Brujeria hit the stage masked and armed, ready to tear the place apart. Their leaders are gone, but the band keeps moving. New lineup, same mission. The narco-gore, the chaos, the grind—it still works. No one drops character. No one tones it down. If you thought the act was getting old, you weren’t there.
The severed head from Matando Güeros sat on stage, staring, judging, pushing the band to play like they had something to prove. El Sangrón roared, El Criminal hacked through riffs, Zángano’s bass rattled the floor, and El Sativo, son of the late Juan Brujo, hammered the drums like his life depended on it. The pit went off immediately. No build-up, just instant violence. Fists, boots, hair, sweat, bodies flying.
The setlist was a beating. No breaks. Just blast beats, screams, and riffs like a chainsaw to the skull. I don’t know if any other band could get away with making their audience scream Kill Whitey! at the top of their lungs, but Brujeria pulls it off. Tribute was paid to the fallen, but there was no mourning. Just an hour of pure destruction.