Nation of Language strode onstage at SWG3 TV Studio looking like three people who had accidentally wandered into a rainbow warehouse séance.

From the opening salvo of “Spare Me the Decision” off 2023’s Strange Disciple, it was clear the Brooklyn trio were here to indulge the packed-out room in a glittering rummage through their back catalogue—like a synth-pop TK Maxx, but with significantly fewer tears and far better lighting.

By the time they launched into “Rush & Fever” from 2020’s Introduction, Presence, Ian Devaney’s baritone was so strikingly similar to Ian Curtis that for a moment you could swear the venue had become a spiritualist convention, the frontman channelling Manchester’s most morose cherub with unsettling ease. Paired with Devaney’s art-school-core dance moves—something between a metronome having an existential crisis and a preacher seized by a heavenly current—it was undeniable: Nation of Language are a band of substance over style, though they do style suspiciously well.

Then came “Surely I Can Wait”, prefaced by Devaney’s valiant attempt at local colour:

“As you would say here in Glasgow—Surely Ah Canny Wait.”

The crowd, naturally, lapped it up like a cat discovering cream for the first time. Draped in candy-coloured lights, the trio delivered a set throbbing with nostalgia for the ‘80s—so much so you half-expected the Stranger Things production team to burst in, clipboard in hand, asking why the hell these three weren’t already soundtracking Season 6.

A minor technical meltdown arrived with “In Your Head” when Devaney confessed, “This next part is supposed to be guitar, but it’s broken so I can’t play it.” If anything, the admission only added to their charm—there’s something deliciously human about a band who can conjure New Order-esque synth euphoria but still lose a fistfight with their own equipment.

Then came “Inept Apollo”, a dreamlike, Gary Numan-approved synth masterpiece: cold, metallic, and shimmering like the dashboard of a self-driving hearse. It throbbed with a kind of neon melancholy that would’ve made even Numan himself cock an approving eyebrow.

But it was “Friend Machine” that delivered the biggest jolt to the ribcage: Devaney’s falsetto soared above a drum machine so rattling it could make LCD Soundsystem tip their cap and mutter, “Alright, fair play.”

By the time the encore rolled around, the room was plunged into near-total darkness save for a few vintage strobe lights that looked like they’d been borrowed from the set of Blade Runner and never returned. Fans howled for “Gouge Away”, but alas—it appears to be absent from this tour’s offering, that little heartbreak left to the imagination.

The trio re-emerged to play the fan favourite “Weak in Your Light”, a shimmering, slow-burn synth hymn that drips tenderness in a way that feels almost indecent—like reading someone’s love letters aloud. “On Division Street” followed with its cinematic strut, before the evening closed with “The Wall & I”, a finale that pulsed, shuddered, and finally dissolved into a wash of analogue heartbreak.

Nation of Language left the stage like they arrived: quietly, stylishly, and with enough emotional shrapnel lodged in the room to keep everyone awake until at least 3am. Which, frankly, feels like the entire point.

Article: Angela Canavan

@ zombiefang_