Before Toronto’s heartbreak Olympians took to the stage, Ireland’s own Dea Matrona primed the room with a set that felt like a shot of Bushmills chased with a Marshall stack. The Belfast band deal in riffs you could hang a coat on — thick, bluesy, gloriously retro without ever slipping into cosplay. Their harmonies have that familial tightness money can’t buy, and their guitars snarl and shimmer in equal measure. If The Beaches are the glittering afterparty, Dea Matrona are the smoky bar beforehand: all grit under the nails and choruses built for battered Converse and bad decisions. By the time they left the stage, the Barrowland was properly warmed — engines revved, pints sunk, hearts primed for demolition.

There are bands who play gigs and there are bands who stage emotional coups. The Beaches do the latter. Glasgow’s beloved holy ground, the Barrowland Ballroom, has seen saints, sinners and the second coming of several messiahs, but tonight it gets four Toronto women turning pop into both a weapon and a warm hug.

The Beaches have a thing for Scotland — former lovers, tales of T in the Park, Tennents, tattoos and the odd Highland Coo stuffed animal along for the ride, glimpsed through the hangover haze of a day off. It’s mutual. From the off, this is less gig, more group therapy with better lighting.

They open, fittingly, with “Last Girls at the Party” — less a song, more a manifesto. It struts in on a riff that feels like the sonic equivalent of reapplying mascara in the toilets and deciding, actually, you’re staying out. Glasgow obliges instantly. This is the sound of “girl dinner” in action: chaotic, communal, faintly feral.

Without pausing for breath, they slide into “Touch Myself” — bratty, bold, played with a wink rather than a nudge — before “Me & Me” sharpens the mood. The latter lands like a mirror held uncomfortably close: self-sabotage dressed up as a singalong. Already, you can tell this band understand dynamics the way master chefs understand salt. Too little and it’s bland. Too much and it’s inedible. The Beaches season perfectly.

At the centre is Jordan Miller (vocals/bass), roaming the stage like a gloriously wild banshee in a swampy black dress. She twirls so ferociously it’s a wonder she doesn’t career directly into the pit — but that brinkmanship is the point. Miller sings like she’s clawing back something owed, her voice equal parts sugar and switchblade.

Her sister Kylie Miller (lead guitar) brings the bite — she may look like a cherubic indie pixie but she plays as if she’s been touring since the 70’s.

Leandra Earl (keys/guitar) is all sharp lines and ice-cool poise, at one point resembling Trinity from The Matrix with better hooks, she adds shimmer and sheen, her synths turning songs into neon confessionals, while Eliza Enman-McDaniel (drums) hits like she’s settling scores for every woman who’s ever been told to calm down.

Mid-set comes the emotional sucker punch: a cover of “Silver Springs” by Fleetwood Mac. Introduced with a nod to a BBC session and a breakup that required serious Stevie-level witchcraft to survive, it’s less homage, more possession. Jordan doesn’t so much sing it as launch it skyward. When she spits the final refrain, you can practically see spectral exes evaporating in the stage lights. Somewhere, the ghost of Laurel Canyon nods approvingly.

Later, “Everything Is Boring” turns ennui into ecstasy — proof that apathy, when set to the right hook, becomes transcendence. And then the run-in begins.

“Edge of the Earth” arrives like open-road cinema: wide, yearning, built for arms-aloft communion. “Takes One to Know One” follows, its self-awareness worn like a badge of honour rather than a scarlet letter. Then comes “Blame Brett” — a pop grenade lobbed with a grin. Half a bottle of wine, one traumatising ex and an entire ballroom ready to chant his name like a pantomime villain. It is petty. It is perfect.

For the encore, they deliver the glittering kiss-off “I Wore You Better”, before closing on “Sorry for Your Loss” — dedicated with a sly, sympathetic nod: “Glasgow, will you do us one last honour and sing with us?” The Barrowland obliges, a real-life lighter held aloft, voices colliding in a chorus that feels half wake, half rebirth.

And just when you think it’s over, they reprise “Last Girls at the Party” — bringing the whole thing full circle. Because that’s the trick The Beaches pull off so effortlessly: they make chaos feel choreographed, heartbreak feel athletic, pop feel like a political act.

Bangles meets Breeders. Stevie Nicks with a group chat. Shower beers with stadium-sized hooks.

In lesser hands, it would be messy. In theirs, it’s magnificent.

Article: Angela Canavan