Shadowfang Keep has, over the years, served many purposes. Fortress, haunted ruin, worgen-infested nightmare, architectural warning, and, if local history is to be believed, a place where sensible people traditionally avoid standing around after dark.
Naturally, last night it became a concert venue.
Deadfest opened its first evening beneath crimson banners, black silhouettes, cobwebbed theatrics, and the sort of atmosphere that made one suspect the walls themselves had dressed for the occasion. The event, billed as “a weekend for the dead and their friends,” brought Forsaken, undead, allies, vendors, performers, and .. me.. who had made the terrible mistake of bringing ears.
I should say early that metal is not typically my style of music. I prefer something with melody, story, perhaps a gentle fiddle, and ideally nothing that sounds like a pack of empty barrels being argued with by a hailstorm.
That said, Deadfest had energy. A lot of energy. Possibly too much energy. If energy could be bottled, last night’s opening would have powered half of Gilneas and frightened the other half.
The evening began with Meri Tooke and Siouxsie welcoming the crowd and setting the tone: this was to be a celebration of undead identity, unity, and allyship. Personal and factional differences were, at least in principle, to be left at the gate. A noble idea, especially for an event held in a keep where half the décor seemed to be saying “turn back.”
Then came Steele and Lenosa, who opened with enough force to rattle dust from stones that had probably not moved since the Third War. Lenosa was introduced as the “Mistress of the Hellish Windpipes,” which some might have assumed was a medical condition, but having had them perform at Roaring Days 8, I knew better. Their set involved roaring (I like roaring, the more lion like the better!), shouting, dancing, and a crowd that responded as if someone had thrown a match into a barrel of enthusiasm.
By the time Steele shouted for a mosh pit, I had begun making peace with the fact that I may never hear quiet again. Speaking of mosh pits, I have never entirely understood the fascination. It seems dangerous. I therefore did what any responsible journalist would do and asked nearby experts, by which I mean people who looked far too calm about the whole thing. Vetterick (who some may know as the lead-singer and guitarist of Shredding Accordingly) explained that, for most sane people, it is an outlet for adrenaline, adding that a good mosh pit is, contrary to appearances, meant to be a safe place where people help each other up if they fall. Mazzy Bufferpump, meanwhile, offered the more gnomish interpretation: it is a place to meet people and socialise. When I raised the very reasonable concern that gnomes seemed particularly at risk near boots the size of Kesego’s (A tauren who is well known for running the Wandering Lamppost), she reassured me that gnomes can dodge very fast and are, in her words, masters of bounce. I remain unconvinced, but I respect the confidence.
The audience, to its credit, loved it. People danced, cheered, headbanged, and threw themselves fully into the night. Some came prepared with earplugs, which I now consider not merely sensible but heroic. Others simply embraced the noise with the kind of commitment normally seen in battlefield charges and bad tavern decisions.
The vendors also deserve mention. Rainblossom Brewhouse and Ginna the Baker kept the crowd supplied, with noodles, drinks, baked goods, and food specially made so undead patrons could actually taste it. That last detail was genuinely thoughtful, and perhaps the most quietly impressive thing of the night. Amid all the roaring and riffs, there was a real sense that Deadfest was trying to make room for people often treated as curiosities, threats, or punchlines.
Netherflame followed with more hard sound and sharp edges, delivering lyrics with the subtlety of a dagger through a drumskin, including repeated calls to “twist the knife,” which is not a phrase I usually associate with festive community gatherings. The crowd, however, appeared delighted. I have learned not to argue with people enjoying themselves at volume.
There where other artists, but due to an increasingly aggressive disagreement between my ears and the rest of my body, I had to leave after Mortsie and the Cogspinners ended their performance. From what I gathered on my way out, the remainder of the night promised no reduction in intensity: a one-off performance from the Banshees, equal parts haunting and theatrical; Shelley Sparks & Co adding fireworks to a keep that already feels one misplaced spark away from becoming legend; Decayed Covenant & Guests leaning into the darker end of things; and Meri Tooke returning with additional guests before a joint closing with Siouxsie to bring a semblance of structure to what would inevitably become louder, later, and less reportable.
And yet, between the noise and spectacle, there were quieter pockets of something else entirely. “Soft” is doing heavy lifting here, but it is the closest available word. People caught up with old friends, praised outfits, bought food and discussed fashion. There was laughter, flirting, concern, reunions, and a conversation which I feel should have been conducted more privately rather than in the open with a journalist present.
By the end of my stay, I could not honestly say Deadfest had converted me into a metal fan.
But I can say this: it had heart. Several hearts, perhaps, some of them still beating and some of them more metaphorical.
It was loud, theatrical, rough around the edges, and completely committed to itself. It was not just a concert, which tomorrow underlines even more. Deadfest continues tomorrow with a program which leans even further into that idea: an opening speech featuring Vivian Skybreaker, followed by a March for Undead Pride, fashion contest sign-ups and a full showcase of death and undeath themed outfits, before closing remarks and what is ominously described as a late night rave. Throughout, various stalls will remain open, including specialists catering to the undead, suggesting that the living will not be the only ones with a full evening ahead of them.