On Tuesday, April 28, 2026, I headed to Roxy Club for a concert that I couldn’t quite classify in advance. Skynd isn’t a traditional band, but an industrial-style project centered around singer Skynd and multi-instrumentalist and producer Fatherovi. Their work is inspired by real-life criminal cases, and each song tells a separate story.
The club wasn't sold out, but it certainly wasn't empty either. The ground floor gradually filled up, but the balcony remained closed. Even before the show started, it was clear to me that this wasn’t going to be a standard concert. Instead of music, the speakers emitted strange static and resonance—sounds that were more unnerving than they were mood-setting or entertaining. It was a subtle but effective prelude to what was to come.
It started right on time. The drummer and Father, a key figure in the project who switches between guitar and bass during the concert while also handling synthesizers and samples, took the stage. Some of the music was created right on stage, while other parts were played from pre-recorded tracks, which are typical of their industrial sound. The line between live performance and electronics sometimes blurred completely. And then came Skynd.
Her stage presence and delivery are a story unto themselves. It wasn’t just about the singing, but her overall expression, gestures, movement, and physicality. I was particularly struck by her vocal work. Her natural voice serves as the foundation, and technology functions here like “makeup” that amplifies emotions to the extreme. Skynd can seamlessly transition from a deep, menacing tone to a voice that sounds almost childlike. The result is a combination of natural talent and the deliberate use of technique. Everything was perfectly timed and coordinated with the lighting and her overall expression.
Her interaction with the audience was minimal, at least verbally. Skynd only occasionally thanked them for their reactions. Otherwise, however, she connected with the audience much more intensely through eye contact, gestures, and movement. She often crouched down next to people in the front row and sang directly to them. At that moment, it felt almost uncomfortably personal, as if the story belonged solely to that one person.
The entire evening had a clear structure. A pre-recorded voice would introduce a specific case, followed by a song and then a short pause before the next one began. The music itself was rather somber, even depressing at times for me. At the same time, however, it was completely unpredictable. The motives did not repeat as is customary; the compositions developed in a different direction than one expected, keeping you in constant suspense. You were never sure what would come in a few seconds.
It was all the more surprising to see part of the audience singing along with her. To me, this was a paradox, because the lyrics are definitely not the kind suited for a chorus—neither in terms of content nor in the complexity of delivery, such as the emphasis on syllables, changes in tone, and little exclamations.
It didn’t feel like a concert in the traditional sense. It was more like a carefully conceived performance and a meticulously crafted role that held together from start to finish. And I left with the feeling that I had seen something different—something that can’t really be compared to ordinary concerts. And, in fact, with a newfound appreciation for the many different ways music can be interpreted.
Report and photos by Lenka Machuldová