If there’s one thing Glasgow hates more than warm Tennents and flat chat, it’s liars—and Mass Text knows it – making a perfect analogy to this solid fact in between song banter. Kicking off the night with their snarling sermon “Truth Dies”, this solo venture felt less like an opening act and more like a synths holy reckoning on a barstool. Part Daniel Johnston in a bad mood, part Neutral Milk Hotel after a breakup in a Lidl car park—it’s stripped, spartan, and strangely soul-snatching.

“Were You Ever Birthed?”, they ask us—half whimsical, half accusatory—like some lost poet who’s just discovered sarcasm. It’s tragicomic, like reading Nietzsche scribbled on the back of a Greggs receipt. Somewhere between absurdity and raw vulnerability, it hooks you. A folk-tinged, existential crisis mired in guitar pedals and synths. It’s easy to like.

And then—like a glimmer of guilty joy in a hangover haze—they drop “Sister Golden Hair”, a cover of America’s classic, twisted into a shimmering downer hymn. Jason and Emily from Dehd join in like angels in ripped oversized hoodies and vintage jeans their harmonies jangling like rhinestone tears on a jukebox.

The Chicago DIY darlings, our holy trinity of grit, glow, and gumption, take the stage like they’ve just wandered in from some mythic 3am alleyway gig. It’s their first headline show in Glasgow—a moment TGB has waited for since we went along to see them support Dry Cleaning at the Barrowland a few years ago.

We fell in love with Dehd the way some people fall into rivers: accidentally, and with total abandon. Sailing on a houseboat on a trip to Chicago a few summers ago, a dear friend and I blasted Dehd from tinny speakers while downing White Claws like we were being sponsored…

In the ever-churning sea of indie rock, few bands exude the effortless cool and chic of Chicago’s Dehd. Comprised of bassist and vocalist Emily Kempf, guitarist and vocalist Jason Balla, and drummer Eric McGrady, this trio crafts a unique blend of surf rock, post-punk, and dream pop that captivates with its raw authenticity. Kempf’s commanding stage presence and husky vocals provide a magnetic focal point, while Balla’s reverb-laden guitar riffs weave a sonic tapestry that is both nostalgic and fresh. McGrady’s minimalist drumming, characterized by its steady, unembellished beats, lays a solid foundation that allows the band’s distinctive sound to flourish. Together, they channel their diverse influences into a cohesive style that is unmistakably their own. 

Tonight, from the moment that lullaby-laced opening bars of “Window” unfurls, it’s obvious: this band doesn’t play gigs—they perform low-fi exorcisms. Frontman Jason’s baritone could make Pavarotti blush and go baritone himself. It’s rich, raw, and smells faintly of cigarettes and divine heartbreak.

“Mood Ring” is up next—jangly, joyous, and full of bite. The band, never ones to hide behind effects or egos, are all sweat and sincerity. No pretence. No posturing. Just proper musicians with calloused fingers and kind hearts.

They rip through a greatest-hits safari of their back catalogue of albums —from Water (the glistening debut) to the ghostly glory of Blue Skies, the chest-thumper Flower of Devotion, and the sonic kaleidoscope that is Poetry. Each track drips with reverb, heartbreak, and the sense that they recorded it at 3am using a broken heart and a a 8-track from yesteryear.

“Loner” is a standout—like if Roy Orbison had a nervous breakdown in a basement full of fairy lights. It’s got that dreamy, sad-boy strut of The Velvet Underground crossed with the sneer of early Hole.

“1000x”? Jesus wept. It’s like floating in a tub of glitter and tears. Soaked in longing and distortion. It’s a breakup song for people who still keep their ex’s playlists saved.

And then there’s “Clear”—a track so tender, it could make a first dance at a wedding feel like an acid trip in the best way possible.

Our personal favourite, though? “Palomino”. It gallops (of course it does), all dreamy swagger and vocal swoops. It’s like Mazzy Star hijacked a cowboy bar and made everyone cry in time.

New tracks are teased—louder, thicker with distortion, but smoother somehow. “Bad Love” transitions like silk melting into fire without pause into “Flood” it’s all guitars and ache.

By the end, “Alien” becomes less a song and more a prayer: with Emily and Jason return to the stage for a short encore they perform the song in a stripped back acapella rendition with Jason hammering away on a solo snare drum.

Dehd aren’t just a band. They’re a time machine. They’re the smell of summer on a porch you’ve never been to. They’re the reason you still believe in live music, in feelings, in the untouchable weirdness of it all.

And tonight, in Glasgow, they were ours.

Article: Angela Canavan