On a humid Glasgow night, where the air was thick with a mix of anticipation and the scent of spilled lager, Marc Rebillet, AKA Loop Daddy, the musical madman, the maestro of the absurd—returned to the city that’s grown to love his particular brand of lunacy.

But tonight, at Galvanizers Yard, things felt a little different. The DIY charm that endeared him to a growing fanbase years ago, when he played in the smaller, grittier BAaD venue, had been upgraded—or perhaps downgraded, depending on your perspective—into something slicker, more polished, and dare I say it, a tad less wild.

Marc, bounded onto the stage in his signature boxer shorts and boots—because why would a man wear anything else when he’s about to unleash an evening of musical mayhem? His entrance was nothing short of a jailbreak, with Rebillet darting from one end of the stage to the other, as if he was fleeing from the very confines of his own sanity.

Behind him, the screen flickered with images that felt like the fever dreams of a 90s internet junkie: Pornhub-inspired graphics, giant inflatable cupcakes (or were those boobs? It’s hard to tell), and glitchy error codes that might have been pulled straight from the primordial soup of the World Wide Web. It was a strange, hilarious, and slightly disturbing sight—exactly what the doctor ordered.

The show began with a nod to the city that has, in a strange way, become a second home for the Loop Daddy. He opened with the Glaswegian chant, “Here We, Here We, Here We Fu@king Go,” the words rolling off his tongue with the ease of a local, and the crowd responded as if Pavlov had just rung his bell. It was a frenzied start, one that made you believe you were in for a night of unrelenting energy.

Yet, as the evening wore on, it became clear that the madness had been tempered. He seemed to seek out less audience participation, usually Rebillet would invite the audience to shout out random phrases, turning them into spontaneous musical potions.

Last time, it was “Mel Gibson is an Asshole” that sparked a maniacal wizardry from Rebillet. Tonight, there was less of that. The audience, once integral to the chaos, now seemed more like spectators to a well-rehearsed act.

That’s not to say the show lacked its moments of brilliance. One highlight was when Marc, mid-performance, snatched a red lace jacket from a fan and made a grand show of slipping into it, before plunging back into the audience, high-fiving and hugging his way through the crowd like a deranged, affectionate messiah.

At one point, he paused to ask an audience member, “Now what?” The answer, shouted back with the kind of authority only a Glaswegian could muster, was “Just Fu@kin’ Dance.” And dance they did, as Marc conjured a ten-minute disco beast of a track, looping that simple command into something almost transcendent.

But just as the night threatened to plateau—when it felt like the absurdity might be too calculated, too self-aware—the energy dipped.

That wave came when the shouts for old favorites began to ring out. “Night Time Things!” someone yelled, and Marc, ever the crowd-pleaser, obliged. It was as if a switch had been flipped. The crowd came alive again, the familiarity of those YouTube-born tracks bringing a renewed sense of excitement. He then asked the crowd to hunker down—a rare moment of calm—before launching into “Get Up,” a track that did exactly what it promised.

As the night drew to a close, Marc left the stage, but not for long. The crowd, unwilling to let the Loop Daddy go without one last flourish, demanded an encore. And, in true Rebillet fashion, he delivered with “I’m a Flamingo,” a song as absurd as it is catchy, with lyrics like “I’m gonna eat your grandmother” that would be disturbing if they weren’t so damn funny.

As the final notes rang out, and Marc Rebillet—clad in boxers, boots, and the remnants of a lace jacket—took his final bow, it was clear that while the madness may have been more controlled, more choreographed than before, it was no less enjoyable. Marc Rebillet has evolved, but thankfully, he hasn’t grown up. Glasgow wouldn’t have it any other way.

Words: Angela Canavan

Photos Angela Canavan