REVIEWED: Inferno Festival 2026 @ Rockefeller, Oslo (Part II)

With the gargantuan, sinew-shredding viscerality of Mayhem’s monumental headlining set still looming tangibly large as we awake to another day of prestigious, viciously engrossing sonic extremity, there’s no mistaking the proudly celebrated prominence of black metal bands operating within decidedly classic and quintessential territories this weekend. Yet, from the deathly, militaristic carnage of Kanonenfieber and the icily harrowing, undiluted catharsis of Bizarrekult through to Enslaved’s mind-bendingly intricate, folk-infused majesty, Inferno ’26 is equally furnished with a plethora of artists possessed of their own very particular iterations of this notoriously blackened subgenre. Occupying a stylistic space that’s both keenly aligned with the classically frost-stricken aesthetics of the genre while, in the same breath, being luxuriantly rich with ornately twisting melodic sensibilities, WHOREDOM RIFE’s finely tempered blend of tradition and atmosphere-laden ingenuity makes for an intoxicating live spectacle indeed.

Beneath a velvet-weighted pall of eerily gleaming, distortion-drenched symmetries and purplish plumes of dimly-illuminated smoke, ‘Den Vrede Makt’ seizes instantaneously magnetic hold of the senses. Erupting in a whiplash-inducing profusion of craggy tremolo riffing and densely hyperblasting warp speed, the Norwegians’ gargantuan fusion of ripping ultra-violence and sumptuously layered atmosphere is tangibly teeming with a myriad shades of darkness. With each ghoulishly glimmering phrase, propulsive blast and brimstone-scorched groove finding impeccable placement within this heady, intensely sinister mix, it’s with breakneck momentum that we’re hurled headlong into the wolvish, sinew-laden groove of ‘Cursing the Storm’. Face coarsely smeared with cadaverous lashings of corpse paint, vitriolic vocal talent Kjell ‘K.R.’ Rambech lunges violently back and forth into the mic, letting loose a slew of corrosive, blackly contorted screams that rupture the stratosphere with thoroughly diabolical enormity. From here, a veritable blizzard of bone-splintering blasts and sleekly writhing lines of reverberating riffery coalesce into an onslaught that’s as indescribably packed with bludgeoning ferocity as it is awash with grave-scented atmosphere. And as its ornately spiralling central refrain slowly ebbs away and dissolves into nothingness, a triumphant swathe of applause rises from the visibly rapt genre devotees gathered here tonight.

BIZARREKULT

In amongst the meticulously curated pomp and pyrotechnic-laden ceremony of the Rockefeller main stage, there’s something enticingly novel about the way in which bands like BIZARREKULT choose to manifest their altogether more understated and curiously enigmatic presence. With a confoundingly ambiguous namesake whose chaotic assortment of jagged, starkly angular consonants palpably bristles with hostility, the Russian-Norwegian collective’s aesthetically pared-back showing here within the ink-black, subterranean bowels of the John Dee basement club comprises an experience of indescribably evocative proportions.

Silhouetted forms scarcely discernible beneath a dense, unrelenting swathe of Mariana Trench-hued stage lighting, it’s with whiplash-inducing immediacy that we’re submerged in a bludgeoning, viciously disorienting tsunami of undiluted existential torment. Perched precariously atop a speaker as he lets loose an incandescent slew of infernal, larynx-corroding shrieks, frontman Roman V. hurls himself headlong into this incendiary aural assault with rapturously unhinged abandon. Certainly, with their sonically bone-shattering pairing of propulsive hyperblasts and scabrous, densely muscled groove, there’s no mistaking Bizarrekult’s audible reverence for depressive black metal masters Shining. Nor in the seamless cohesiveness with which they layer in a beguiling multiplicity of sumptuously enveloping atmospherics.

Yet, as perhaps most abundantly illustrated by ‘Blikket Hennes’s’ fluidly orchestrated transitions from frantically rampaging, blastbeat-laden ultra-violence to suffocating, tombstone-weighted expanses of ceaselessly writhing tremolo that bear down upon us with all the grimly inexorable gravity of mortal suffering, these lesser-known talents summon forth a calibre of existential anguish that’s indisputably their own. And that’s all before an intensely climactic flurry of eerily reverberating vocal harmonies elevates this genre-obliterating standout to a heartrending pinnacle of melancholia.

Like gleaming, obsidian-hued gems whose sumptuously enveloping throes find impeccable placement in amongst various, white-hot implosions of lacerating, second wave-era ultra-violence, seldom does an artist blend these two seemingly opposing energies to such darkly engrossing effect. And from the exquisitely sculpted lines of riffery whose blackly entwining, grave-scented throes pull us ever deeper into ‘Drøm’s’ veritable underworld of harrowing grimness to jagged profusions of thrash-stricken riffage that rend at the senses with claws as keen as bereavement, Bizarrekult’s capacity for channelling the most visceral and morbidly entrancing of energies is nothing short of limitless.

From the gut-wrenchingly melancholic requiem Mozart penned shortly before succumbing to terminal illness at the tragically young age of 35 to the debilitating extremes of grief that spawned Mary Shelley’s iconic gothic masterwork Frankenstein, there’s no denying the keenly observable correlation between existential torment and truly exceptional works of dark art. Indeed, with its unflinchingly visceral array of sound barrier-shattering blastbeats, corrosive tremolo and morbidly enveloping atmospherics, extreme metal is a medium uniquely equipped to harness and transfigure these psychically harrowing human experiences into the stuff of adrenaline-fuelled cathartic brilliance - an intoxicating feat that genre-twisting German black metal squadron KANONENFIEBER tonight accomplish with synapse-scorching mastery.  

KANONENFIEBER

Atop a stage liberally bestrewn with sandbags and sepia-tinged wartime photography, the ghastly, icily harrowing weight of human suffering can be keenly felt from the moment the soberly attired collective loom into view. And within a mere few minutes of grandiose, ornately sculpted fretwork and disparate fragments of WWI-era propaganda whose feverishly emphatic syllables crackle and quiver over the PA like restless spirits from the beyond, our present surroundings rapidly blur and dissolve into insignificance, leaving behind nothing but a gaping maw of terror and oblivion – a void into which we, half mesmerised, half consumed with horror – willingly surrender ourselves.  

Then, in a stupefying blaze of densely pulverising blasts and retina-scorching strobes, ‘Der Fusillier I’ hurls us headlong into a deliriously energised orgy of brutality, its frantically careening snares imploding out of the mix like fatally jagged fragments of airborne shrapnel. With its battering throes finding impeccably measured synchronicity with a bewilderingly intricate light show whose whirling, frantically pulsating motions add no small amount of disorientating unease to the mix, all the undiluted carnage of the battlefield is here in rich, thoroughly disquieting abundance. Together with a visually arresting stage design whose meticulous attention to historical detail operates on a par worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster, Kanonenfieber showcase equally adept command over their lacerating and intensely immersive musical dynamics.  

Pulling together influences as varied as bone-shatteringly percussive death metal and ink-black atmospherics that audibly bristle with malevolent intent, both calculating placement and an audible knack for exquisitely layered compositional arrangement prove keenly prominent throughout the proceeding portion of the Germans’ exhilarating set. And with its stratosphere-rupturing climax of larynx-corroding screams and staccato-laden blasts finding wondrously volatile placement in amongst blackly engulfing expanses of scabrousdecay-stricken riffage, ‘Der Füsilier I’ illustrates electrifying deployment of its stylistically expansive component parts. Elsewhere, ‘Kampf Und Sturm’ ignites an instant, deliriously energised frenzy among fans, its bristling, frantically contorting tremolo accents coalescing into an indescribably hostile assault as ghoulishly echoing blasts of submarine sonar punctuate the mix with their cold and claustrophobic subterranean death knell.  

As a sonically colossal standout that’s as luxuriantly drenched in deathly grandeur as it is audibly weighted with anguish, ‘Menschenmühle’ conjures forth a calibre of darkness potent enough to chill the very marrow in our bones. Beneath a frantically flickering configuration of crimson stage lights and pyrotechnics that spew upward with all the livid ferocity of soul-ravaging hellfire, a tsunami of staccato-stricken blasts and whirling tremolo pulls us under with instantaneous, grimly inexorable magnetism. From its fervent, rallying cries of ‘Deutschland! Deutschland!’ to mausoleum-sized expanses of sleekly unravelling, sepulchral riffage, short of staring down the barrel of a bayonet, this is as authentic and visceral an evocation of the atrocities of war as it’s humanly possible to recreate.

ENSLAVED

As one of the landmark artists who co-headlined Inferno’s now-iconic inaugural voyage back in 2001, there’s no overstating the immeasurable gravitas and nostalgia attached to Enslaved’s tremendously anticipated headlining set tonight. And with the beers flowing freely on this most exceptionally hedonistic of holy weekends, it’s easy to wax lyrical over the Norwegians’ intrinsic connections with the densely forested and frost-stricken landscape that’s long been synonymous with their stirringly primal signature sound. Yet, as a band who’ve since amassed a staggering sixteen albums over the sonically intrepid course of three and a half prestigious decades in extreme music, theirs is a legend that far surpasses the quintessentially frostbitten parameters of classic black metal. Tipped to comprise an epic, career-spanning body of material sourced from all corners of their genre-obliterating back catalogue, this is the ultimate manifestation of a sonic entity that’s long occupied its own truly inimitable space in heavy metal.    

Via colossal expanses of lush, sleekly unfurling fretwork and vertigo-inducing vocal harmonies, 2010 classic ‘Ethica Odini’ makes for a wondrously transporting inroad into tonight’s exhilarating festivities. Pairing synapse-scorching pacing with exquisitely nimble manipulation of its gravity-defying whorls of reverb, densely muscled groove and sumptuously enveloping atmospherics, the meticulously layered intricacy and intense euphoria permeating their set from the get-go makes for a grandiose, instantly magnetic spectacle. Together with a vast, upturned triangular screen whose gleaming, looking glass-like surface swarms with a myriad ethereal images spanning everything from fir tree-blanketed forests to gargantuan flashes of forked lightning, every conceivable inch of the Norwegians’ towering stage presence abounds with echoes and vibrations of another realm.

Numbering, without question, one of the most compositionally masterful and mind-bendingly intricate facets of Enslaved’s colossal back catalogue, ‘Sequence’ is a labyrinthine, thoroughly idiosyncratic beast of a standout. Across hallucinogenic expanses of weightlessly soaring vocal hooks, manic time signatures and lush, fluidly cascading riffage that recalls the sweeping, psychedelic grandeur of progressive rock icons, Genesis, this is an outstanding exercise in genre-transcending musical alchemy.  

Maintaining riveting, stylistically fluid momentum via a setlist that splices in a smattering of markedly more metal-oriented tracks in amongst these gargantuan feats of genre-shattering progressive mastery, the sinewy groove and howling, dizzyingly euphoric vocal hooks of ‘Homebound’ ignite an instantaneous, horn-throwing frenzy among fans. With densely packed hordes of visibly ecstatic punters piled up in every imaginable nook and corner of the generously proportioned, three-storey venue, the shadowy confines of the Rockefeller are tangibly thick with the unmistakably electric, collective energy of some 1,300 audibly enraptured souls.

Wrapping up tonight’s blistering headlining set with thoroughly blackened and spine-chilling 1992 classic ‘Allfǫðr Oðinn’, the Bergen-based natives could have scarcely landed on a more electrifying choice of grand finale. Setting the synapses alight with its breakneck episodes of abrasive thrash and mammoth, eardrum-puncturing blasts that frantically accelerate and implode in amongst moonlit expanses of sumptuously gothic, keyboard-laden symphonies, this obsidian-hearted slab is both richly entrenched in ’90s nostalgia yet simultaneously possessed of all the ingenuity and ethereal intensity for which these inimitable icons have long been globally revered. Finding its dizzyingly euphoric climax in a gargantuan, final flourish of bellowing, incantation-like cries of ‘ODIIIIN!’ and monstrously rumbling percussion, there’s a momentary breath of awe-stricken silence before the whole venue erupts in a deafening frenzy of ecstatic applause.  

Missed Part I of our Inferno Festival coverage? Click HERE to check it out now.