Ice Nine Kills Bring A Work of Art Tour to OVO Arena Wembley

There are gigs, and then there are crime scenes. On December 12th, the OVO Arena Wembley became a beautifully choreographed massacre. London, usually so good at pretending it’s emotionally unavailable, willingly stepped into the splatter zone for Ice Nine Kills’ A Work of Art tour, armed with black eyeliner, shredded tights, and the shared understanding that subtlety would be left at the door, along with our coats.

By the time I reached the arena, it already felt like a convention for people who enjoy their music loud, theatrical, and ideally accompanied by fake blood. The crowd was a proper mix of teenagers clutching the barrier like it was church, older fans who grew up alongside metalcore’s many eras, couples in matching INK merch, and people dressed like they’d walked out of a horror matinee. And that’s the thing about Ice Nine Kills: their world invites everyone in, as long as you’re willing to sing along while the stage bleeds.

TX2

TX2 hit first, and if you weren’t paying attention yet, they made sure you would. Frontman Timothy Evan Thomas has the energy of someone who drinks emotional damage for breakfast and uses it as pre-workout. Their set had that modern alt/pop-punk snap, with big hooks with enough bite to leave a mark, and lyrics aimed squarely at the part of you that pretends to be unbothered.

The crowd reaction was immediate, and the pit’s first ripple started like a warning tremor. People near the front were already bouncing, screaming words back at a band they might’ve discovered ten minutes earlier. TX2 didn’t ask for approval, but they stole it, and left Wembley louder than it had any right to be at that hour.

The Devil Wears Prada

If TX2 sparked the fuse, The Devil Wears Prada were the first real detonation. The Ohio metalcore veterans took the stage with the confidence of a band that’s spent nearly two decades refining chaos into precision. Mike Hranica has a vocal presence that feels feral and precise at once, like a man exorcising demons with every scream, while Jeremy DePoyster brings that clean-sung lift that turns a heavy room into a choir. Add in Kyle Sipress on lead guitar, Jonathan Gering on keys, and Giuseppe Capolupo on drums, and you’ve got a band that can make a cavernous space feel intimate, and then make it violent again in the next bar.

The pit officially woke up here. Even in the seated sections, you could see people half-standing, unable to stay contained. It was one of those sets where the songs feel like they’re yanking the heat out of your chest and throwing it back at the stage, and you could feel the room learning what kind of night it was going to be. The Devil Wears Prada played emotionally violent, and Wembley responded by collectively losing its mind.

Creeper

Where earlier bands leaned into force, Creeper arrived to seduce. They occupy that delicious space where goth, punk, and rock’n’roll excess overlap: dramatic without being flimsy, romantic without being soft. Frontman Will Gould commanded the stage like a decadent horror narrator; part vampire, part ringmaster, part doomed romantic hero. There’s a magnetism to the way he performs, all dramatic pauses and theatrical gestures, as if every lyric is a confession and every stare is a threat.

Behind him, Hannah Greenwood’s keys and vocals layered the set with ghostly elegance, while Lawrie Pattison and Ian Miles delivered a sharp, muscular backbone on guitars. Jake Fogarty on drums and Sean Scott added momentum and menace, keeping everything pulsing with intent rather than chaos.

The crowd adored it. Those who’d been moshing moments earlier now swayed, sang, and reached toward the stage like participants in some gothic ritual. Watching fans who came for Ice Nine Kills fall completely into Creeper’s spell was a quiet highlight. By the time they left the stage, the arena felt primed, hypnotised and ready.

Ice Nine Kills

And then, finally, the lights dropped the way they only do when something big is about to happen. The reason we were here. The murder mystery musical nobody asked for, but everyone desperately needs. Ice Nine Kills opened with “Red Right Hand” played from tape, a perfect cinematic tease before launching straight into “Meat & Greet”, and Wembley snapped from suspense into full-body motion. The pit became a living organism, pulsing and colliding, while screams of delight echoed from every level of the arena.

Spencer Charnas is not just a frontman; he’s a horror host, a charismatic villain, a theatre kid who discovered metal and decided to weaponize it. He has that rare arena-frontperson gift: he can play to the farthest seat and still make it feel like he’s singing to you. Around him, Ricky Armellino, Miles Dimitri Baker, and Dan Sugarman traded riffs like dueling knives, Joe Occhiuti locked in the low-end with visible glee, and Mike Cortada’s rhythm section drove the chaos forward.

The setlist was basically a greatest-hits tour of the INKverse. “Hip to Be Scared” had the crowd shouting punchlines in unison. “Stabbing in the Dark” turned Wembley into a Michael Myers-themed cardio session. “Wurst Vacation” balanced brutality and humour so perfectly that people laughed even as they were knocked sideways in the pit. Then came “Walking on Sunshine”. Yes, that song. Dropped into the middle of a metalcore horror show like a cursed jukebox selection, it sent the crowd into hysterics.

“Rainy Day” brought one of the loudest sing-alongs of the night, voices echoing off the walls like a possessed choir. “Ex-Mørtis” felt like being trapped inside a haunted carnival ride that refuses to stop. And by the time “The Shower Scene” hit, the entire floor looked as if it might actually collapse from the collective movement. Towards the final act, “Welcome to Horrorwood” landed like an anthem for the faithful, with the whole arena turning into one massive, howling chorus. Then “IT Is the End” closed the main set in dramatic, unapologetic excess.

The encore sealed it. The lights stayed low, the crowd stayed loud, and Spencer Charnas stepped forward, asking us if we were ready for one more surprise. Then came the announcement: Ghostface appeared on the screen, and Spencer revealed to the crowd an upcoming collaboration with the next Scream movie, sending the crowd into meltdown. People were hugging strangers and losing their minds at the sheer inevitability of it all.

Closing with “A Work of Art”, Ice Nine Kills delivered the final blow. Art the Clown stalked the stage, miming violence with exaggerated glee, and becoming a living extension of the band’s grotesque aesthetic. Even the actress Rose McGowan suddenly joined them on stage as part of the performance, transforming the finale into a genuine genre-crossover moment.

When the lights finally came up, the OVO Arena Wembley looked like a post-credit scene: sweaty, euphoric, dazed fans clutching merch, broken voices laughing through the wreckage. Ice Nine Kills turned Wembley into their own blood-splattered playground, then handed it back to us with a bow and a wink.

We’d been slashed, serenaded, and sent home smiling. And honestly, I’d happily be a victim again.