Glasgow’s School of Art has seen a few things in its time—delirious creativity, sweaty techno nights, and the occasional third-year breakdown—but nothing quite like Soapbox blowing the roof off with the righteous fury of a band who know they’ve got something to say and aren’t asking permission to say it.

The night opened with Psweatpants, the stage name of a South London transplant who’s somehow wormed his way into Glasgow’s punk-rap underbelly, forging alliances with the likes of VLURE in what can only be described as cultural subterfuge via collaboration. Dressed like a yard sale from the future and spitting rhymes like a preacher possessed, his tracks “A Slick One” and “Life Innit” were part sermon, part stand-up, part grime ritual. He’s got the kind of charisma that makes you forgive the fact he performs under a name that sounds like a wardrobe malfunction.

Then The Menstrual Cramps descended like a swarm of righteous wasps, buzzing with bile and political intent. Frontwoman Emilia Elfrida was a gyrating vision in satin hot pants that screamed “PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY” across them, a slogan equal parts cry for help and battle cry. Their set was a glorious explosion of spit, glitter, and fury, taking aim at every institution complicit in the Israeli state’s genocide in Palestine. They weren’t just playing songs—they were stamping out apathy. Having spearheaded the campaign for bands to boycott The Great Escape Festival over its Barclays sponsorship, Emilia, alongside fellow members Carl (bass), Jenna (guitars) and AJ (drums), made it quite clear: complacency will not be tolerated. Their sound is like Bikini Kill being mugged by Amyl and the Sniffers in a pub toilet—raw, reckless, and delightfully unrepentant. Highlights included “Neo Nazi,” “Mutual Masturbation,” and “Hashtag Sad Penis,” each track a neon brick hurled at the glass house of polite society.

But the main event was Soapbox, and from the first note of opener “Do As You’re Told,” it was clear they weren’t here to mess about. Frontman Tom Rowan catapulted into the crowd by the third verse, like Johnny Ramone with a Scottish accent and less regard for personal injury. From there, it was utter, beautiful carnage. The crowd responded with unrelenting energy, hurling themselves into the pit and lifting bassist Aidan Bowskill onto their shoulders while he continued playing, grinning like a man who’s just found religion in a feedback loop. By the time Rowan followed suit, singing from atop the crowd’s collective arms, the room was drenched in sweat and sheer exhilaration.

Soapbox sound like Idles if they stopped shouting long enough to realise irony exists, or Sleaford Mods if they’d been raised on Tennents and actual class struggle rather than the concept of it. Guitarist Angus Husbands slices through the noise with jagged riffs that owe as much to Gang of Four as they do to Franz Ferdinand’s spikier moments. Drummer Jenna Nimmo is the secret weapon—her playing isn’t just rhythm, it’s a call to arms, tight as a clenched fist and twice as effective.

“Value Added Glasgow” roared through the room like a love letter written in spray paint and bile, turning the city’s damp tenements and DIY ethos into poetry. You can’t fake this kind of authenticity—the band’s fridge, glimpsed backstage, tells you everything: Irn-Bru, Tennents, and a suspicious-looking bottle of Buckfast. It’s all jokes until the first note hits, and then it’s politics with a crowbar and a guitar solo.

“Meter Maid” crackled with ska-infused menace, like early Libertines before they discovered cocaine and regret. “Stiff Upper Lip” was a snotty takedown of British emotional constipation, one part Arctic Monkeys, one part The Fall. And “The Fear,” well, that one slithered under your skin with a Joy Division-esque unease, the bass line throbbing like a hangover you can’t quite shake. Just as the final notes rang out, guitarist Angus Husbands shrugged off a camouflage jacket with the words “PLEASE DON’T SHITE IN MY MOUTH” scrawled across the back—a line lifted directly from Irvine Welsh’s The Acid House. Was it a sly nod to Scotland’s literary enfant terrible, or a brutally apt commentary on the state of modern politics? Either way, the crowd howled in delight. It was crude. It was brilliant. It was peak Soapbox.

“Granston Star Cause” saw local legend Tina Sandwich (yes, that’s her real name, and no, she will not explain it) steps in to lend some honeyed vocals to the storm, a touch of melody that only made the chaos more poignant. Psweatpants returned for “Fascist Bob,” the unofficial national anthem of a better country, the kind that would never vote Tory or forget Grenfell. At that point the pit became a communion, the crowd thrashing and howling like it might be their last night on Earth.

And still they weren’t done. “Prince Andy” was a dark fairytale of privilege and perversion, dripping with sarcasm and seething contempt, while final track “Yer Dah” was a feral, stomping goodbye kiss to the patriarchy. If “Yer Da sells Avon” was a joke, this song turned it into a battle cry.

Soapbox left the stage soaked in collective sweat and smiling from ear to ear, promising they’d be back soon. They didn’t need to say it. After a night like that, Glasgow won’t let them go quietly.

Article: Angela Canavan