Article: @zombiefang_ Angela Canavan

Glasgow’s subterranean sanctuary for sweat and sound, Stereo, bore witness to the triumphant, cacophonous finale of Doss’s European tour. A night where DIY ethos met the debauched fervor of rock ‘n’ roll, and out Glaswegian mother tongue was wielded like an epistle of streetwise colloquialisms—a shield against pretension and a cudgel for satire.

Doss, a band as controversial as they are beloved, have become synonymous with the DIY scene. They don’t just play it; they are it—its lifeblood coursing through their snarling riffs and relentless rhythms tonight the crowd felt less like fans and more like kin.

The night began with Comfort, Glasgow’s very own answer to Sylvester—if Sylvester had a punk streak and a loop machine. Sean and Natalie, queer punk electro-clash champions, armed themselves with thumping drums and acerbic wit. Tracks like “Real Woman” and “Not Passing” were hypnotic, sweaty tirades against conformity that transformed the floor into a joyous, ecstatic battlefield. A sister-brother duo with wit woven into their DNA—an amuse-bouche for the anarchy that was about to follow…

Then came Doss: Sorley Mackay, Brodie Mackay, Chilton Fawcett, and Mark Black—each a vital organ in this Frankenstein’s monster of a band. The Mackay brothers are a rhythm and vocal section so tight it’s like they’ve spent their entire lives finishing each other’s sandwiches (well the likely have). Chilton’s drumming is an exercise in controlled chaos—he can stop a song on a dime or obliterate it entirely with the weight of his kit. Sorley, on guitar , brings a snarling groove that seems to simmer with Glaswegian defiance.

Mark Black’s bass playing? Filthy. Crunchy. Like an electric eel writhing in the Clyde. And oh, to be a fly on the wall at the Black family’s Christmas dinner table—comedian Paul Black is Mark’s brother who also seems to have the comedy gene in his bones too. Surely a table laden with both banter and barbs.

Then there’s Brodie, backing vocals with a sneer that could cut steel and a voice that could resurrect the dead—though only to mosh them back into the grave.

From the opening notes of “Dirty Fuckers”—a vitriolic manifesto aimed squarely at the promoters who plague the DIY scene—the room became a heaving, moshing mess. This is Doss at their peak: venomous, incendiary, but never losing their sharp wit.

Tracks like “Redundant” followed, a wry look at social dynamics that sounds like Gang of Four fighting The Jesus and Mary Chain in an abandoned car park. “King of the Castle” was a riotous standout—a sonic reimagining of Scottish playground chants, delivered with such menace you half-expected someone to square-go the sound tech.

The band’s infamous “The Mullets Are Moving In”—a scathing satire on gentrification—elicited guttural roars from the crowd. It’s equal parts biting social commentary and unhinged anthem, proving once again that Doss are both Glasgow’s chroniclers and part of its collective conscience.

By the time “Concrete Cowboy” swaggered in, with its twangy, noirish edge, the pipes of Stereo were dripping condensation, the air thick with the stench of spilled lager and triumph. The penultimate track, “Lungs,” has an almost saccharine sweet guitar riff that eventually becomes a screaming blister of distortion.

Finally the band treated the audience to a second pass at “The Mullets are Moving In” that was so blistering that the band played it twice for sheer laughs, an act of cheek that sent bodies crowd-surfing faster than you could say, “Mon doon tae the front.”

Between tracks, Sorley a moment to address the crowd with a heartfelt, expletive-laden thank-you: “Youse got us out a black hole when we got our gear nicked. This started in my room as a wee silly project, and now look at it, so good to see so many of you out!” A sentiment that landed as heavily as any bass drop, reminding everyone why Doss trey stand out in their own,

Doss closed the night not with a whimper, but with a roar. Their songs, part punk diatribe, part Glaswegian gospel, had turned the basement of Stereo into a molten pit of unity. By the time the last chord reverberated through the room, the crowd looked like they’d survived a small earthquake rather than a gig.

In a scene awash with pretenders, Doss stands alone, bloodied but unbowed. And last night, they cemented their legacy as Glasgow’s DIY darlings and perhaps Scotlands loudest export.

Article: Angela Canavan