The lights fall to black inside the Roundhouse and a ripple of anticipation rolls through the crowd. When Cassy Brooking — better known as Cassyette — steps into the shadows, the room shifts. There’s no gentle warm-up, no easing into the night. Instead, she and her band tear straight into September Rain, its brooding pulse broken open by her trademark, throat-shredding screams. “Come on London, let’s fucking go!” she roars before the final verse, and the crowd obliges instantly. Energy detonates. The space is hers.
Cassyette @ Roundhouse
“This is so fucking good to be back, guys,” she beams afterward, breathless, grinning, already pacing. “This is, like, our third show this year, which is so fucking crazy to say — so thank you for being in this room, let’s gooooooooooo!” And with that, she plunges headlong into When She Told Me from This World Fucking Sucks, her lush melodic lines slamming up against serrated screams in a way only Cassyette can pull off. She snarls the words, prowls the stage, marching from one end to the other with tiger-caged ferocity.
New track Oops arrives next — a rhythm-driven blast of bouncing hooks and wicked attitude. “It’s a bad idea, but I’m gonna do it anyway,” she croons, leaning into the mic with a glint in her eye. Then comes the command: “For the next chorus I need to see some serious dancing — have you got that, London?” Oh, London has it. The Roundhouse floor becomes a heaving mass.
“If you know this next one, sing along!” she calls, launching into the venomous sweetness of Ipecac, one of her earliest and fiercest anthems. The crowd bellows back every line. “Yes, we love that big energy,” she laughs afterward, clearly feeding off the noise. Unreleased firecracker Boyfriend keeps the momentum hurtling forward — a punchy, sugar-coated riot with guitars sharp enough to slice through the venue’s famous dome. Cassyette’s voice switches effortlessly between silky and scorched-earth, a contrast that defines her entire sonic world.
Cassyette @ Roundhouse
“Alright, we’ve gotta crank up the energy, London!” she demands as Dead Roses explodes to life. Then comes the real chaos. “Open it up — nice and wide!” she orders, counting the crowd into a pulverising mid-song mosh. She eggs them on with giddy, guttural screams, then launches straight into the feral roar of Die Hate Cry, one of the night’s most visceral moments. Petrichor blends her soft-edged tones with lacerating howls, guitars whipping around her like a storm. It’s a reminder that while her aesthetic leans goth-glam, her delivery is full-body, full-volume catharsis.
And then, all too quickly, it’s time for Dear Goth to bring her 30-minute assault to a close — a final surge of thunderous drums, razorwire vocals and pure, unfiltered release. Cassyette leaves the stage exactly as she arrived: marching, snarling, radiating the kind of adrenaline that feels both dangerous and addictive. As openers go, this isn’t just a warm-up. It’s a warning shot. Cassyette doesn’t simply set the stage for Hot Milk — she nearly burns it down.
Live review & photography of Cassyette @ Roundhouse, London by Kalpesh Patel on 19th November 2025.
Hot Milk Bring Fire, Fury & Pure Catharsis To London’s Roundhouse
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