Avatar Turn Berlin’s Columbiahalle Into a Metal Circus

Avatar Turn Columbiahalle Into a Theatrical Metal Circus — With Alien Weaponry and Agabas Igniting the Night

Columbiahalle, Berlin 

Support: Agabas 

12 March 2026: Thursday evening in Berlin’s Columbiahalle: the perfect setting for some after-work stress relief. The night opened with Agabas, a self-described death jazz outfit. Stress relief meets saxophone — or rather, exorcism meets saxophone.

When jazz collides with demonic growls, avant-garde metal does exactly what both the avant-garde and metal are known for: breaking boundaries, pushing forward and normalising the unusual.

The result quite literally split the room. The pit divided into two halves as people, following explicit instructions, unleashed frustration, anger and pent-up tension towards the shirtless frontman Sondre Sørensen Brønstad— symbolism dialled up to ten and a kind of after-work club Berlin could probably use more often.

 

Clothes may make the man, but here that idea could not have been further from the truth. The shirtless Brønstad embodied the chaotic intensity that defines Agabas, while the rest of the band looked as if they had just stepped out of a young tech start-up: hipster shirts, flannel and an aesthetic more innovation hub than metal stage.

But: Innovative it certainly was. Jazz — but unlike anything most had heard before. A saxophone cutting through crushing riffs and feral vocals explains perfectly why they call it death jazz.

Before long people were dancing while the band on stage engaged in a simultaneous headbanging battle. A sound that travels straight into the bones. As opening acts go, the evening’s mood-setters did their job perfectly.

Who would have thought jazz could have such sharp edges?

Support: Alien Weaponry

Columbiahalle was close to lift-off once Alien Weaponry took the stage. Frontman Lewis de Jong spun his dreadlocks so intensely it looked like Karlsson from the Roof was about to start his propeller.

The New Zealand trio — originally formed by brothers Lewis and Henry de Jong when they were just eight and ten years old — demonstrated how heritage and modern metal can symbiotically coexist.

Songs in the Māori language confronted colonial history as well as ongoing discrimination faced by Māori communities. Music that stands firmly for something: identity, tradition and resistance against systems that once attempted to erase them.

Two guitars and a drum kit — yet somehow the trio sounded far larger than the sum of their parts. Alongside the brothers stood bassist and co-vocalist Tūranga Morgan-Edmonds, completing a lineup radiating both intensity and cultural pride.

Don’t underestimate the power sound: Because nothing brings people together quite like music. Evidently, the trio proved exactly that in Berlin.

Within minutes it was clear the band had become audience favourites. For those encountering Alien Weaponry for the first time, the mention of Lamb of God made things click quickly. Frontman Randy Blythe has long been an inspiration — and even collaborated with the band on the track Taniwha. During the performance his voice echoed through the speakers, bringing mentor and students together in explosive fashion. Life imitating art — in the most inspiring way.

The result: dynamic, soul-wrenching screams fuelled by both frustration and national pride. By the time their set ended, Thursday night in Berlin felt just a little lighter. Perhaps releasing energy really is the most honest form of transformation and relaxation.

Headliner: Avatar

Circus music filled the hall before the show had even begun. With Avatar, theatre always arrives first.

Thunder rolled through the venue as the drum set split apart. The band entered dramatically aboard a boat — a nod to the Captain Goat video — with singer Johannes Eckerström leading the procession in a black, death-like cloak, holding a glowing blue lantern.

A mysterious blue light washed over the room as devil horns rose throughout the hall. Finally, Captain Goat erupted — fitting, considering the song deals with nothing less than the embodiment of evil. What followed was a display of synchronised headbanging and earth-shattering screams that seemed to come from somewhere deep within the chest.

The circus imagery remained constant. Eckerström moved like a wind-up toy, pulling grotesque faces worthy of the finest horror shop.

Performance aside, the dark clown clearly knows how to command a room. Arms waved in rhythm, bodies swayed together and the hall proved impressively fluent in the band’s lyrics. Yet what truly made even Berlin’s notoriously unimpressed concertgoers smile was Eckerström’s surprisingly good German. Between songs he expressed gratitude, shared emotions and delivered a few relatable jokes — all in the local language.

Band and audience seemed to merge into a single entity, something the frontman emphasised repeatedly throughout the night.

For Bloody Angel, the theatrics escalated further. Eckerström returned wearing a red circus ringmaster coat, wielding a staff like a puppet master. The clown had become the conductor of chaos. The song itself mirrored that contrast: a melodic opening colliding with soul-crushing roars.

 

During Death and Glitz, the frontman even pulled out a hip swing worthy of Shakira, much to the audience’s delight. Even the lighting seemed alive. Moving spotlights glided across the stage like a metal adaptation of Be Our Guest from Beauty and the Beast. And yes — everyone present truly felt like guests at this bizarre celebratory circus.

Theatrics aside, comedy had its place too. One lucky staff member experienced fifteen seconds of fame as a human crash cymbal — a quick tap on the head and the moment was immortalised.

The Dirt I’m Buried In arrived with the suggestion that everyone should get dirty together. Few appeared opposed. There is also something deeply satisfying about watching four long-haired musicians whip their manes in perfect rhythm while the drummer John Alfredsson descends into full-blown ecstasy. Screams that felt pulled straight from the soul, a crimson curtain glowing behind the band — theatre of the mind.

 

A quieter moment followed with Eckerström alone at the piano — naturally dressed in a leather piano tailcoat that might even pass the strict door policy of Berghain. Howling at the Waves briefly calmed the hall, transforming the venue into an unexpectedly emotional acoustic moment.

Legend of the King delivered exactly the spectacle one would expect from a circus-themed show: a royal entrance by the guitarist Jonas “Kungen” Jarlsby, the rest of the band in an elegant white tailcoats. So powerful was the moment that Eckerström even dropped to his knees.

And because all good things come in threes, the roaring hall was rewarded with three encores. The album title track Don’t Go In The Forest was heralded by a floating red balloon reminiscent of Pennywise, referencing the band’s latest album cover.

 

If anything smells like a freak show, it might just be Berlin — and the hall embraced the chaos wholeheartedly. The night concluded with Hail the Apocalypse: confetti swirling through the air, glowing eyes everywhere, and music that tore straight through the soul.

It ended with a bang.
Typical Avatar.