The Devil Wears Prada - Eighteen Songs, One Banana and Absolute Metalcore Mayhem New Century Hall
New Century Hall, Manchester – 24th October 2026
WORDS / IMAGES LUKE STOREY
The Devil Wears Prada: A Beautiful Night of Absolute Carnage
Manchester was being battered by Storm Benjamin, with rain coming sideways and the wind trying its best to rearrange the city. But there are some things you don't let a bit of biblical weather get between you and, and a bill this stacked was never going to be one of them. New Century Hall was the destination, The Devil Wears Prada the headliners, and the promise of an evening of metalcore madness was enough to drag everyone out into the storm. Sensible? Probably not. Worth it? Absolutely.
New Century Hall is a cracking venue for this kind of night, intimate enough to feel the room breathing and big enough to accommodate the sort of collective insanity that was about to unfold. With three support bands capable of flattening a building before the headliners had even plugged in, this wasn't going to be a night for standing politely with your arms folded.
Oversize got the ball rolling. The Bristol grungegaze outfit had the unenviable early slot, but they attacked it with the kind of directness that doesn't require a lengthy introduction. There was no standing around waiting for permission to make a noise. They got straight to work, warming up the room with a set that was all energy and intent. Something Clean and Salt stood out, while the band's obvious appreciation for being part of such a formidable lineup gave the performance a welcome sense of occasion. They were here to make an impression, and they did.
If Oversize lit the fuse, 156/Silence arrived with a flamethrower.
The Pittsburgh outfit had already caught my attention supporting Fit for a King back in March, but whatever has happened in the intervening months, they've returned as a considerably more frightening live proposition. Before they even appeared, horror video game soundtracks crawled through the venue, setting the scene for what was to come. Subtle? Not remotely. Effective? Like hell.
Opening with Control Burns, they began with a slow, creeping tension before the whole thing erupted into a violent, chaotic finish. It was the sound of something breaking loose in a room that hadn't quite realised what it had invited inside.
Much of the set drew from their new album, From a Distance, and hearing No Arms and Collateral live for the first time was a serious pleasure. The band sounded vicious, tightly wound and increasingly confident, with frontman Jack commanding the room like a man who'd personally declared war on the concept of personal space. Wall of death? Naturally. Circle pits? Of course. Two-stepping? Everywhere. Crowd surfers came flying towards the stage with the regularity of incoming artillery, and one nearly took me out in the process.
Then came Better Written Villain, a fan favourite that landed exactly as it should. Some songs simply have something extra in a live setting, and this was one of them. They closed with Character Development, unleashing a fresh barrage of pig squeals that sounded like the building's plumbing had finally given up the ghost.
For me, they were the band of the night. No hesitation. Somebody needs to give 156/Silence a proper UK headline run, and preferably before they become too big for rooms like this.
Novelists, the French metalcore outfit, had the final support slot and promptly behaved as though the headliners had forgotten to turn up. Frontwoman Camille Contreras strode onto the stage with immense confidence, her vocals moving effortlessly between clean, melodic passages and full-throttle screams. The contrast was startling, but never felt like a party trick. She had the control to make the shifts count, and the band behind her had the muscle to make every transition hit hard.
Opening with All for Nothing, they established the night's recurring theme: melody is all well and good, but there's absolutely no reason it can't be followed by a riff that feels like it's been dropped from a great height. Their stage presence was excellent, too, with a particularly enjoyable moment when the guitarists swapped instruments. It's the sort of thing that can look awkward in the wrong hands, but here it added to the sense of a band genuinely enjoying what they do.
By the time Coda, from their latest album, arrived, the crowd was opening up pits and launching bodies towards the stage in equal measure. For a moment, it was easy to forget that Novelists weren't the main event. They'd earned the reaction, and then some.
And still, the main event was waiting.
I've been meaning to catch The Devil Wears Prada for years, so finally getting the chance felt long overdue. Touring on the back of their new album, Flowers, the band arrived with a set that made one thing abundantly clear: two decades into their career, they haven't developed any interest in taking it easy.
Eighteen songs. Virtually no breathing room. No lengthy speeches, no unnecessary nonsense, just a band getting on with the business of making a tremendous racket.
Opening with Where the Flowers Have Grown, they wasted no time establishing the mood before launching into So Low. The new material formed the backbone of the set, reflecting a band that has continued to evolve rather than spending its career desperately trying to recreate its past. But evolution doesn't mean abandoning your roots, and the arrival of older favourites Watchtower, Salt and Broken sent an immediate jolt through the room.
The years have changed The Devil Wears Prada, as they have most bands who survive long enough to make it this far. The difference is that they sound like a band moving forward on their own terms, not one chasing the ghosts of its younger self.
Mike Hranica was a formidable presence on vocals, delivering the harsh stuff with all the necessary venom, while Jeremy DePoyster's clean vocals provided a melodic counterweight. The combination gave the songs room to breathe without taking away any of their impact. Heavy doesn't have to mean one-dimensional, and the band's ability to move between aggression and melody was one of the set's strongest features.
Then came Ritual, and the place erupted. The chorus was belted back at the band with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for football terraces and people who've just discovered the pub is doing happy hour. This was a room full of people who knew exactly why they'd turned up, and they weren't about to keep their feelings to themselves.
The crowd barely let up for the rest of the set. The pits seemed to have developed their own weather system, crowd surfers kept security working overtime, and at one point even a banana appeared above the sea of bodies. Don't ask me how it got there. Don't ask me why. Some things are best left unexplained, particularly at a metalcore show in Manchester during a storm.
As the set approached its apparent conclusion with Sacrifice, the band delivered the song and disappeared backstage. The lights dropped, the crowd waited, and then the voice-over arrived: “I fucking hate The Devil Wears Prada, they never play their old shit.”
Cue Play the Old Shit, from the recent album.
It was a wonderfully self-aware way to turn the tables on the familiar complaints that follow bands around as they grow and change. The song served as a reminder that The Devil Wears Prada haven't forgotten where they came from, nor have they lost the ability to deliver the goods with the same ferocity that made their name in the first place. There's something reassuring about a band able to acknowledge its past without being chained to it.
They finished with Hey John, What's Your Name Again?, sending the room into one final frenzy. It was a brutal, exhilarating full stop to a night that had offered precious little respite from the moment the first band stepped onstage.
Walking out into the Manchester weather, it was difficult to decide whether the storm outside or the one inside New Century Hall had done the most damage. The difference was that one had left people soaked, while the other had left them grinning, ringing in the ears and probably checking for missing limbs.
Every band brought something different to the bill. Oversize delivered the early energy, 156/Silence nearly stole the entire evening, Novelists demonstrated exactly how devastating melody and heaviness can be when they work together, and The Devil Wears Prada closed the deal with eighteen songs that celebrated both their future and their past.
This is how you put on a metal show. No passengers, no wasted sets, no support act treated as an afterthought. Just four bands, one excellent venue and a crowd determined to make the most of every bloody minute.
Storm Benjamin could do its worst. Manchester had more than enough thunder of its own.
SET LIST
Where the Flowers Never Grow
So Low
Danger: Wildman
Watchtower
Salt
Broken
Everybody Knows
Outnumbered
Dogs Can Grow Beards All Over
Ritual
When You’re Gone
For You
Kansas
Dez Moines
Chemical
Sacrifice
ENCORE
Play The Old Shit
Hey John, What's Your Name Again?
CONNECT WITH THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA
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