As part of their 2024 Superstition Euro Totem Tour, Soulfly made a stop in Sint-Niklaas, Belgium, this past weekend. Their 19-song setlist, spanning over two decades of tribal fury, left the adrenaline-fueled crowd craving more—even after the band had already obliterated the venue halfway through.
At the end of last week, I found myself trapped in a whirlwind of first-world problems. A good friend and I had traveled to Dublin to see Blink-182 live, convinced that it would be worth every penny. And honestly, regardless of how you feel about them, you can’t deny that this is a particularly interesting time to see Mark, Tom, and Travis in action. Songs from dust-collecting projects like +44, Box Car Racer, and Cheshire Cat, bundled into one set alongside the old and new hits? That’s something you’ll only catch in 2024. And since I’m hardly different from the average concertgoer in the 21st century, I wanted to seize the chance to capture a digital souvenir. As it turns out though, my phone’s hardware still hasn’t grasped the sound and concept of a kick drum. My friend thought this was hilarious, but I was secretly hoping that at least one of my concert videos of this pop-punk band wouldn’t sound like a Death Grips remix.
Fast forward to less than 24 hours later, I realized I’d have to rawdog half of our return flight. The only form of entertainment I had downloaded on my phone was a playlist consisting of nerdcore songs, 2010s vaporwave, and part of The Sims soundtrack. I couldn’t even listen to an episode of the Nu-Metal Agenda podcast. What a torturous ordeal! At least I had a window seat.
Once home, I tried to savor the recent events by watching yet another Gordon Ramsay show, but my enjoyment was quickly derailed by an annoying train of thought. Something felt off. Why was I suddenly so tired and unproductive? Was this the onset of post-college depression? How long could I put off my job search? Just when this mental spiral seemed never-ending, a deus ex machina appeared in the form of a Ticketswap notification. Someone was selling their ticket for the Soulfly concert in Sint-Niklaas that very evening. I’d had the ticket alert on for over a month, but I wasn’t sure if I felt like trekking to a different part of the country for it. Then I reminded myself of the geographical reality of Belgium. If I’m willing to fly for Blink-182, what’s stopping me from driving an hour for Soulfly? After a brief internal debate, I surprised myself by being the quickest to snag the ticket. Call me superstitious, but when I saw that ticket with a fierce-looking Max Cavalera striking a goofy nu-metal pose, I knew I had made the right choice. I needed a night of crushing riffs and a crowd-killer to knock some sense into me.
Before Cavalera’s “side project” took the stage, the night kicked off with a Belgian band called Bark—an aptly named group that could pass for a Knocked Loose cover band. Get it? Because they're called Bark? These guys flirted with hardcore throughout their set but leaned heavily on thrash and heavy metal influences. Despite the “SUPPORT SOULFLY” label in bold under Bark’s name on the poster, at least a dozen loyal fans still showed up for them as well and were shouting along with the singer, whose vocals were impressively strong. This was clearly a band with experience, and not just because they looked a bit older.
It was my first time at De Casino—the venue where this metalfest took place—and the classic, pristine interior of the hall immediately caught my eye. I was surprised to learn there wasn’t an actual casino attached. The upscale surroundings made a fun contrast with the band that was about to make the floor sticky and filthy: Soulfly. By the time we heard the opening notes of “Superstition,” the third song in the set, they’d already succeeded in their mission. I'll admit that I contributed to the chaos by accidentally knocking someone’s beer onto the floor while reaching for my phone to capture yet another digital memory. The person shot me a disappointed look before heading into the circle pit. My flushed cheeks and I had no better idea than to follow the person I’d just unbeer’d. Once we were done running in circles, I found the spot where I feel at home at pretty much any concert: the third or fourth row, just in front of the moshers, close enough to soak in the full force of Soulfly’s spiritual aggression. You should know that Cavalera and co opened the show with ‘Um, dois, três, quatro’ / “Back to the Primitive,” so the pit was already preheated to 400°F or higher. Every shove or push I received was met with a mix of pain and love.
I couldn’t resist diving in and out of the pit and headbanging to the relentless sounds of “Prophecy,” “Tribe,” and “Fire,” each song making the remarkably diverse crowd go more nuts than before. During one of those tracks, the friendly bearded giant next to me made a cutthroat gesture towards bassist Mike Leon, who responded in kind. It’s always cool to see that kind of connection between fan and artist, though I wasn’t sure what they planned to do with each other during or after the show. It made me realize I need to hit up more metal shows. It also made me realize I need to work out more because my height apparently gives people the false impression that I’m jacked. I barely managed to catch two crowdsurfers, one of whom had two fingers up his nose (sorry, dude). When Cavalera—sometimes with a mischievous grin—commanded us to scream along, I eagerly obeyed. What else was I supposed to do? Ignore one of the most pivotal metal musicians alive?
Amid all the chaos, I kept reflecting on how privileged I was to see this Brazilian legend and his guitar collection up close in such an intimate venue. The two fans behind me waving a large Brazilian flag—much to Cavalera’s delight—must have felt the same. On the other hand, I noticed how the frontman occasionally had to ease off the gas, which is completely understandable after 40 years of growling, screaming, and riffing. Of course, he can count on his family, of whom he is undoubtedly proud. His son Zion remains a talented drummer who’s clearly learned from Uncle Igor. He absolutely crushed “Filth Upon Filth.” His other son, Ritchie, took over the Durst duties, repeatedly yelling “Bleed” into our faces. And just when I thought this family reunion couldn’t get any bigger, I spotted Cavalera’s wife and manager sitting on a bench side stage, occasionally filming her husband—probably to show the kids later, even though they were right there. As the final notes of “Eye for an Eye” echoed through the hall, some other members of the incredibly diverse audience and I wondered what the encore would be. We didn’t yet realize they’d already played 19 songs. I guess time flies when you’re watching anyone but “motherfucking Hootie & The Blowfish.”
Miraculously, I made it out without bruises or torn clothes. I had stepped outside for not even two minutes when I suddenly stopped in my tracks. My peripheral vision caught a glimpse of what could be Soulfly’s tour bus staring back at me. “Goodnight, Max!” a slightly drunk fan yelled at the bus. Indeed, goodnight. And until next time.
