As I traipse through Finnieston, around the corner from OVO Hydro, I see hordes of twenty-somethings dressed in their finest cropped jackets and loose jeans, slim sunglasses shielding them from the late sun as pints are consumed. They babble excitedly about the evening ahead. Tame Impala, the psychedelic project of Australian musician Kevin Parker, has long soundtracked this particular archetype of Scottish youth. I’m reminded of 2014, the signature mud of T in the Park at the Balado site, and seeing him beneath the blue King Tut’s tent in the wake of his rise after 2012’s Lonerism. I’m sure many here attended, eager to relive the buzz that live music instils in you when you’re seventeen, when everything feels like a momentous discovery you’re dying to tell your friends about when you get back from the summer holidays.

Walking through the red Clyde tunnel, watching pint bottles clink along the approach to the venue, I feel as though I could be back at Balado queuing for my fabric wristband. But when Parker emerges through a torrent of strobes, I quickly understand that enough time has passed for him to outgrow those beginnings entirely. Long gone are the days of psychedelic projections against a fabric stage wall. Now, Parker is part man, part machine, the architect of the most sophisticated production I have ever seen. A flood of lasers pulses rhythmically as Parker plays his anthems one by one, each song paired with its own colour story. Dracula begins awash in blood red before a gold glow falls across the crowd, illuminating the venue beautifully.

Parker drifts into the crowd, greeting fans as he goes, until he disappears from sight altogether. Above us, humorous footage plays of him taking a bathroom break, the camera pointed carefully at his feet for privacy, before he re-emerges on the B-stage at the back of the arena. It is small and stripped back in contrast to the main spectacle, lit by four lamps, softened by patterned rugs, and free of excess. Sitting on the floor with two keyboards, he looks like your friend’s older brother making music alone in his room, unguarded and lost in feeling. He lies back as he sings, lamps pulsing gently around him in shifting colour. His body moves loosely with the sound, knees swaying, one arm raised so the microphone dangles above him. Just when it feels as though the show might never find a quiet moment, the chaos subsides. For a brief spell, it is just Kevin Parker and his makeshift bedroom, looping textures and airy vocals dissolving across the arena.

The lighting rig descends as the song closes, and then he is on the move again, emerging once more for Let It Happen. Pints immediately rise overhead, the Scottish crowd vocalising the iconic bassline. Nangs follows soon after, and the lights behind Parker and his band wobble in time with the song, a detail that speaks to the production’s overall mastery.

“Let me look at you quickly… there’s more of you than I thought. I didn’t know this place went so high — it’s beautiful.” He reflects briefly on earlier Scottish shows, name-checking Barrowland Ballroom and The Arches, before adding, “No matter where you were or what time it was, I’m happy you’re all here. In fact, I’m fucking happy you’re all here. The only thing I care about in this whole universe at this moment is the fact you’re here right now.”

There is a slight trade-off to the grandeur. At times, the sheer ambition of the lighting rig becomes almost overbearing, occasionally obstructing sightlines for those seated higher up. Nevertheless, the show is one to be felt as much as it is seen. Confetti spills over the adoring crowd for New Person, Same Old Mistakes, and following the encore, Parker teases “song number two…” before delving into one of the most iconic guitar riffs I’ve ever known. The Less I Know the Better is even better than imagined, an experience that will fuel nostalgia for another decade. Finally, End of Summer arrives as a softer closer, nudging the night towards an early exodus as people begin filtering out to catch trains and buses, the evening ending in what can only be described as a comedown.

Article: Anni Cameron