If you ever wanted to see the end of civilization staged by two men thrashing about on a stage, holding back chaos with guitars, drumsticks, and a great deal of sweat, well, welcome to Soft Play at the Barras. They’re the prophets of post-punk hedonism, the harbingers of the apocalypse, and on this gray Sunday night, they reminded Glasgow that in the middle of the daily grind, we’re all just one missed rent payment from primal screams and headlong dives into the pit.

Kicking things off, we had Panic Shack—the Cardiff-based tornado of a band fronted by a banshee with big hair, killer eyeshadow, and a wardrobe raided from a thrift shop riot. They opened with “I Don’t Really Like It,” a fast, brash anthem that had the early crowd pogoing in solidarity.

Panic Shack don’t just play music; they weaponize it. You could call it punk, garage rock, or even glam-grit chaos, but their set felt like a beautiful, anarchic mess of attitude and eyeliner, laced with synchronised death drops that would make RuPaul weep.

And the standout? “The Ick”— , leaning hard into DIY punk energy with enough glam swagger to pull it off. A tune for anyone who’s ever been five minutes into a date and regretted everything.

As for Soft Play, they’re not here to coddle your feelings. Their mission is to tear down the patriarchy while dressed in the musky sweat of a thousand gym bros. The sound? Think of it as therapy by fire. They’re armed with bellowing bass, guitar riffs that scrape like nails on the chalkboard of your mind, and lyrics that don’t so much call out injustice as beat it senseless.

They open with “All Things”—a high-octane manifesto that declares, without preamble, that Soft Play aren’t interested in being your nice indie darlings. They’re here to rip the whole setup apart. Isaac Holman dual singer and stand-up drummer (because apparently sitting down to drum is for the pithy) spits out lyrics like he’s announcing the end of the world, while guitarist Laurie Vincent, a tangle of limbs and intensity, spends the night bounding across the stage like a feral cat in an alley fight.

“Mirror Muscles” follows, and by now the audience—2,000 strong, shouting like a mob awaiting bread— are lapping it up. It’s primal and beautiful.

When they hit “Fuck the Hi Hat,” it’s clear that Soft Play don’t just play music; they create ritualistic mayhem. The guitarist Laurie vanishes into the crowd, and the moshing intensifies.

Halloween is right around the corner and we spot a gorilla and a banana (we hope the came together) furiously thrashing around and all. Security’s on high alert, plucking bodies out of the pit like errant popcorn kernels on a hot stove.

Then there’s “Punks Dead”—their rallying cry, their anthem, and it has every single person in the room screaming along in unity. They’re channeling it, absorbing every raw ounce of Glasgow grit and fury and flinging it right back. And then they ask, “Can we find the backflip king of Glasgow?” as “Girl Fight” roars into action. Out from the depths emerges some brave gymnast—fueled by adrenaline and probably more than a few pints of Tennents—who nails the move to roars that could raise the dead.

There’s a pause. A hush. As Laurie appears, a sweating visionary with a mandolin in hand, they dedicates “Everything and Nothing” to “anyone going through something.” It’s a moment of grace, as if we’ve all been baptized in the fray. It’s soft, it’s unexpected, and for one strange moment, the Barras feels more like a cathedral than a ballroom.

And then, as if that flicker of tenderness never happened, they end with The Mushroom and the Swan and Beauty Quest, reaching the final crescendo with The Hunter, the track that serves as their gateway drug of choice. It’s loud, raw, and devastating. In a world gone mad, Soft Play have found their rightful place as the house band of the end times, and they’re making sure we’re all dancing as it comes crashing down.

Article: Angela Canavan