Amenra – Live in Bremen

Right.

Here we are. Again.

Another gig I was supposed to write a live report for.

Another one I absolutely cannot write a live report for.

And yes—I know.

You’re rolling your eyes.

So am I. 

This makes two in a row, if anyone’s keeping track. First Déhà derailed my cognitive functions in Hamburg three weeks ago, and now Amenra have done the same—with fog machines, Belgian despair, and the spiritual equivalent of being emotionally stapled to the venue floor.

I don’t even fight it anymore. Apparently, I have a nose for picking events I think I can write about—only to find out afterwards that I absolutely can't. At this point, I should really stop pretending I know what I’m doing.

So here it is. Not a live report. Not really.

If you want a neat, objective breakdown of what happened—go read the setlist.

What you’ll get here instead is the pre-show chaos, the noise confusion, the slow emotional collapse, and me, once again, questioning whether I’m still fit for this line of work or if I’ve just developed a worrying habit of having minor existential crises in front of fog machines.

Cool?

Cool.

Schlachthof Bremen. A cultural centre, multi-purpose venue, general haven of the arts—and most importantly, toilets before the ticket scan. That alone earns a venue my eternal respect.

We showed up around 19:00, an hour before the show. I drifted over to the guest list window, said my name, and yep—there it was. Listed, tagged with "Foto". So far, so smooth. No fuss. I got a stamp. But no pass. Nothing that would signal to security that I was actually allowed to bring my camera in.

So I asked. The woman behind the counter blinked at me with cheerful confusion and said, "But there’s no pit. Nobody cares."

Oooookay.

I took my stamped hand and went back to the entrance. And—of course—the moment I got to the security check: "Are you allowed to bring that camera in?"

I said yes.

She looked unsure.

So back we went. Me and the slightly concerned security lady. Back to the box office, which now featured not just confusion but also a gloriously buttered slice of bread. Mid-discussion, the woman behind the window took a bite.

And I’m not kidding—I was genuinely jealous. It was the most grounded, peaceful moment of my day. She had bread. I had bureaucracy. I wanted to trade.

In the end, we agreed that people with camera permission would just get two stamps. Sorted.

In the most amicable, unbothered, wildly German way possible.

No one was annoyed.

No one was stressed.

There was no pit.

There was no photopass.

There was just a shared shrug and a "this’ll do."

And of course it did.

Double-stamped, I made a beeline for the merch stand, obviously. Patch and shirt, no hesitation. 25 euros for a shirt, 5 for the patch—totally reasonable. No one tried to upsell me a tote bag I didn’t need. Felt like a win.

At the stand, I clocked Youniss—support act, casually present. Which immediately triggered a small internal panic. Because I realised: I had not done my homework. Not a clue what kind of music he made. Not even a genre ballpark.

So I did what any unprepared, slightly panicked person does in these moments: I googled.

Instagram? Gave me absolutely nothing. I already knew what he looked like.

Bandcamp? Hit me with:

"I’m so post-post what you want from me."

Okay.

Okay.

Website? Didn’t help. Or rather—it helped too much. Suddenly I was knee-deep in phrases like jagged rhythms, distorted vocals, glitchy syncopation, post-punk, hip-hop influenced poetry, Belgium’s colonial history, and something about quantum particles. I already felt stupid. And like this was going to be a lot.

Armed with a beer and absolutely no expectations, we headed into the Kesselhalle.

Old industrial bones, all iron beams and exposed brick, welded seamlessly into a space that actually works. The stage is framed by a U-shaped balcony and tiered seating that climbs all the way up like a miniature amphitheatre—which means: You can see. No matter your height, no matter where you land—there’s a spot. A seat. A step. A ledge. This place doesn’t just accommodate chaos—it organises it.

I scoped the stage, located the bass setup, and immediately parked myself in direct visual alignment.

Because. You know.

Amy Tung Barrysmith.

I make no secret of it: full-on girl crush.

It’s always the bass for me. But when it’s played by someone like her? Come on. Of course I’m in love. How could I not be? I could happily sit and watch until the building collapsed around us.

So. Yeah. I was ready.

But I think it’s meant to be like that. It’s not supposed to be easy. It doesn’t follow patterns. Maybe it’s not even meant to be understood—or only by a certain kind of person. Which might mean we’re a bit stupid. But maybe not.

Maybe it’s just okay to say:

I didn’t get it.

But keep going.

Put it out there anyway.

You couldn’t separate band from audience in that moment. It was just one tide of bodies, all locked into the same pulse. Everyone in sync. Everyone with them.

That’s the only way I can describe it.

Immersive.

Immediate.

Uncompromising.

Second track in, they played Razoreater—one of my absolute favourites.

And I could not have been fucking happier.

Seriously. I love this song. And live?

It kicked ass.

The sound was flawless. Every instrument had its place. The vocals didn’t drown, but they didn’t dominate either. Whoever did front of house that night? Give that person a raise.

They played ten songs in total, spanning everything from Mass III to Mass VI, plus the post-mass releases—De Doorn and  With Fang and Claw. But the focus was Mass VI, naturally. Which meant we got A Solitary Reign.

You know the one.

The fan favourite. The heartbreak anthem. The one song everybody knows, everybody loves.

And how could you not? It’s perfect. It just is. Sorry. Not sorry.

That was the moment I packed up my camera.

Took out my earplugs.

Closed my eyes.

And just let it wreck me.

I try to be sensible, usually. Save the hearing, protect the assets, all that.

But that night? I didn’t care.

Tinnitus be damned—I wanted it all.

I wanted to feel every frequency crawling under my skin, into my ribs, through my chest.

I wanted the sound to become my entire internal landscape.

Everything fit that night. From the first note to the last, every piece clicked into place like it had been summoned.

And the rest?

Effortless. The drumming—tight, heavy, perfectly restrained. The guitars—drenched in grief, never overplayed. And of course: Amy. I barely blinked.

Turns out I’m more of a visual person than I thought. I’d been worried the intensity I felt from Amenra’s music wouldn’t survive the transition to a stage. That the live version would somehow dilute the weight of it.

But I was wrong.

The performance, the lighting, the projection, the presence of it all—it didn’t soften the music.

It amplified it. Dialled everything up to 11. And then broke the dial off.

When the last note was played and the lights went out, my heart just—dropped. Not in a dramatic way. Just that quiet, immediate sense of loss.

I didn’t want it to be over. Didn’t want to leave the space I’d just been pulled into. Didn’t want to return to normal gravity, fluorescent lights, and my own thoughts.

But the lights came on.

And the band? Snapped back into being human in record time. Amy brought her bass back out to talk nerdy gear stuff with a guy who had opinions. She smiled. Took selfies. She was perfect. Obviously. My heart expanded three sizes. The others chatted, signed things, packed up like it was just another Tuesday.

And Colin? Gone. Just—vanished.

No wave, no nod, no curtain call. Like the fog swallowed him and he never existed in the first place. It was almost impressive. Everyone else was doing wholesome crowd work and he just—spiritually evaporated. Respect.

Me?

I sat there longer than I should’ve.

Stuck. Hovering. Not ready.

Even now, writing this—

I’m realising I’m still not completely over it.