CONCERT REVIEW
ARTIST: GHOST
DATE: 10 FEBRUARY 2026
VENUE: The Delta Center
CITY: Salt Lake City, UT
There are bands that grab you by the ears and bands that grab you by the soul. Then there’s Ghost — the Swedish theatrical death-metal papal circus that somehow delivers both, plus a side of pure, unfiltered goofball joy. They’re not just a band; they’re an experience that leaves you grinning ear-to-ear, wallet happy, and weirdly full of love (yes, love) even after an hour-plus of Satanic iconography and power chords.
I grew up watching KISS movies as a kid, dazzled by the makeup, the flying rigs, the rollercoasters, the whole Kabuki-meets-arena-rock spectacle. But past the theatrics? KISS was mostly killer riffs, great rhythm guitar, and genius marketing. Ghost? They took that blueprint, burned it in a black-mass bonfire, and rebuilt it into something smarter, funnier, and musically ferocious. They’ve pushed every limit — anonymity, blasphemy, spectacle — and still keep the audience laughing and singing along like it’s a church revival gone gloriously wrong.
Anyone who walks out of a Ghost show feeling short-changed is lying to themselves. You get your money’s worth and then some. The feeling lingers for days: a mix of adrenaline, absurdity, and inexplicable warmth. (That was my exact experience last week.)
The policy of no phones in the venue? Genius. Everyone had to lock their devices in those little Yondr pouches — no distractions, no shitty TikTok clips leaking out, no jackass blocking your view with an iPhone on a stick. Even us photographers had to stash our phones while lugging massive lenses to shoot from the sound booth. The result? A crowd fully present, eyes on the stage, phones forgotten. Refreshing as hell.
The fans showed up in force: dark nuns in habits and Eyes Wide Shut masks, V for Vendetta Guy Fawkes faces, full “Death Pope” regalia, Satanic priests everywhere. One of the other shooters leaned over and deadpanned, “I think I’m gonna need my gear blessed after tonight.” I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my camera. If you take Ghost seriously, you’re missing the joke. The whole thing is campy, theatrical blasphemy played with a wink — like The Residents if they traded anonymity for papal robes and cowbells.
The show opened with Gregorian chants floating through the dark, building tension like a horror movie score. Ghost took the stage behind a torn curtain, ripping into “Peacefield” (halfway through before the curtain finally dropped). When it fell, the arena exploded. Papa Emeritus (in full regalia) and the Nameless Ghouls were everywhere — animated, theatrical, impossible to pin down. The guitar work was razor-sharp: late-’70s hard rock echoes of Journey, Judas Priest, Boston, all wrapped in modern metal precision. One song in, I was already sold — they’d brought their A-game.
“Lachryma” shifted gears into an ’80s power-ballad vibe with Scorpions-style riffs and soaring vocals — tight, emotional, and huge. Then came the classic horror-film keyboard intro on “Spirit,” with the Ghouls trading matching riffs before splitting into dueling lines. It’s an older track, but it still fits like a glove — pure pre-Wes Craven prog-metal.
I had to stash gear and hustle back to my seat (10th row, first riser — stupidly close) just in time for “Majesty.” A few songs later, during “Devil Church,” the black backdrop ripped away to reveal a glorious gothic cathedral stage: LED candelabras, stained-glass windows glowing, everything lit like a cathedral from hell. The visuals were jaw-dropping, and the song? Pure power. I leaned to my photographer buddy and said, “Dude, I feel like I’m at a Yes concert.” He laughed: “Yeah, me too.” Prog-metal guitars tearing through the Delta Center — who knew?
“Circle” and “Darkness at the Heart of My Love” hit like classic metal anthems — riffs that took me straight back to my teenage bedroom air-guitaring to Boston’s “Amanda.” “Satan Prayer” opened with Papa Emeritus rising on a platform, holding a black matte cowbell aloft like a holy relic. He handed it to the keyboard Ghoul (devil-nun vibes), who started hammering away in perfect sync. My buddy and I lost it — straight-up Blue Öyster Cult “More Cowbell” SNL reference. Genius.
Pyro flared, heat blasting my face from 20 feet away. “He Is” turned into an acoustic power ballad, Papa blessing the crowd like a deranged evangelical. (The video’s Jonestown undertones were strong here — a sly warning about charismatic preachers wrapped in beauty.) “RATS” had the stained-glass windows animating with chasing rats and hellscape reds. Confetti guns blasted dollar bills with Papa’s face on them — they flew past me into the second tier. Insane.
Papa’s banter was pure goofball gold: thanking Salt Lake for growing with them (The Complex → Depot → Amphitheater → Maverick → Delta Center), then conjuring “Jesus” with a chant. A Hispanic roadie rolled out with a leaf blower to clear confetti. “Give it up for Jesus Rodriguez from New York City!” Jesus waved politely and kept blowing. The arena roared.
“Kiss the Go-Goat” was silly fun, but “Mummy Dust” killed — militant marching cadence, layered vocals, killer bassline (that unnamed Ghoul on bass deserves more credit; he held the whole thing together). Papa thanked the fans again, then dropped “Monstrance Clock” — an oldie that’s haunting and heavy, soothing lullaby turning into Luciferian metal.
The encore? “Mary on a Cross,”(Juxtaposition, right? Fair is fair), “Dance Macabre,” “Square Hammer” — the perfect closer, better live than on record.
Ghost isn’t just a band; they’re a full-on theatrical experience that mixes blasphemy, prog-metal chops, ’80s arena-rock nostalgia, and laugh-out-loud absurdity. They take themselves seriously as musicians but not as people — and that’s why it works. If you want humor with your arsenic, spectacle with your soul, and a night where you leave feeling lighter than when you arrived, go see Ghost.
You won’t regret it. You’ll be smiling for days.
Stay scary, goofy, and cursed, my friends. Until next time.
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