66. Opeth

Roundhouse

11 October 2014

Opeth have spent their career see-sawing between the realms of death metal brutality and indulgent prog odysseys, like a band permanently locked in an identity crisis. Their latest album, Pale Communion, is their proggiest yet, a full embrace of intricate melodies, sprawling compositions, and time signatures that sound like they were devised by someone falling down a spiral staircase. This made it the perfect musical Venn diagram for both my metal-headed mate and my prog-loving self.

Except, there was a problem. We were knackered. Properly, bone-weary exhausted. Late nights, work stress, and a fair amount of jet lag had reduced us to two husks of men, clinging desperately to consciousness through sheer force of will. But a gig is a gig. And when you’ve got tickets, you turn up, no matter how much every fibre of your being is begging you to be sensible and locate a comfy sofa or an early night.

What we didn’t expect was for Opeth, the band known for their crushing, doom-laden riffs and thunderous sonic landscapes, to become the world’s most unexpected lullaby.

Somewhere in the cavernous expanse of the Roundhouse, amid the deep, rumbling doom-bass that shook the venue like a tectonic tantrum, we fell asleep. Not for long, mind you, just a couple of tracks, but long enough to suddenly realise we had, in fact, just dozed off at an Opeth gig. It turns out, if you’re exhausted enough, even music that sounds like a mountain collapsing can lull you into a brief, blissful unconsciousness.

Thankfully, they picked up the tempo before we slipped into full REM cycles, snapping us out of our ill-advised doom-metal nap just in time to avoid missing too much. But the lesson was clear: if you ever find yourself struggling with insomnia, and all the herbal tea and whale noises in the world aren’t cutting it, just whack on a bit of crushing progressive doom metal. Works a treat