Hanabie., Nekrogoblikon, Enterprise Earch. The Buckhead Theater. Atlanta, GA. March 24th, 2026.
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This one feels a little unfamiliar in the best way. Not something I’ve spent years sitting with or circling back to, but more like walking into a story already in progress and trying to figure out where I fit in. I’m not going to lie, I’m not overly familiar with Hanabie., Nekrogoblikon, or Enterprise Earth, in any deep sense, so this feels less like revisiting something and more like feeling it out in real time. But the feeling of being drawn to this can’t escape me. My attraction to bright-colored motion, gnarly splintered goblin faces, and an overall combined 3-ton sound that these bands seem to put out will always push me towards them like meat to a grinder.
Hanabie. is probably the one I’m most curious about going in. They came out of Shinjuku, starting as a Maximum the Hormone cover band before gradually shaping their own sound into what it is now. Having researched and heard about the previously mentioned group, as well as sifting through Hanabie’s discography, I can identify where the influence originated and where you can differentiate their original sound from similarities to their heroes. From the outside, it feels like a lot is happening at once: color, aggression, melody, noise.
I can’t quite tell if it’s supposed to feel disorienting or if it all locks together once you’re standing in front of it. Maybe it’s one of those things that only makes sense at full volume, in a crowded room. I can only anticipate (or dread) that the live show will induce a seizure of the senses in every aspect. I’m hoping for chaos, turmoil, and a hell of a good time.
Nekrogoblikon, on the other hand, feels like stepping into someone else’s inside joke and deciding whether you’re in on it. The whole presence of John Goblikon is something I’m still trying to wrap my head around—not just the goblin persona, but the idea that he sees himself as the normal one, and everyone else as the “goblins.” I feel that everyone can relate to that perspective at some point in their life. And there’s something kind of funny about flipping it like that. It makes me wonder how much of their set leans into that perspective, and whether it pulls you in or keeps you distanced until you give in to it a little.
Musically, Nekrogoblikon feels like it balances that same idea—rooted in melodic death metal, but with a playful edge. The riffs are tight and fast, but they’re offset by big, catchy moments and flashes of brightness that you don’t always expect from the genre. It doesn’t feel like a joke as much as it feels like they’re stretching the sound in a different direction, and I’m curious how that translates once I witness them live.
And then there’s Enterprise Earth. From what I can gather, they might be the piece that feels the most familiar to me sonically—something a little more grounded, a little more direct. Musically, it seems rooted in that dense, heavy deathcore sound: low-end weight, sharp turns, and a kind of controlled intensity that doesn’t wander too far off course from predecessors that came before them. It feels like something I can latch onto, even without much history with them. But even then, I don’t really know how it all fits together across a night like this. Maybe they anchor it, or maybe they shift how everything else around them lands. This much I know is true, though; I’m aiming to find out. Every band is visually diverse, which should be a feast for the eyes, and if left at that fact alone, it should add up to be a highly fulfilling evening.
All of this is unfolding at the Buckhead Theatre, which, for me, carries its own strange sense of distance. I can’t even remember the last time I stepped into that room—outside of seeing Rob Zombie and Mastodon there back in 2005. That feels like a completely different lifetime now. A different version of me, a different way of experiencing all of this. So, I’m curious how it’ll feel walking back in, with all the years in between, and a lineup that’s entirely new to me.
I’m walking into this one without a clear picture of what it’s going to be, and I think that's why I keep coming back to shows like this. Challenges like this. But sometimes it’s less about knowing exactly what you’re stepping into, and more about giving something unfamiliar to the space to meet you halfway and grow into someone newer than you were the day before. Keeping your ear to the ground and your mind open to experiencing new things and finding out more about yourself in the process.
There’s always been this undercurrent in heavy music—the idea that you have to earn your place in it. That there’s some invisible checklist of bands you’re supposed to know, sounds you’re supposed to prefer, or eras you’re supposed to swear allegiance to before you’re taken seriously. And I get where that instinct comes from. Metal, for a lot of people, feels like something protected. Something personal. Something carved out by outsiders, for outsiders. But somewhere along the way, that protectiveness started to calcify into something else, something a little more pessimistic, a little more closed off, and honestly, a little out of step with what metal is supposed to do for people.
Bands like Hanabie., or Babymetal (to name just a few) seem to challenge that head-on. They don’t ask for permission, and they don’t really fit into the boxes that gatekeeping culture tries to build. They’re loud, they’re heavy, they’re weird, they’re fun—and for some people, that’s exactly the problem. But for others, it’s the entry point. It’s the thing that says, you can be here too, even if you didn’t come up the “right” way or listen to the “right” records growing up. For many, this group is someone’s Slayer. Someone’s Motorhead. Someone’s Napalm Death. It doesn’t matter where you get started, or when. It’s about handing down the chalice to the next generation that will keep what I, and so many others, hold so close and near to their hearts.
To me, that’s the part that matters. Metal isn’t about being the same. Never was. It’s about that shared release, that feeling of standing in a room with strangers and realizing you’re all there for the same reason, even if you got there by completely different paths. Gatekeeping turns that into something small and rigid. And in a culture that’s always prided itself on being loud, heavy, and a little bit raunchy, shutting people out feels like missing the point entirely.
If anything, the scene feels stronger when it’s a little unpredictable—when something new or unfamiliar pushes its way in and makes people react. Not everyone has to like everything, but there’s a difference between not connecting with something and deciding it doesn’t belong. Because at the end of the day, this whole thing works a lot better when it’s about being together, not being identical.
Upon walking into Buckhead Theatre, it hit me quickly just how long it had been since I’d last stepped inside. There was still something familiar about it—the layout, the feel of the room—but it’s clearly changed in place, especially since the Live Nation Entertainment takeover. The staff still carried that same personable, easygoing energy, even if the drink prices and added food options felt a little more… intentional in what they were after.
With some time to spare before the music started, I made my way around the venue, taking it all in. It didn’t take long to notice how mixed the crowd was—grizzled metalheads, anime fans, goths, teens, even a few kids—all different kinds of people filtering into the same space for their own reasons, but all there for the same thing. It’s always fun to see who shows up, spotting different but familiar faces, and noticing the new ones finding their way in. And apparently, it goes both ways. Over the course of that hour, a few people came up to me asking if they’d seen me at other shows and had recognized my photos online. It caught me off guard a bit—in a good way—and left me with that kind of quiet, slightly embarrassed smile you don’t really know what to do with.
Before long, the room filled in, conversations softened into anticipation, and attention naturally turned toward the stage. I made my way to the photo pit and brought out my camera, ready to get to work.
Enterprise Earth did exactly what they’re supposed to do in a lineup like this—they set the tone. As the opener on this tour, their role is less about spectacle and more about establishing weight. One of the staff members I spoke to before the set was eager to see them once again, having seen them 5 times prior. Hailing from Spokane, WA, and a veteran band of 10 or so years, the controlled impact they unleashed on the audience hit like the impact of a 10-pound sledge driving stakes into a train track as if to say, “We have your attention now.” The guitars had that thick, low-end chug you’d expect, and good pace. Sections of songs seemed to part ways just enough to let the audience breathe before dropping back into something heavier and continuing to bludgeon them into submission. Shrill screams and squeals beckoned from lead vocalist, Travis Worland, as he conducted and coerced the crowd into circle pits and crowd surfs. Travis, whom I’ve discovered recently stepped in for co-founding member Dan Watson, having departed from the band due to medical reasons. Guitarist and bassist, respectively, Gabe Mangold and Dakota Johnson chugged the chaos-ridden choo-choo along as drummer, Aron Hetsko, fed the engine coal with immense and calculated strikes as he sat perched behind his sprawling and equipped drum set.
Before the start of the second set, a larger-than-life goblin head inflated front and center on the stage—impossible to ignore, almost daring the room not to react. Phones rose in the air to capture the spectacle that felt equal parts ridiculous and impressive. But, fun if nothing else. Beneath that spectacle, Nekrogoblikon’s current lineup—Alex Alereza on lead guitar, Joe Nelson on rhythm guitar, Aaron Minich on keys, Eric W. Brown on drums, and Dickie Allen handling harsh vocals—operated with a kind of precision that contrasted everything happening on the surface. The guitars weren’t just fast, they were deliberate—intricate runs snapping into place against a rhythm section that felt locked and unshakable. Minich’s keys added an unexpected lift, giving certain passages a strange sense of scale, while Allen’s vocals tore through it all with a sharp, almost surgical intensity.
And then there’s John Goblikon, who isn’t just a mascot but a full presence, moving through the set like a ringmaster summoned from Middle-earth itself. Providing hype and the ear soothing harmonies that are the perfect accompaniment to Allen’s from-beyond-the-grave bellows. The crowd doesn’t just watch—they get absorbed into it, whether that’s moshing, shouting along, or just trying to keep pace with the constant shifts in tone. It feels like the kind of show where the absurdity is the entry point, but the musicianship is what holds your attention once you’re in. Between Goblikon’s crude humor and off-the-wall commentary, the band delivered a whirlwind of rapid-fire riffing, soaring melodic breaks, and punishing vocal bursts—something that could’ve easily collapsed under its own weight, but instead held together with surprising force.
Before the final act, the room seemed to expand in a way that had nothing to do with square footage. More photographers crowded the pit, more faces filled in, and there was a noticeable lift in energy. One by one, the members of Hanabie. ran onto the stage, each taking a moment to acknowledge the crowd before settling into place—Chika behind the kit, Matsuri on lead guitar, Hettsu on bass, and Yukina at the front, already radiating movement before a note was even played.
What followed wasn’t just loud, it was layered. Like a cake concealing a metal file. It was a glimpse of the present and future of metal and what’s to come for future generations as the crowds grow younger and more diverse. A collision of electronic pulses and crushing guitars would create a perfect juxtaposition as those who would believe “bubble gum and hardened steel” could never stick together, but instead feel unique, stylistic, and lasting. Chika’s drumming drove everything forward with speed and control, while Matsuri’s guitar work cut through the layer cake with the brutality of a chainsaw in the hands of a master craftsman. Hettsu held down the low end with a steady presence that kept everything chained to the ground, even as the songs pivoted rapidly between styles. And Yukina—constantly in motion—shifted between tones with a kind of elasticity that kept the crowd beckoning for more. The room moved with them, flipping from bouncing, almost playful energy into full-on pits and back again without hesitation.
What stood out most was how natural those transitions felt. The “Harajuku-core” identity wasn’t just something you saw in the bright, expressive outfits—it was demonstrated in the sound itself. Sweetness and aggression weren’t competing forces; they fed into each other, creating something that felt both immediate and unpredictable. And somehow, through all of it, the band never lost control. They carried that intensity the entire set, meeting the crowd at every turn and leaving very little space for anything but full participation.
By the time everything wound down at Buckhead Theatre, I found myself standing there for a minute, not in any rush to leave, just letting it all settle. Three bands I didn’t really have a history with, three completely different approaches to the same idea of “heavy,” and somehow it all made sense by the end of it. Enterprise Earth gave it weight, Nekrogoblikon gave it character, and Hanabie. gave it something unpredictable that I didn’t know I was missing. I didn’t walk out with everything neatly defined or suddenly converted into a superfan of any one thing—but I did walk out understanding it a little more. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s the point. Not every show has to change your life, but sometimes just being there, staying open to it, and leaving something unfamiliar to land where it lands is its own kind of reward.
