Review & Photography by Nathan Vestal for MPM
On May 9, 2025, Chicago’s historic Riviera Theatre was swallowed in a maelstrom of metallic rhythms, sweat-drenched bodies, and thunderous rebellion as industrial godfathers Ministry stormed through their hometown alongside two foundational forces of the genre: Nitzer Ebb and Die Krupps. What could have easily been a nostalgia cruise became something far more vital—a night that reaffirmed industrial music’s capacity for sonic violence, communal catharsis, and unrelenting energy.
Die Krupps – Forging the First Blow
Opening the evening, Germany’s Die Krupps wasted no time melting down the crowd’s expectations and reforging them in cold steel. Despite being first on the bill, their presence was anything but secondary. The moment Jürgen Engler stalked onstage in mirrored shades and gauntleted gloves, the tone was set: precision, power, and pure industrial defiance.
Backed by a punishingly tight band, Engler delivered a muscular set that dug deep into their metallic-era discography. Songs like “Fatherland” and “Robo Sapien” fused mechanized grooves with grinding guitar riffs that cut through the air like factory saws. “To the Hilt” turned the room into a stomping ground, the chorus roared back by a crowd more than ready to embrace their roots.
The visuals—strobes pulsing in military-grade sync with the beats and screens projecting dystopian textures—gave their performance an almost ritualistic intensity. Die Krupps weren’t just warming up the stage; they were hammering it into something new.
A highlight came with “Metal Machine Music,” where the crowd’s chant turned fervent, nearly drowning out Engler himself. The band’s mix of Teutonic discipline and metallic firepower proved that their legacy is not only intact—it’s thriving in the modern age.
Nitzer Ebb – Total Body Control
If Die Krupps built the war machine, Nitzer Ebb set it in motion. As the second act, the British EBM legends didn’t just follow—they detonated. Douglas McCarthy and Bon Harris emerged to a stage soaked in shadows and flickering strobes, their minimalist aesthetic more brutal than bare. Where many bands add layers, Nitzer Ebb strips them away, leaving only rhythm, voice, and command.
McCarthy was magnetic—snarling, pacing, sweating fury as he tore through a setlist stacked with classics. “Hearts and Minds” turned the theater into a writhing, synchronized mass, bodies moving in time with the relentless sequenced basslines. “Join in the Chant” was a primal scream, a call to arms that needed no explanation. Harris, controlling the sonic arsenal from behind his rig, kept the beats locked in like an unflinching metronome from hell.
But what stood out most was the raw physicality of it all. Nitzer Ebb doesn’t perform for you—they confront you. Their sound is lean but aggressive, a sonic interrogation that dares you to submit or resist. By the time they closed with “Murderous,” the crowd was both exhausted and exhilarated—caught in the feedback loop of music as endurance test and liberation.
Ministry – Hometown Gods of the Machine
The crowd exploded. Ministry wasn’t there to celebrate—they were there to burn.
For longtime Ministry fans, “The Squirrely Years” tour was more than a nostalgic nod—it was a long-awaited exhumation of the band’s most unhinged, playful, and experimental material. A deep dive into the murky transitional waters between their synth-pop beginnings and industrial metal domination, this tour was a love letter to Ministry’s weirdest era—and the Chicago crowd at the Riviera was more than ready to embrace the madness.
Al Jourgensen took the stage not as the grim-faced revolutionary of Psalm 69, but as the ringleader of an electro-industrial circus. Gone were the towering walls of blast beats and guitar-driven aggression. In their place: sleaze, swagger, and sarcasm. Donning oversized sunglasses and a tongue firmly in cheek, Jourgensen embodied the chaotic spirit of the late ’80s and early ’90s Wax Trax! years, when Ministry was a shapeshifting entity of dub, funk, and pure synthetic nihilism.
Opening with a warped rendition of “Work for Love,” the band immediately set the tone: filthy, danceable, and completely unhinged. Tracks like “All Day,” “Same Old Madness,” and “Over the Shoulder” were reborn in all their glitchy, tape-hissed glory, bolstered by live drums and warped analog synths. The crowd—many of them in vintage Wax Trax! gear—moved with fervor, as if transported back to a basement club in 1988.
Visually, the show leaned into absurdity: warped Reagan-era PSA clips, splashes of neon, and surrealist cartoon chaos looped on screens behind the band. The stage setup felt less like a polished concert and more like an underground acid trip—intentionally rough around the edges, like something duct-taped together in a warehouse squat at 3 a.m. The band played into it, embracing glitches, feedback, and spontaneous improvisation.
But the highlight—the moment that confirmed just how gloriously off-the-rails this show was willing to go—came during the encore. Jourgensen returned to the stage flanked by Wax Trax! alumni and longtime partner-in-crime Chris Connelly. With theatrical flair and zero irony, they launched into the infamous cover of Rod Stewart’s “Do You Think I’m Sexy?”—a Revolting Cocks staple resurrected in all its perverse glory.
Connelly, decked in sequins and eyeliner, vamped it up like a glam-rock vampire, while Jourgensen played the leering lounge lizard from the underworld. The crowd howled in approval, some dancing, others simply laughing at the audacity. It was the perfect capstone to a set that reveled in its own weirdness, a reminder that Ministry’s early years weren’t just foundational—they were fantastically unhinged.
Ministry’s “Squirrely Years” tour wasn’t just a look back—it was a bold recontextualization of a phase too often overlooked. This wasn’t about tight production or greatest hits. It was about vibe, chaos, and the raw joy of making weird, confrontational, transgressive art. In diving back into their sleaziest, funkiest, most absurd incarnation, Ministry gave Chicago a homecoming worth dancing—and twitching—to.
