Riffage Worship Begins and Ends Here: Unholy Good Friday at Stay Gold.Words by Mark. J and Pics by Dan McKay.

 Riffage Worship Begins and Ends Here: Unholy Good Friday at Stay Gold

Words by Mark. J and Pics by Dan McKay.

Stay Gold, Melbourne, April 2026 (or whenever the hell this unholy sacrament actually went down). The air was already thick with weed, beer, sweat, and that unmistakable tang of anticipation before the first distorted chord even hit. Seven bands deep into crushing death, thrash, crust, doom, and industrial punishment—this wasn’t just a gig, it was a proper shedding of skin. The kind of night that reminds you why we still crawl out of our holes for live music in 2026.

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Beanflipper closed the night like the filth-soaked crust metal legends they are. No theatrics, no bullshit—just pure, rotting malevolence. Their riffs land like wet concrete, slow enough to feel the weight but urgent enough to make the floor move. 

Every lively track is a classic, that unmistakable Beanflipper stench of decay and defiance still intact after all these years. Their return to live shows after an eternity sees them in the best form of their gritty career. The pit was a churning mess of bodies during the mid-set eruption, and when they locked into that final dirge, it felt less like a headline set and more like a sermon for the already converted. They didn’t just headline; they reminded everyone why groovy crust-metal still matters when it’s done with this much venom.

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Battlegrave delivered one of the rarest and most vicious surprises of the night. Melbourne’s thrash/death mercs don’t surface often, and it showed in the feral energy. 

Blistering speed, razor-sharp riffs, and a vocalist who sounded like he was coughing up broken glass and old grudges. They hit like a freight train that’s been left idling in a junkyard for a decade—raw, mechanical, and utterly without mercy. The mosh pit that opened up was one of the nastiest of the night. If this was a “very rare show,” consider the hunger fully sated. More of this, please.

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The one-off reunion of Womb To Tomb was the emotional gut-punch a lot of us didn’t know we needed. Franga’s own hardcore-metal warlords cracked open old wounds with a set that felt equal parts celebration and exorcism. 

The raucous riffs still hit with that same unhinged, teeth-baring intensity that made them cult favourites back in the day. There were very few rusty moments—inevitable after years away—but they leaned into it, turning any hesitation into extra snarl. By the end of their potent set, the room was roaring along like no time had passed. Proper reunion magic: messy, heartfelt, and loud as fuck.

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Munitions came in red fucking hot off their recent Shotties rampage and showed zero signs of slowing down. They are getting heaps of support slots for internationals and metal fests, and it's damn easy to see why. Relentless, unrepentant riffing that walks the line between groove and outright violence. 

They play with the sheer confidence of a band that knows exactly how low they can tune the guitars and still make it swing like a hammer to the skull. The crowd was properly warmed up by this point and gave back every bit of the energy. No-frills, high-impact riffy metal that does exactly what it says on the tin. And fronted by one of the best metal vocalists in Oz.

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100 Years War brought the sonic blasphemy for their first show in god-knows-how-long. This was old-school punishment wrapped in eerie atmosphere—brutal riffs that feel like they were dug up from unconsecrated ground. 

There’s a ritualistic weight to their sound that few bands manage without descending into parody. They sounded absolutely huge in the room, the kind of set that leaves you buzzing long after the last feedback died. This kill squad are equally death-metal as much as gutter-style crust, and all the better for it. The band are made up of scene veterans, and the masterful skills on show were mindboggling.

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Industrial metal rarely feels this alive and unhinged as it did with Knife. A four-piece savage band minus drums who understand that beats should bludgeon and burrow at the same time. 

They kept it short, sharp, and nasty—danceable in the most violent way possible. The electronic throb cut through the guitar-heavy night like a chainsaw through fog, and the crowd responded with that dazed, head-nodding appreciation that turns into full-body movement whether you want it to or not. Exactly the kind of left-turn the bill needed. (Words by Tom.C.)

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Bringing up the hectic doom side of things was the new(ish) powerhouse Mind Rot (crawling out of the bong smoke and waking up the entire two suburbs). Thick, sludgy riffage with enough groove and fucked-up charisma to make even the most jaded crusties bang their heads. 

They play doom like it’s supposed to be—fun, heavy, and slightly unhinged. The “for the whole family” energy was real; half the room was grinning through the haze while the other half looked ready to dissolve into the floor. A serious upcoming force that needs to drop a release asap.

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Unholy Good Friday wasn’t just another stacked bill—it was one of those rare nights where every band brought something distinct, and the room felt like the right place to be. No filler, no weak links, just seven different shades of heavy. Stay Gold smelled like victory and stale piss by the end, which is exactly how these things should go.

If you missed it, you missed the deranged church. Hail satan.