LIVE REVIEW: NEUROTIC DEATHFEST DAY 2

As if personally responding to yesterday's scheduling frustration, Neurotic organiser Ruud personally hands me an updated running order – I choose to believe that he does this for absolutely everyone. Those are the kind of mad skills you need to run Europe's best death metal weekend.

In the Small Hall, the absolutely stellar goregrind clowns Rompeprop unleash a frenzy of their tightly honed, downright ludicrous swamp gurgle. It's completely baffling that you don't see this band on Cannibal Corpse style tour packages, but that makes their live performances all the more special – if you want to see them on the massive stage they deserve, go to Obscene Extreme and prepare yourself for blood and nudity.

The heat is unbearable in this little sweatbox, and the spectacle of Decapitated on the Main Stage croons to me like a mermaid. Missing a bassist (which in the grand scheme of their history is the least of their problems), they put in a hammering performance that eventually wins over even the extreme cynics. Vocalist Rafał Piotrowsk has delusions of being asked to join Chimaira or Shadows Fall with all his nu-metal dances and hideous rasping mosh calls, but they're undeniably strong musicians playing some incredible material, and if the best they do is simply not fucking that up, that's a good day.

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Back in the sweatbox and Cripple Bastards don't have the audience share they deserve, but there's a dedicated core of Italians, grinders and bastards to make sure they at least get the feverish response they're entitled to. The sound is crisp perfection, bringing to the fore the different strands of influence lurking in their strings – rancid Italian hardcore, even a spot of NYHC's robust pugilism, and the kinetic frenzy of grindcore. The red lights enhancing Giulio's near demonic possession as he holds the mic aloft like a dagger.

At the risk of being one of those cunts who prevaricates about a band's career in a review like they have the answers to everything, it's the Neurotic demographic that will make or break Cripple Bastards time on Relapse Records, the meatheaded Misery Index fans who want brutal beer-swigging music. Hopefully this time next year, the room will be packed, because the alternative is just to dreary to bear.

Swedish oddballs Birdflesh grind hard and fast - clad in what look like rubber masks and dresses, they send the temperature soaring to the point where lesser humans (me) are driven into the rafters of the main stage to await Obituary.

There's a comforting predictability Obituary, all the tunes are wheeled out and Ralph Santolla jabs his foot at the whammy and comes forward for his regulation solo - it's like clockwork. There may be few surprises but there's no shortage of thrills as Donald Tardy grabs the drums and joins his brother, lending a tribal edge to the percussion reminiscent of Sepultura before their descent into the nu-metal era groove metal doldrums alongside Biohazard.

And then he does it again, and again, and again, and we keep smiling but the super special new thing is becoming less super special and new with each battery.

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Having been forced to cancel their flight due to a tornado, old school gorelords Necrophagia are in the unapologetically sucky position of having a set that starts dead on Obituary's finish and ends dead on Autopsy's start. The Midi Theatre being a five minute walk away, the additional minutes soon rack up when you factor in the crowds. Being as Necrophagia fans are obviously also Obituary fans, and Necrophagia fans are obviously also Autopsy fans, cracking this conundrum is up there with the Lament Configuration.

There's the tense slow building horror score opener, and then Necrophagia take to the stage in a tumultous rainfall of razor sharp riffs. Rarely do they get recognition for musicianship - hopefully new album 'Deathtrip 69' will change all that, because it already carries itself like the death metal album of the year, even in the face of forthcoming Morbid Angel and Autopsy. What gives Necrophagia such strength is the that although they're painfully contrived, in terms of a concious construction, it's totally uncontrived in terms of any cynical agenda - Killyjoy, looking like the cannibal carnie from a Coffin Joe flick, sticks his tongue down the throat of a dismembered head and raps two bones together like they're woodwind, for the simple reason that he thinks that's cool. You might think that's cheesy, crass or just downright laughable, but the believe it - and in spite of you, it grants them incredible, gleeful potency.

And so onto Autopsy, the last piece in a triptych of old school bludgeoning evil, and it's actually kinda boring. The sound is significantly quieter than it was for Obituary, and despite the clear, palpable enthusiasm of Chris Reifert - there's not a whole lot to look at, and the crowd is unresponsive and thinning gradually. Whether made up of people who don't really care about Autopsy, but just feel as they should watch them for history's sake. As blasphemous as this sounds, perhaps Obituary should have headlined - as festival closers go, they bring the party, the headbanging cast iron tunes. But caught between downplaying a band who haven't been in the Netherlands for 20-odd years, and an over-exposed dead-cert like the constantly touring Obituary, Neurotic Deathfest doesn't go out fighting, screaming and voiding fluids of all brands, it simply drifts home and falls asleep.

Which is fine, sleep's a good thing.