CEASE: A Necessary Violence
The powerviolence group CEASE from the steel town of Hamilton, Ontario, are one of programmer Rose Cormier’s golden nuggets. CEASE have all the cards. The singer steps on stage already looking furious, an emotion that only increases in intensity. Deafening feedback tears through the room before the drummer and bassist tumble into violent convulsion. Immediate sensory overload. The singer, boiling inside, lets out steam. Face flushed red, eyes on the verge of collapse, muscles straining from the neck. Screams you feel in your bones.
Though the words are barely audible, the breakdowns carry a kind of mantra. “I can’t afford it.”
Reminder that a two-bedroom is $2,148 and a one-bedroom is $1,809, according to today’s Hamilton Spectator (2025).
In Hamilton, and in Canada at large, the unaffordability of basic needs is becoming a form of complex trauma, one that now feels alarmingly understated. CEASE teaches us to say no when it hurts. They remind us that no one has ever won their rights by politely asking for them. Tension unravels into exasperation. Violence erupts like pus from an old wound.
“We’d really appreciate it if you could walk from one side to the other like a caveman.”
Among the culprits is a stringy guy sprinting back and forth, nearly putting a hole in the wall. The 4’11” girl in front of me is the only barrier between them and the camera I borrowed. She has a huge smile on her face.
La Sottarenea: The Terrorizing Act of Mickey Dagger
Mickey Dagger is an absolute nut job. Even among the most rugged and frightening stage personalities we have seen so far, there is usually some separation, some self-awareness that keeps them sane when they go home at night. With Mickey Dagger, it is hard to tell whether it is an act at all or whether he is doing this out of pure necessity to relieve his tormented soul.
He sings over a Martin Rev–inspired rhythm machine, while two guitarists and two saxophonists drone at psychedelic velocities. With a long slapback delay on his voice, he slips into a stream of narration, gesturing through a violent scene of betrayal before crashing to the floor in an endless scream, his eyes never losing focus.
The melodrama borders on comical, made even funnier by his total commitment to it. The longer it goes on, the more I find myself breaking into a smile at Mickey Dagger’s theatrics. It could have felt excessive, but the music, which is simply incredible, holds everything together. The band executes this twisted atmosphere of experimental industrial punk to perfection, while somehow keeping the form accessible. The songs evolve chaotically but return to strong motifs, with Mickey’s impressive vocal range cutting cleanly through the noise. It ends with Mickey Dagger kneeling with his back to the crowd, as if being arrested, before miming shooting himself in the head. “You’ll never get me.”
Sala Rosa: Quebec’s Wild Child
It would be impossible to talk about last night without mentioning Enfant Sauvage’s unforgettable, possibly historic, concert at Sala Rosa. In a place and time when Québécois identity is under scrutiny, Enfants Sauvages are, as their name suggests, untamed. With Enfants Sauvages, there is no shame in taking pride in where you are from. “On vient de Saint-Roch tabarnak!” (
we are from Saint-Roch”). Wearing a one-piece denim overall with a bedazzled fleur-de-lys on the back, the singer showed us exactly where to put that inhibition.
With veterans of the scene on stage, the music dipped and dove through breakdowns and blistering tempos that pushed past their limits until even one guitarist’s hand started bleeding. “Pas besoin de guénilles esti, quelqu’un pitchez-nous votre chandail!” (“No need for a rag, someone throw a t-shirt up here!”). In an instant, five shirts were thrown onto the stage to serve as makeshift bandages. Their riffs feel indebted to the riot grrrl movement, but with something heavier rising from hardcore, a kind of feral, animalistic grunge.
But the punk-garage-hardcore band is about more than music. An entire theatrical piece unfolds alongside the lyrics. Two twins in blunt bob wigs strip at opposite ends of the stage, illuminated by flashlights held by hooded figures. The whole scene feels like a Pussy Riot flash mob.
They chew apples and spit them into the crowd, fling paper planes toward the bar, and pretend to call God on a landline. Between trying to keep up with the spectacle, the bloodied guitarist shredding relentlessly, and the singer nearing full-frontal nudity as she unbuttons her one-piece, Sala Rosa transforms into a madhouse of poetic chaos. Leaving feels like falling from a cloud.
Whatever may happen tomorrow, last night at Taverne Tour continues to vibrate into today. The festival feels bigger this year, with nearly every venue overflowing and the music surging through the city like an open current, each room humming with urgency, sweat, and the thrill of something that refuses to be contained. Let’s call it punk.
