Words and pix by Ali Williams
If there’s one thing Beastwars don’t believe in, it’s subtlety—and thank every molten, sludge-drenched deity for that, Mo’s Desert Clubhouse took its usual role as the desert-rock temple of distortion, but on this particular night, it felt more like a volcanic ritual pit being ripped open by four New Zealand titans who came to remind us all that the riff is eternal and so are they.
From the moment the band took the stage, the room tightened like a lung being prepped for a roar. Beastwars don’t start a set—they summon one. Matt Hyde stepped up like a weathered prophet returned from the wastelands, eyes blazing with that familiar mix of fury and mysticism that says, “Prepare yourselves. The sermon begins.”
Sonically, I liken them to an apocalyptic wall of hugs. Beastwars are the audio equivalent of being lovingly crushed by a boulder. The opening tunes hit with that signature blend of doom, sludge, and tectonic-level thickness—every note landing like a giant’s footsteps. The guitars churned with that syrupy, fuzz-loaded weight, the bass rumbled like underground magma doing overtime, and the drums? Less “percussion,” more “controlled demolition.”
The sound engineers at Mo’s deserve a shrine. Somehow, this band—whose whole brand is earth-shattering intensity—still sat perfectly in the mix, letting every guttural tone and every shimmering layer of distortion stand proud without swallowing each other. It’s a rare feat: to be deafened, delighted, and sonically hugged all at once. The vibe was a communal catharsis in a sweatbox, the crowd, a mix of long-time Beastwars disciples and curious first-timers, quickly transformed into a single organism—swaying, head-nodding, occasionally transcendental.
There’s something about Beastwars’ music that bypasses the brain and speaks directly to the sternum. People weren’t just watching a gig—they were receiving some kind of cosmic chiropractic realignment. Matt’s vocals tore through the room with that signature rawness—gravelly yet strangely emotive, furious but with a strange sense of comfort, like an angry thunder god reminding you to hydrate.
Between songs, he paced, glared, grinned, and radiated presence without saying much at all. He didn’t need to. The songs do all the speaking. Christian Pearce and James Woods delivered a guitar-bass tag-team so heavy it could probably qualify as a natural disaster. Their chemistry is ridiculous—every riff landed like a warhammer, every drop felt like an unspoken dare to the crowd: “You thought that was heavy? Hold my beer.” Meanwhile, Nathan “Backbone of the Apocalypse” Hickey—not his official title, but it should be—hit the drums with a kind of monastic concentration. No fuss, no theatrics, just absolute rhythmic authority. The man could trigger a landslide with a fill.
Their set almost felt as though it was a ritual, Beastwars’ performance wasn’t just a gig. It was communion. Songs flowed into each other like a single, simmering narrative: ancient, anguished, triumphant. The band didn’t waste time with long speeches—they let the riffs deliver the gospel. And the room was more than happy to convert. By the final song, the crowd was sweaty, euphoric, and wearing that unmistakable “I just survived something glorious” expression. When Beastwars finished, the silence that followed felt unnatural, like the desert itself inhaling after an hour of volcanic storytelling.
Beastwars at Mo’s Desert Clubhouse was a reminder of why heavy music exists—to shake you, uplift you, flatten you, rebuild you, and send you home slightly dustier and significantly more alive. The takeaway? If a therapist ever told you to “release your emotional baggage,” Beastwars just did it for you—with riffs, growls, and the spiritual force of a thousand collapsing mountains. I rate them a solid 5 out of 5 mic drops. Would willingly be crushed again.
