Scala glows like a relic from another London, the red neon of its sign bleeding against the rain-slicked pavements of King’s Cross. Inside, a maze of black-and-white tiled staircases winds through red corridors, a disorienting hybrid of nightclub and Lynchian dreamscape. The venue’s fading grandeur feels strangely attuned to the music of Godflesh, beauty and corrosion entwined, solidified in stone and metal.
Godflesh
Scala, London – 30 October 2025
Words: Rhiannon Ellis
Photography: Ash Nash
Thursday’s show was decades in the making: the long-awaited live debut of Godflesh’s full In Dub set. This was a feat first attempted but ultimately derailed by devastating technical failure at Scala in 1997. Now revisited, in the same venue no less, tonight follows the uncompromising industrial onslaught that has cemented Godflesh’s cult reverence.
No support act, no polish, no preamble. Just Justin Broadrick and G. C. Green, Birmingham stalwarts who, since 1982, have been dismantling the very notion of “heaviness” and reconstructing it in their own bleak image.
Godflesh never sought speed or showmanship – Broadrick had his fill of velocity during a stint in Scum era Napalm Death. Instead, the duo pursues density, texture and repetition.
From the outset, their music has been a paragon of brutal minimalism, a vision forged from concrete and misanthropy, contorted with the rhythmic groove of hip-hop and the echoing decay of industrial Metal.
Godflesh – In Dub
The In Dub set opened with a slow, deliberate descent. A low, creeping drone and a wash of blue light, a welcome reprieve from the venue’s relentless crimson glow, either easing us in or lulling us into a false sense of security.
Guitar slung casually over his back, Broadrick hunched over the drum machine with the focus of a neurosurgeon, funnelling seismic low-wave pulses into the room with precision, as Green’s bass unfurled like thick fog.
Initially, the vocals rode a little too forward in the mix, an issue that dissolved as the pair locked into a hypnotic, techno-soaked groove.
Broadrick’s reverb-drenched voice echoed with grim inevitability through Our Fathers In Heaven. A vast, distortion-rich dirge that reverberated with such intensity that volume felt tangible, vibrations growing to a nauseating peak.
Watching safely from the balcony, the crowd’s collective sway evoked the apocalyptic hedonism of Blade’s vampire rave scene, at once exhilarating and foreboding.
Broadrick has long championed the merit of instinct and intuition over constraint, a philosophy that shapes his live performance. On stage, he wrings harmonics from the brink of destruction. His down-tuned drum machine pounds with a density that threatens to warp space, while Green plays with a groove that feels almost elastic, betraying Public Enemy’s influence.
Resonant melodies dance ecstatically through the oppressive volume and grind, crackling like lightning through thunderous clouds of bass.
Amidst the mechanised fury, vulnerability persists. Channelling rage, despair and alienation through pure noise is an exercise in catharsis. Godflesh’s music is an unflinching, distorted mirror held up to a dying world, the reflection stark.
As the darkly crushing weight of Xnoybis collapsed into silence, the crowd erupted, dissipating any tension in a collective exhale. When a voice called “One more set,” it felt less a demand, more an invocation.
Sure enough, that’s exactly what they got.
Audience As Amplifier
After a brief interlude, just long enough to lose yourself in Scala’s seemingly endless confines, Broadrick and Green return, making their final adjustments as layers of fuzz and feedback fuse over Suicide’s Che.
A teasing, ambient prelude before Land Lord detonates, unleashing piston-like percussion and tectonic bass, igniting immediate chaos in the pit.
Broadrick contorts around his guitar, coaxing out feedback with the fervour of a man attempting to wrestle a feral machine into submission. Green, in contrast, remains a monolith, as if made immovable by the weight of the output from his rumbling bass.
Despite minimal gear, the sound is monstrous. Green’s bass thunders with such incredible weight it would be unsurprising to learn he had strung it with pylon cables. Shut Me Down, where the band’s influence on Edge Crusher era Fear Factory is unmistakable, I, Me, Mine, and Ringer follow in relentless succession.
Broadrick throws his entire body into every scream and riff, inviting the audience to do the same. They oblige, chanting lyrics back in earnest.
The sheer teeth-chattering loudness, integral to Godflesh’s aesthetic, toyed sadistically on the knife’s edge between total physical immersion and pain. Even with earplugs and ear defenders layered over them at times, the volume remained punishing, verging on distracting.
In the moment, I wondered if shaving off a few decibels would reveal the same nuance and uneasy elegance within their sound. On reflection, that misses the point entirely. The world is merciless, unrelenting, and often overwhelming. Godflesh seek to ensure that attendees not only hear that truth but feel it pulsing through every fibre of their being, extremity acting as a catalyst for their message.
The result is total cohesion: an audience reverberating in tandem with the music, collective resonance blurring the boundaries between listener, musician and instrument.
With the same remarkable mathematical precision of Gregorian monks shaping their chants to the acoustics of Notre Dame, Godflesh harness venue and crowd alike, transforming both into conduits for their art.
A Cathedral Of Resonant Feedback
The encore, Predominance into Slateman, turned Scala into a cathedral of resonant feedback. The former, cruel, majestic and punishing, reminiscent of Swans with a Throbbing Gristle twist, somehow further elevating the set.
Leaving trailing feedback hanging in the air like smoke, Green and Broadrick bow, the latter offering a friendly salute to a still eager audience.
Apparently, two sets still is not enough Godflesh for one night.
Aching, ears ringing, but exhilarated, I left convinced. No other band makes ruin sound so alluring or so alive. Perhaps I am a glutton for punishment, because even as the resulting tinnitus fades, this performance has stuck with me.
Scala, with its decaying opulence and crimson corridors, was the perfect crucible for a night of awe-inspiring, genre-defying noise.
