Glasgow on a cold night always feels like a dare, and Stereo answered it by packing itself to the rafters with a sold-out crowd hungry for something loud, something messy, something alive. The BelAir Lip Bombs — Melbourne’s suburban surf-punk sweethearts with a knack for turning heartbreak into a contact sport — obliged with unbothered aplomb. With Kneecap wreaking havoc elsewhere in the city, it was left to this Frankston four-piece to bring the chaos underground, and they did so with a grin you could practically hear.

Opening tonight was Trout aka Cesca who is the solo artist armed with a loud Roland drum machine and a Fender Mustang and they have come to earn many nods of approval from the crowd. Stand out track for us was “T.V” and we highly recommend checking out their latest e.p. “Colourpicker” out now on Chess Club Records.

The BellAir LipBombs cracked open the set with “Again and Again,” which hit like someone switching the lights on in your bedroom at 6 a.m. — rude, honest, and impossible to ignore. The guitars did that shimmering-snarl thing the band does better than anyone, while Maisie Everett sang as though she were whispering a secret into your mouth. The song’s relentlessness — that glorious surge that never quite peaks, never quite settles — felt like being shoved into the deep end by someone who insists it’s good for you.

Maisie Everett — formerly the bass-wielding bruiser in Clamm, and yes, I did once see her tearing it up across the road in the didn’t miss a beat, they tore straight into “If You’ve Got Time,” a track that swaggered out of the speakers with the lazy confidence of someone who knows you’ll wait for them. It’s a song built on restraint — tight drums, bass thick enough to chew — and Maisie’s voice floating over the top, a half-sigh, half-challenge. In lesser hands, it would be a placeholder; here, it sounded like a manifesto. Time is the one thing this band refuses to waste.

From there, the set rollicked along in a glorious mess of riffs and rhythms, the kind that remind you why bands formed in suburban garages always sound better than anything birthed in a factory-sterile studio. Maisie stalked between guitar and keys, the crowd roaring every time she switched — Scotland loves a multitasker — and Mike Bradvica’s guitar jangled like it had been wired directly to his bloodstream. Jimmy Droughton’s bass remained the hero of the night, rolling thick and warm under every melody like a lover who refuses to let go. Daniel Devlin kept it all stitched together, drumming with the clipped authority of someone who knows that if he stops, the entire building will collapse.

Mid-set came “You Look the Part,” which strutted in like a runway model who knows the audience isn’t worthy. It’s one of those songs that belongs in a coming-of-age film — the moment the protagonist realises all the cool kids are faking it. Live, it turned into a sneer dipped in velvet. Maisie’s delivery was pure deadpan grunge, undercut with a smirk, while the rest of the band revved behind her like an engine redlining on the freeway. Glasgow lapped it up.

Later, as promised, the band eased into material from their brand-new album Again, introduced with the kind of modesty only Australians can get away with. They talked about loving Scotland, about this feeling like a “hometown gig,” and for a moment the room went soft around the edges. “Burning Up,” “Cinema,” and the keyboard-led moments felt bigger, more ambitious — as though the band had stepped onto a wider emotional canvas and decided to paint with neon instead of charcoal.

The crowd responded accordingly: “Say My Name” descended into a miniature mosh pit, which looked half ecstatic, half confused, but fully committed. A couple at the front took a selfie mid-chaos, the flash popping like a tiny explosion of narcissism in a sea of sweaty sincerity. It was perfect.

By the time the set moved toward its finale, the band had the room eating out of their hands. They closed with “Smiling” — which does that exquisite BelAir thing of sounding joyful and devastating in the same breath — and “Don’t Let Them,” a track that feels like a rallying cry for every misfit who ever wanted to kick the door down rather than knock politely. The jam at the end stretched luxuriously, defiantly, as if the band couldn’t bear to sever the connection just yet.

Maisie announced that Mike had broken his foot, so they couldn’t do the traditional encore exit-and-return routine, but frankly, no one cared. The audience didn’t want theatre; they wanted truth, noise, and heart — and they’d been given all three in obscene abundance.

Walking out into the Glasgow night, I felt that familiar tug — the sharp ache of missing Melbourne where I once lived. The place that births bands like this, nurtured by community radio, held together by duct tape, caffeine, and blind faith. A city where ambition grows wild like weeds and kids with three chords and a borrowed pedal believe, beautifully, that it’s enough. And watching BelAir Lip Bombs tonight — all sweat and spark and suburban mythology — I believed it too.

Article: Angela Canavan