Every single metalhead from the past three or four decades seems to be in attendance, each one of them carrying two pint cups filled to the brim with beer. They’ve come because the air inside London’s O2 Arena crackles with a voltage that only exists when legends walk among us. Twenty-five years after they last stomped UK soil, Pantera has returned to claim their throne. With two core members intact and blessings from both Abbott brothers’ estates, they’ve got more legitimacy than plenty of other legacy acts still touring.
Let’s address the elephant in the room. This isn’t the Pantera that terrorized stages in the ’90s. It can’t be. The Abbott brothers are gone, their absence creating a void that should, by all accounts, make this endeavor impossible. But metal, like life, finds a way.
Phil Anselmo, his tattooed frame showing the mileage of decades in the trenches, commands the stage with the authority of a general returning to the battlefield. His voice, that distinctive, caustic howl, remains a force of nature, even if certain high notes have been strategically relocated to more hospitable vocal territories. Beside him, Rex Brown anchors the low end, his bass lines forming the backbone of Pantera’s signature groove.
Filling the cavernous spaces left by the departed are two metal institutions in their own right. Zakk Wylde attacks Dimebag’s riffs with reverence and his own unmistakable flair, while Charlie Benante powers the rhythmic assault with thunderous precision. They aren’t replacements—they’re torchbearers.
When the opening salvo of “A New Level” detonates and the curtain drops, any lingering doubts about this incarnation’s legitimacy are obliterated. The crowd, spanning multiple generations of metalheads, responds with near-religious fervor. Bodies collide, fists pump skyward, and thousands of voices become one primal scream.
The setlist reads like a roadmap of metal’s most punishing territory. “Mouth for War” and “Becoming” level the place early. “I’m Broken” triggers a seismic reaction that threatens the venue’s structural integrity. During “Walk,” the floor transforms into a churning mass of humanity, unified in vulgar display.
What stands out is how vital these songs remain. In an era where metal has splintered into countless subgenres, Pantera’s catalogue stands as a monolithic testament to the power of riff, groove, and attitude. These are the blueprints that still feel dangerously ahead of their time. I mean, who can really touch these guys live? Lamb of God? Trivium? Maybe. What’s more exciting is the fresh crop of thrash-inspired masters moving things forward—like Pest Control and, of course, the mighty Power Trip.
There are moments when you can almost see the ghosts of Dimebag and Vinnie lurking at the edges of the stage. Footage of the “good ol’ days” was played on the big screens throughout the show, making it feel much more like a celebration than anything. During “Floods,” Wylde’s solo—faithful yet personal—creates a portal. Close your eyes for a second, and you’re back in 1992, witnessing the band at the peak of their powers.
As “Fucking Hostile” closes the night in an explosion of aggression, everyone leaves on a high (not just from the massive clouds of pot smoke in the arena, but from knowing that Pantera’s legacy transcends its individual members). It lives in the music—uncompromising, unapologetic, and utterly essential.
Is it the same? Of course not. But as the house lights come up over thousands of sweat-drenched, satisfied faces, it’s evident that what matters most survived intact. This incarnation of Pantera isn’t trying to replace what came before. They’re ensuring that one of metal’s most important catalogues continues to breathe fire in the live arena, where it always belonged. And for that, we should all be fucking grateful.
