The final day of this year’s Download Festival was all about one thing. The Godfathers of Metal. The Genre Defining Legends. The Greatest Rock Band Ever. Black Sabbath. As the purveyors and progenitor of all that is unghodly and heavy they would have proudly surveyed those that have come in their wake. Onto the Marshall Stage emerge the effortless cool of Kyuss Lives!. John Garcia all in black, shades affixed and lost in trance as the stoner blues drone propels an inner force forward astride a “Green Machine”. An unmistakeable twisting groove conjuring dancing figures in the mirage heat haze of “100°”. Gears are shifted as thrash legends Anthrax bum rush the stage and sprint through a set of classics. Lead singer Joe Belladonna, a hyperactive Red Bull quaffing ball of energy, is the embodiment of being “Caught In A Mosh”. Donning head dress for “Indians” he goes all Bono at Live Aid and heads for the front row. Circle pits open up to the chant of wardance before “I Am The Law” allows Scott Ian one more stomp-kick-CBGB’s-flail and brings their set to a end. Over on the second stage lion maned warbler Sebastian Bach is all ‘what the fuck’s up Donington’ and ‘I wanna see ya tearing it up’. Delivering a Skid Row’s greatest hits set, ‘Slave To The Grind’ opening, ‘Youth Gone Wild’ closing and the ballads ’18 And Life’ and ‘I Remember You’ squashed in the middle, his voice strains at the high notes but singalongs abound and ego gets him through. Plugging in and wigging out in the hospitable hotspot of the Red Bull Bedroom was the cacophony beamed from planet Kopek. A foot stomping, fist pumping, monitor mounting set that used every ounce of oxygen to “Bring It On Home”. Watching from the audience were Mark and Shane from The Minutes. Leaving the payers to take their place with the players they delivered their own high octane set. Strutting, shaping and slamming riffs that jutted and jived with mischievous anarchic poise. Back at the main stage in front of a phalanx of Marshall’s finest Megadeth administer a lesson in controlled anger and precision applied aggression. These days Dave Mustaine stands aloof and lets his music speak which is more than adequate given the quality of the intricate post thrash prog interplay between himself and Chris Broderick. “Head Crusher” and “Sweating Bullets” prove that the bile and bite are still present. The anthemic “Peace Sells” brings talisman of doom Vic Rattlehead onstage to orchestrate the apocalyptic singalong. An encore of “Holy Wars” leaves no necks unsnapped. Ghost may not be everyone’s cup of Scooby Doo satanic doom but they do create their own unique world of theatrical worship. Oh and they have the tunes to back it up. The Cardinal directed his faceless berobed ghouls through the rituals. The rattling bass of “Con Clavi Con Dio” opening the mass, dreamy rock stylings extolling praise in “Satan Prayer”, the clavichord of “Genesis” mocking the myth of origin and the rock groove of “Ritual” sending the followers off into a don’t fear the reaper styled trance. Soundgarden confuse cool and aloof with bored and disinterested. Workman like and devoid of feeling there was an almost palpable feeling of not wanting to be there. “Black Hole Sun” dragged and “Spoon Man” was jaded. They departed the stage amidst a wall of wailing feedback to a muted response. By contrast the old masters showed them how it should be done.
Night falls. The sound of rain. A lone peeling bell. Three ominous notes ring out. The godfathers of metal (well three quarters of them) Black Sabbath step forth. Expectations are high. Expectations are surpassed. Ozzy is all crab jumps, hand claps and shuffled running. Geezer is stoic studied concentration and rumbling funk. Tony is the dark lord effortlessly spitting out riff brilliance that is seductive, crushingly heavy and masterfully controlled. “Iron Man”, “War Pigs”, “Snowblind” et al are all duly delivered with aplomb whilst lesser played tunes from the extensive back catalogue, the psychedelic stoner “Behind The Wall Of Sleep”, the pulverising doom of “Under The Sun” and the disturbed jazz of “Dirty Women”, astound. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Savage Bloody Sabbath.