The dystopian, almost sci-fi stage set—tripod-mounted light panels, pure white backdrop—clashes perfectly with the creaking beauty of the Barrowlands. Pure, simple, uncomplicated. Easy to understand yet jarring and unsettling. A space from a different world, dragging us into today while staring dead-eyed at tomorrow. Before a single word is spat, before a single beat drops, this is the music made visible.

Sleaford Mods: deceptively simple beats and melodies cut through with hard-hitting, take-no-prisoners lyrics that slice open the banality and drudgery of working-class England. They focus on the parts of the country often overlooked, maybe even forgotten—  high streets boarded up, the lives ground down. Jason Williamson delivers his deadpan vocal with metronome precision, every syllable landing exactly where it needs to. Set to one side, Andrew controls the music but he’s no passenger—his unassuming dance moves, all awkward jerks and minimal gestures, push focus even harder towards Williamson and his relentless delivery. The duo work in perfect asymmetry. 

Beautiful duets appear via the lights : Gwendoline, Billy No-Mates, Aldous Harding (see you at the bandstand in June), and a real-life-in-the-flesh Sue Tompkins. No Amy Taylor tonight, but her absence doesn’t diminish the intensity.

Williamson explains he’s been told to chat more between numbers. That model might fit other bands. It doesn’t fit here. We didn’t come for small talk or backstage anecdotes. We came to hear the words, the stories, the message delivered within the songs—raw and unfiltered. How much more do we really need? The added grunting and primal screams are enough. More than enough.

The entire performance punctuated with feral dance moves—sometimes verging on a dad-dancing Can-Can, sometimes resembling an East Midlands take on Tai Chi. Simple, undoubtedly disturbed and disjointed, and because of that, subliminally powerful.

From ‘Mork and Mindy‘ onwards, the beats begin to fracture, melodies thicken, bass hits harder. The sonic palette shifts, darkens, becomes something heavier. Like the avenging love child of Patti Smith’s ‘Babelogue‘ and Alan Vega’s Suicide, Sleaford Mods present music as innovative and experimental as it is alternative—yet they’re unafraid to embrace the mainstream, to weaponize it. Their cover of ‘West End Girls’ demolishes the original. Musically similar, but the delivery is the key. Where Neil Tennant tried to sing, he should’ve channeled his inner Jason Williamson. They’ve taken a synth-pop classic and turned it into something colder, sharper.

Did you ever see the TV programme  Mork and Mindy? No? FYI: Mork, the alien, descends to Earth in human form, trying to understand humanity. At the end of every show he contacts Orson to explain what he’s discovered about the life they live. That’s what Sleaford Mods accomplish—absorb, reflect, react. They’re visitors from nowhere trying to make sense of the mess we’re in. And from what I can tell, the more they see, the less they understand. The bleaker it gets, the louder they need to shout.

Bands like Sleaford Mods are essential to times like this. They hold up a mirror that doesn’t lie, doesn’t soften, doesn’t offer false hope. They deserve our continued support and the message deserves our undivided attention.

Tonight, Sleaford Mods were hypnotic, mesmerising and—more importantly—relevant, presenting a black-and-white zeitgeist of disintegration. Two men, a laptop, a few lights, and the uncomfortable truth.

Nanu Nanu.

Words: Nick Tammer

Images: Chris Hogge