespianic tendencies come through, he’ll be playing Patrick Bateman in the scene parodied on Hip To Be Scared, or coming out in full, high-quality Joker cosplay on The Laugh Track. Again, you cannot deny how locked-in Ice Nine Kills are with this; the effort is absolutely through the roof. The fact that The Laugh Track’s preceding TV spot has Matthew Lillard make an appearance would suggest a level of planning and outreach that, from the metalcore masses, you’d never even see considered.

There really is enough in the presentation alone to gush for an extended piece, but Ice Nine Kills are a musical act at the end of the day, and thus, music must be addressed. Not that that’s any tall ask; that’s great, too. It’s heartwarming for a metalcore band to be in possession of such grand, effective vision in all forms, at a time when being produced with the grace of a collapsing brick wall is seen as the norm in that genre. With Ice Nine Kills, there’s irrepressible colour and personality spraying like blood from a cut carotid, where ‘fun’ need not be a dirty word. They’ve got John Christianson and Matt Appleton from Reel Big Fish with them to play trumpet and saxophone respectively; covers of Walking On Sunshine and The Impression That I Get are given prime setlist real estate. If you didn’t know that Ice Nine Kills used to be a ska-punk band, they aren’t keeping it a secret from you.

For metalcore as bold and brassy as this, in which entertainment value is at a premium, there’s literally no more that the band can do. It’s all excess, all the time, with so many points of focus that no one thing is even given the chance to become overwhelming. In terms of actual cuts, it’s illustrated perfectly by the big, bouncy roil of Ex-Mørtis, or the smoke-soaked power-balladry of A Grave Mistake, or how Welcome To Horrorwood utterly towers above all comers thanks to Mike Cortada’s drumming. For the modern breed of arena-metal, it’s genuinely flawless stuff from front to back, and more daring from every angle. It’s rare to have an arena show this worth getting excited about, where any corporate poly roll has been torn to shreds and the toy box has been emptied out all over the furniture. One of those toys just so happens to be a baby that gets swung around by an evil clown, affixed to the fittingly-named A Work Of Art. For a legitimately flawless set such as this, there’s no better way to sum it up.

Words by Luke Nuttall