How do you review a show that’s deeply personal? I asked myself this question all day before approaching pen and paper, as these words are meant to give those who couldn’t attend a grasp of what happened. The thing is, at an Amenra concert, each and every member of the audience experiences something deeply rooted in their own psyche—a unique response to emotionally charged post-metal and sludgy soundscapes. You cannot encapsulate the collective experience in words; it was more like a whirlpool of souls spinning in a neverending ocean of cleansing sadness.
I hardly ever go to the barrier—I’m 6ft tall and carry the tall-person guilt at most shows—but for this, I made an exception. Wiggling to the very front felt essential to the experience. Listeners get obsessed with Amenra; it usually toes the line between devoted fandom and something that borders on a cult following. This isn’t the kind of music you put on casually in the background. There’s always intention. You listen because you want to feel something. It’s a catalyst, a guided meditation through discomfort and emotion. It’s beautiful, and yet you can’t look away.
They emanate stoicism from the moment they walk on stage. There’s no space for friendly waves or smiles. This show is serious—it carries unbearable weight. When sound filled the Roundhouse, everyone froze, feeling its power. Then, trance-inducing rhythms embraced us all, gently guiding us into movements that felt almost like bowing. Some in the crowd let go completely, moving in a snake-like dance, as if Amenra were their charmer. Others resisted, standing frozen, trying to grasp the overwhelming visuals. It was a feast for the senses.
Backdrop videography accompanied each song—eerie and uncanny imagery that somehow mirrored the innermost parts of ourselves, hidden deep beneath the surface. I cried. I felt so many things. The harrowing screams surfaced, still-unhealed pain collected over the years, lurking in the corners of the mind. I wasn’t the only one.
The band is aware of how important their work is to some people. They act almost like guides, with their wailing sound leading us down the river Cocytus—the river of cries and lamentation in Greek mythology, flowing through the depths of the underworld. The Greeks believed it’s where souls without proper burial ended up, refused passage by Charon. We are all still alive, not buried—so this allegory, I think, really works for Amenra’s music.
Standing so close to the stage, you can absorb the sheer skill of Amenra’s musicianship. The delicate sections, where fingers barely graze strings, hypnotised me. The harmony and stillness required for the band to blend into a singular organism is astounding. Colin H. van Eeckhout poured his whole self into the lyrical parts of the performance. Half the time, he looked away from the audience, tearing through his vocal cords, breathing out tormented screams—bearing his wounds open. It felt metaphorical, like picking at lyrical scabs so they bleed out again and again after each show.
Towards the end of the set, a dark figure appeared on the screen, walking closer and closer toward us down an empty, tree-lined alley—ominous, haunting. It felt like pain, like grief, like depression. And just as the figure neared, the powerful instrumentals swelled and broke it apart. The fog, a motif throughout the show, thickened once more—and Amenra was gone.
Walking away from the barrier was difficult. There was a need to compose yourself, to recenter, to return to society from that place of inner reflection. Nothing will ever be the same after this show.