Ryan Murray | Co-Owner | Chief Editor | Contributor | Photographer
r.m.music84@gmail.com
Some nights, the walls between performer and crowd collapse—and on April 5th at Brooklyn’s Meadows, they didn’t just collapse, they exploded. Under the low ceilings and pulsing lights, two forces collided: Seraina Telli, setting the stage ablaze with unfiltered colors and fire, and Visions of Atlantis, commanding the seas with a symphonic storm that swallowed the night whole. It wasn’t just a concert—it was an uprising, a gathering of every soul desperate for something real, something that could shake the bones and set the heart screaming back to life.
It wasn’t just the music that filled the room—it was the feeling of being part of something bigger. No barricades, no distance, just raw energy crashing from the stage straight into the veins of the crowd. It was the kind of night where you didn’t just hear the songs, you bled with them. From Seraina’s rebel heart to Visions of Atlantis’ epic voyage across myth and melody, The Meadows became a battleground, a sanctuary, and a celebration all at once. Every shout, every fist in the air, every tear shed in the shadows—they all wove together into a memory no one would walk away from unchanged.
There’s a difference between hearing someone and feeling someone, and Seraina Telli made that difference blindingly clear on April 5th at The Meadows in Brooklyn. Stepping out in direct support of Visions of Atlantis, Seraina brought a fiery charisma that completely redefined any prior expectations her studio work might’ve set. From the moment Mike Molloth took his place behind the kit, the crowd, crammed tightly against the stage with no security barricade separating them, exploded with anticipation. It wasn’t just excitement; it was a visceral surge, the kind that rattles the bones. Then Seraina hit her first note, and the air itself changed. It wasn’t just her voice or her guitar, it was the sheer presence she commanded. This was her first time performing solo in the U.S., but you’d never guess it. She owned the stage like it was carved for her alone, and she wasn’t there to ask permission. She was there to set the tone.
The chemistry between Seraina and Mike was molten. Infectious doesn’t even scratch the surface. These weren’t just two people performing songs; they were a living, pulsing entity on stage. Mike’s drumming wasn’t a background beat, rather it was the very heartbeat of the performance, locking into place with Seraina’s melodic and lyrical fury. And yet, at no point did he overpower. He enhanced, complimenting her so intuitively it felt telepathic. The two of them turned that small Brooklyn venue into an inferno of energy, color and emotion. Seraina shredded through the setlist with wild elegance, each riff a sharpened blade, each vocal a truth screamed into the wind. She played with fire, but never once lost control of the flame.
Her confidence didn’t just show, it radiated. During tracks like Addicted to Color and Modern Warrior, she stepped beyond being a performer and into the realm of warrior-poet. Her delivery felt raw and sacred, like each lyric was pulled straight from the wound. I Dare To and All Your Tears held a certain vulnerability, but she never flinched, never backed away from the emotional weight. You could feel the crowd reacting to her not just with cheers, but with recognition—this was someone baring it all. And then there was If No One Else Had Ever Been There Before, which bled with aching beauty. A slow burn of a track that wrapped the audience in its arms before hitting with the final punch. The streets outside were quiet, but The Meadows thundered.
The intimacy of the venue turned out to be an advantage, almost like the show wasn’t happening at the crowd, but with them. Seraina didn’t keep her distance—she leaned in. Eye contact. Gestures. Smiles mid-verse. She was present, and that kind of connection doesn’t happen by accident. There was a look of disbelief on some faces in the crowd, like they couldn’t believe they were witnessing something this electric in such a confined space. Her guitar became an extension of herself—sometimes fierce, sometimes tender, but always honest. Take Care and Wish You Well were drenched in both power and grace. Her voice never wavered, never cracked under the weight of the emotion she was channeling.
And yet, for all her polish, there was nothing manufactured about Seraina’s performance. No pretense. No choreography. Just raw, unfiltered self-expression wrapped in melody and grit. And if the on-stage chemistry wasn’t enough? Seraina worked her way into the pit, joining the crowd in a blaze of sound and sweat, belting lyrics shoulder to shoulder with the very fans who had been pressed against the stage all night. You could see the years of experience, her time with Burning Witches has clearly shaped her, but this wasn’t a former frontwoman living in past glories. This was a rebirth. An artist reintroducing herself to the world, louder and more alive than ever. And Brooklyn was lucky enough to be one of the first stops.
To say Visions of Atlantis delivered on April 5th would be a massive understatement. They transcended. From the moment the lights dropped and the intro to To Those Who Choose to Fight began, the room was cloaked in atmosphere. Clemi’s silhouette emerged in the shadows, her presence subtle but commanding, and the first notes rang out like a call to arms. There was a reverence in the crowd, a stillness, right before the storm hit. And then it did. Theatrical doesn’t even begin to cover it. This wasn’t just a concert; it was a production, a storytelling, an odyssey. Every band member played their part, and together they created something emotionally gigantic.
The chemistry within the band was magnetic, electric, and felt completely lived-in. This wasn’t just performance, it was communion. They weren’t just in sync musically; they were playing off each other, with banter, glances, and shared grins that added layers of authenticity. Meek and Clémentine’s vocal interplay remains a standout hallmark, but on this night, it felt even more potent. The vocals soared and wrapped around one another like waves crashing into one another, building and receding in gorgeous sync. During The Land of the Free and Monsters, the audience sang along like their voices were part of the instrumentation. It didn’t feel rehearsed, it felt organic, cathartic, and damn near spiritual.
What makes Visions of Atlantis so compelling isn’t just their technical mastery—it’s their ability to feel. Clocks and Collide didn’t just hit with melody; they hit with meaning. Each lyric felt lived-in. When Meek appeared holding a lantern for The Dead of the Sea, there was an audible hush. His voice, tender and haunting, delivered lines that sliced right through the chest: “My fearful heart, a home to many ghosts…” The emotional weight was staggering. It’s rare to witness vulnerability executed on such a large scale, and yet here it was—aching, ghostly, and real. You could feel the audience holding onto every word.
Then came Underwater and everything stopped. The venue felt suspended in time. Clemi’s delivery was shattering in its intensity, almost like a personal exorcism happening center stage. “I try to scream, but who is there to listen…” she sang, and you could hear people catching their breath in the silence between lines. This wasn’t just a performance, it was a surrender, a reckoning. By the time the lyric “you are the fire that keeps me alive” hit, it wasn’t just the end of a chorus, it was a life raft for every single person in that room that felt like they were slipping—slipping under the weight of life, of loss, of loneliness. In that moment, the walls of The Meadows disappeared, and all that remained was a shared, unspoken understanding: no one was alone.
The visual elements only deepened the immersion. Lighting cues were timed with pinpoint precision, heightening every breakdown, every build, every silence. The use of props and movement never felt gimmicky, it served the story. Whether it was Meek commanding the crowd to rise during Hellfire or the entire band standing shoulder to shoulder for Legion of the Seas, there was a sense of unity that pulsed through every corner of the room. Guitarist Dushi brought an expressive edge to the entire set, seamlessly shifting from soaring leads to gritty rhythm work that bolstered every rise and fall of the narrative. Bassist Herbert Glos locked in tightly with drummer Thomas Caser, forming a rhythmic backbone that kept the emotional highs grounded and gave the theatrical moments real weight. Thomas’s drumming was fierce, fluid, and cinematic. Every strike purposeful, every transition sharp, pushing the story forward like waves against a ship’s hull. And those double bass hits? Like thunder cracking through the storm, pure fire, driving the entire set with unrelenting force. This wasn’t about playing to the crowd, it was about bringing the crowd into the world Visions of Atlantis had built. And the crowd dove in willingly.
The encore brought the storm full circle. Master the Hurricane was colossal. Each note, each breath, roaring like thunder across a black ocean. Armada felt like the final charge in a battle already won, triumphant and blazing. As the crowd chanted and screamed and reached toward the stage, there was this shared, beautiful exhaustion hanging in the air. The kind that only comes after something transformative. You could see it in people’s faces — something had shifted. Something had been felt. Visions of Atlantis didn’t just perform—they took us somewhere. And no one wanted to come back.
On this night, in this small Brooklyn venue, Visions of Atlantis reminded us why music matters. Why performance matters. Why vulnerability and passion, when wielded like this, can split the sky wide open. They’re not just redefining symphonic metal, they’re reclaiming the soul of it. Not with spectacle alone, but with heart, poetry, and fire. And in that space, wrapped in melody and myth, surrounded by others equally swept away, the world outside disappeared. Only the music remained.
Ethereal Metal 
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