Skindred’s trip to the Leas Cliff Hall in Folkestone was not merely another tour stop; it had all the character of the kind of night people will remember years later with a grin and the “you should have been there.” The venue’s low ceiling and slightly weathered seaside charm felt right for a show that veered between full-on chaos and unfiltered joy.
Crostpaths kicked off with a punch, bringing a jittery, adrenaline-laced nu-metalcore sound that immediately caught the early crowd’s attention. The electronics were buzzing, the riffs bit hard, the vocalist was so full of integrity and heart, you were rooting for him. They’re clearly a young band, and they’ve sure made a name for themselves.
Next up was Snayx, who snarled and roared loudly, delivering a high-voltage blast of punk pandemonium. Their set was like being hit with a series of musical haymakers, short, sharp, relentless, loud, and furious. It was a tight, densely packed groove, with wiry, tense riffs, and the mood was dialled up to 12. They possess that rare gift of making a big room feel like a sweaty club show, and they demonstrated feral confidence in doing just that for the first time, setting the tone for what was to come.
When the lights dimmed and Benji Webbe emerged, the air changed. Skindred don’t ease you into anything; they explode. The opening track slammed into the room like a shockwave, and it was apparent then Folkestone was destined for something big. Benji’s presence hits you before the guy even sings a note; he’s part hype-man, part preacher, part carnival ringmaster and all heart. He lights up with a grin, fires off sharp banter, and dominates a crowd with his control that looks almost supernatural. At one point, he had everybody in the room, from teenagers and parents to tattooed lifers and first-timers, dancing in perfect unison. He acted as if presiding over a joyful riot.
Musically speaking, the band were crazy tight. Mikey Demus’ guitar was just the sound one might make of some molten swagger, flowing seamlessly from heavy metal grooves and bouncy dance-hall rhythms to other parts that could bounce along with abandon. Tommy Gleesons’ bass pounded well enough to feel in your chest, and Arya Goggin’s drumming was machine-precise without having to shed any of its human pulse. Live, Skindred’s genre-blending becomes the centrepiece of the experience, reggae melts into punk, metal dissolves into funk, drum & bass rhythms roll in like a storm front, and you know what I mean here.
It’s frantic on paper, but it sounds electric in the room. And, of course, the Newport Helicopter. You might think, after all these years, that the moment would feel routine, but it absolutely doesn’t at all. The instant Benji called for shirts in the air, the Leas Cliff Hall flipped into a whirl of fabric, sweat, and laughter. Even parts of the balcony were involved. For a few minutes, the entire room was one organism, loud, ridiculous, loving each second of it, but the energy of the night did not come from nowhere.
Folkestone won’t forget this one, and to be honest, neither will I.
Review & Photos By Rebecca Bush – https://www.instagram.com/beckybphoto/
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Crostpaths
Snayx
Skindred
