There are bands that inspire you. Bands that rattle your ribs, rearrange your insides, and make you believe music can change the trajectory of a life. Then there are bands that become part of your flesh and blood. For me, that band is Bleeding Through.
I first heard them in 2002. Within weeks, I had started my first band. Not because I wanted fame, or a stage, or a microphone — but because something in that sound ignited a fire I didn’t know how to extinguish. Bleeding Through didn’t just introduce me to metalcore — they gave me a voice.
Fast forward to Froth & Fury in Adelaide, 31.01.26. I wasn’t there to play. I was there to witness. Camera in hand, heart open, standing in the crowd watching the same band that started it all step onto a festival stage and turn it into a warzone — but a joyful one.
Their set ran about 40 minutes, packed with old classics and new material, and not for a single second did the energy dip. It was a festival set in the truest sense — built to move bodies, lift spirits, and detonate emotion. The crowd didn’t just watch — they participated. Voices raised, fists in the air, pits opening and closing like breathing lungs. The band fed the crowd. The crowd fed the band. The whole thing became a closed circuit of chaos and love.
During “Seek and Revenge,” Brandan turned the entire crowd into a boot camp — the pit dropped for push-ups, the floor became a gym Rise Against Fitness style, and Adelaide obeyed. In exchange, he paid the ultimate Australian toll: a full-blown Aussie Shoey. Sweat, beer, and collective madness sealed in one unholy ritual.
Then came the moment that hit me straight in the chest: Andrew Neufeld from Comeback Kid walking out to join them for I Am Resistance — the first time it’s ever been played live together. The crowd erupted. The band lit up. It felt like watching two worlds collide in the best possible way — not as a gimmick, but as a genuine celebration of community, friendship, and shared history in heavy music.
Brandan’s vocals were massive — commanding, raw, and emotionally charged. Offstage he’s kind, grounded, and warm. Onstage he becomes something else entirely — a force of nature, a charismatic wrecking ball with a heart. The night before, we laughed and talked like old mates. Watching him then step onto that stage and absolutely destroy was one of those surreal moments where friendship and fandom collide in the most beautiful way.
Marta’s presence was something else entirely. If Brandan is the heart of Bleeding Through, she is the soul. Her playing is beautifully brutal — haunting, powerful, and emotional all at once. She doesn’t just fill space in the songs — she creates atmosphere, pulling the crowd into something darker, deeper, and more cinematic.
Rage was a study in contrast. Backstage, quiet. Observant. Reserved. Onstage, a berserker. Tattoos, spikes, death imagery, and riffs delivered with ferocity and conviction. One moment he’s slaying his guitar like it owes him money, the next he’s standing still, eyes closed, head bowed, completely lost inside the music — and somehow both moments feel equally violent.
Derek “Deebo” Young is the foundation. A destroyer behind cymbals and skins. He doesn’t miss a beat — he hunts them. Every hit felt intentional, physical, necessary. You don’t just hear his drumming — you feel it in your chest cavity.
John Arnold, on guitar, was the calm before the storm — the space between the breaths. Still. Focused. Grounded. A quiet intensity that anchored the chaos around him. Tight, brutal, precise — but carrying a serenity beneath the violence. After their set, he came up to me grinning ear to ear, just to see how my day was going — no agenda, no ego — just genuine connection.
And then there’s Marc Battung, playing his first Australian shows with Bleeding Through — and already feeling like he’s always been there. Down to earth, approachable, friendly — and an absolute weapon on bass. Watching him lock in with the band, you could feel the entire machine tighten. This wasn’t a fill-in or replacement. This was a perfect fit.
But the real magic didn’t start on the festival stage.
It started the night before — at their Adelaide sideshow, at the official pre–Froth & Fury party in my local bar. Music blasting. Drinks flowing. Walls sweating. And suddenly we were dancing to 80s pop like there was no tomorrow — INXS “Don’t Change” being the highlight. I have video of it. It will never see the light of day. It is sacred chaos.
There was also me dancing like a pop princess to The Cure, and Brandan’s wife Lindsey screaming across the room that I’m her favorite human — a big, tattooed deathmetal growler with black eyes on stage and zero shame on the dancefloor. That sentence alone could power me for the next decade.
There were hours of talking. Laughing. Sitting. Standing. Wandering. No rush. No industry bullshit. Just people who love music, love life, and love being alive in this scene together.
Seeing the band throughout the festival day — Marta dancing off in the distance, John smiling like a kid in a candy store, Brandan laughing like someone who knows exactly how lucky he is to do what he does — it all mattered as much as the set itself.
Because Bleeding Through aren’t just a band.
They’re the reason I picked up a mic.
They’re the reason I started creating.
They’re the reason I believed I could exist inside heavy music instead of just consuming it.
Just over a year ago, my band had the opportunity to play with them in my hometown — and friendships were formed. This time, we didn’t share a stage — but we shared time, laughter, connection, and the kind of moments that remind you why this scene matters.
At Froth & Fury, Bleeding Through didn’t just play a set.
They reaffirmed everything.
About music.
About friendship.
About family.
About why we’re all still here.
Bleeding Through Forever.
This is the gospel.
I bite crowd surfers.
Killer.
