There are gigs that feel like events, and then there are gigs that feel like rituals. Deftones at the Eden Project was the latter — a communion of distortion, sweat, and sonic transcendence under the glow of Cornwall’s alien biomes. If The Script the night before was a polished pop sermon, this was the dark mass — all texture, tension, and teeth.
From the moment the first notes of “Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away)” rang out, it was clear we weren’t in for a casual Thursday night. The Eden crowd — a mix of lifers, lapsed nu-metal kids, and the curious — surged forward like a tide. Chino Moreno, dressed in black and bathed in blue light, prowled the stage like a man possessed. His voice — that impossible blend of whisper and wail — cut through the humid air with surgical precision.
“My Own Summer (Shove It)” followed, and suddenly we were all 17 again, flailing in bedrooms or skateparks or wherever we first heard that serrated riff. It landed like a hammer, all crunch and menace, riffs just don't get any bigger, and the pit responded in kind — limbs flying, beer cups airborne, and a bloke near me screaming every word like it was a confession.
The setlist was a masterclass in balance. “Diamond Eyes” and “Swerve City” brought the groove, while “Tempest” and “Digital Bath” offered moments of eerie calm — the kind that make you close your eyes and just feel the sound. “You’ve Seen the Butcher” was all swagger and sleaze, while “Rocket Skates” hit like a brick through a stained-glass window.
And then there was “Sextape” — a song so delicate it felt like it might shatter if you breathed too hard. The crowd, surprisingly reverent, swayed in unison as Chino’s falsetto floated above the mix. It was one of those rare live moments where time seems to slow down — just a few thousand people, a song, and the stars.
The band, as ever, were tight but loose — locked in, but never robotic. Abe Cunningham’s drumming was thunderous, Frank Delgado’s textures added depth, and Lance Jackman (filling in for Stephen Carpenter) handled the riffs with the kind of precision that made you forget he wasn’t a founding member. Fred Sablan on bass and Shaun Lopez on rhythm guitar rounded out the lineup, and together they conjured a wall of sound that was somehow both brutal and beautiful.
“Headup” was pure chaos — bodies flying, Chino screaming like a banshee, and the pit turning into a whirlpool of limbs and grins. “Rosemary” followed, offering a moment to catch your breath before “Change (In the House of Flies)” brought the house down. Backlit and silhouetted, the band looked like spectres as they delivered one of their most iconic tracks with haunting precision. Every voice in the crowd joined in — not shouting, but singing, like it meant something.
“Genesis” from Ohms was a late-set highlight — proof that Deftones aren’t just coasting on nostalgia. It sounded fresh, urgent, and utterly massive. And then came the encore.
“Minerva” shimmered like a mirage — all melody and muscle — before the band dove headfirst into “Bored” and “7 Words.” The latter, a relic from their Adrenaline days, still hits like a freight train. Chino roared “suck!” with the same venom he had in ’95, and the crowd — now a sweaty, euphoric mess — roared it right back.
And then it was over. Ninety minutes of catharsis, chaos, and connection. No pyros, no gimmicks — just a band at the peak of their powers, playing in one of the most surreal venues in the country. The Eden Project, with its glowing domes and Jurassic Park vibes, somehow made perfect sense for Deftones. It was otherworldly, intense, and unforgettable.
As we spilled out into the night, ears ringing and hearts full, someone behind me said, “That wasn’t a gig — that was a moment.” And they were right. Deftones didn’t just play Eden Sessions. They owned it.
From the moment the first notes of “Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away)” rang out, it was clear we weren’t in for a casual Thursday night. The Eden crowd — a mix of lifers, lapsed nu-metal kids, and the curious — surged forward like a tide. Chino Moreno, dressed in black and bathed in blue light, prowled the stage like a man possessed. His voice — that impossible blend of whisper and wail — cut through the humid air with surgical precision.
“My Own Summer (Shove It)” followed, and suddenly we were all 17 again, flailing in bedrooms or skateparks or wherever we first heard that serrated riff. It landed like a hammer, all crunch and menace, riffs just don't get any bigger, and the pit responded in kind — limbs flying, beer cups airborne, and a bloke near me screaming every word like it was a confession.
The setlist was a masterclass in balance. “Diamond Eyes” and “Swerve City” brought the groove, while “Tempest” and “Digital Bath” offered moments of eerie calm — the kind that make you close your eyes and just feel the sound. “You’ve Seen the Butcher” was all swagger and sleaze, while “Rocket Skates” hit like a brick through a stained-glass window.
And then there was “Sextape” — a song so delicate it felt like it might shatter if you breathed too hard. The crowd, surprisingly reverent, swayed in unison as Chino’s falsetto floated above the mix. It was one of those rare live moments where time seems to slow down — just a few thousand people, a song, and the stars.
The band, as ever, were tight but loose — locked in, but never robotic. Abe Cunningham’s drumming was thunderous, Frank Delgado’s textures added depth, and Lance Jackman (filling in for Stephen Carpenter) handled the riffs with the kind of precision that made you forget he wasn’t a founding member. Fred Sablan on bass and Shaun Lopez on rhythm guitar rounded out the lineup, and together they conjured a wall of sound that was somehow both brutal and beautiful.
“Headup” was pure chaos — bodies flying, Chino screaming like a banshee, and the pit turning into a whirlpool of limbs and grins. “Rosemary” followed, offering a moment to catch your breath before “Change (In the House of Flies)” brought the house down. Backlit and silhouetted, the band looked like spectres as they delivered one of their most iconic tracks with haunting precision. Every voice in the crowd joined in — not shouting, but singing, like it meant something.
“Genesis” from Ohms was a late-set highlight — proof that Deftones aren’t just coasting on nostalgia. It sounded fresh, urgent, and utterly massive. And then came the encore.
“Minerva” shimmered like a mirage — all melody and muscle — before the band dove headfirst into “Bored” and “7 Words.” The latter, a relic from their Adrenaline days, still hits like a freight train. Chino roared “suck!” with the same venom he had in ’95, and the crowd — now a sweaty, euphoric mess — roared it right back.
And then it was over. Ninety minutes of catharsis, chaos, and connection. No pyros, no gimmicks — just a band at the peak of their powers, playing in one of the most surreal venues in the country. The Eden Project, with its glowing domes and Jurassic Park vibes, somehow made perfect sense for Deftones. It was otherworldly, intense, and unforgettable.
As we spilled out into the night, ears ringing and hearts full, someone behind me said, “That wasn’t a gig — that was a moment.” And they were right. Deftones didn’t just play Eden Sessions. They owned it.
