There comes a point in every great rock band’s life when they have to decide whether they’re still dangerous or merely dependable. Kings of Leon, once the greasy Tennessee outsiders who looked like they’d wandered off the set of That ’70s Show after a three-day bender, have long since crossed that bridge. At Bellahouston Park they looked less like Southern rock’n’roll misfits and more like moustachioed craft coffee evangelists who’d happily discuss the merits of single-origin Ethiopian beans over a flat white in Zennor Coffee.

Image isn’t everything, of course. But rock music has always been about illusion as much as sound, and somewhere along the road the Followill brothers traded menace for middle age. That’s hardly a crime. The question is whether the music still carries the weight.

For much of the evening, the answer was… almost.

Playing to a crowd approaching Bellahouston Park’s outdoor concert capacity of around 35,000, the audience turnout appeared close to a sell-out, with the field looking impressively full. The Glasgow faithful were clearly willing participants, but the band never quite gave them the sense that something unforgettable was unfolding.

The setlist was certainly generous, stretching across two decades and 24 songs, from Find Me and Taper Jean Girl through to staples like Pyro, Closer and Black Thumbnail. It read like the work of a band trying to satisfy every generation of fan simultaneously. That’s easier on paper than it is in practice.

Somewhere around halfway through, the performance settled into a predictable rhythm. Caleb Followill’s trademark elongated “woooah-oh-ohs” became increasingly prominent, accompanied by the familiar rock-star shuffle: pacing from one side of the stage to the other, shoulders back, microphone held low, the sort of choreographed nonchalance that has become almost muscle memory. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t particularly alive.

There was surprisingly little chemistry radiating from the stage. Between songs, the interaction rarely rose above standard festival script. A throwaway “That’s the best fans we’ve had on tour” landed with an audible shrug, while the inevitable “No Scotland, no party!” felt like another well-worn line retrieved from the touring playbook rather than a genuine moment of connection.

Visually, the production felt oddly caught between eras too. The dreamy star-field graphics might once have looked cinematic, but in an age where grainy VHS textures, analogue cameras and lo-fi aesthetics have become fashionable again, they seemed strangely dated rather than nostalgic.

The sound didn’t entirely help matters either. At points the mix felt thinner than it should have been, lacking the muscular punch that Kings of Leon’s catalogue demands. Songs like Fans and Beautiful War lost some of their emotional weight through a surprisingly tinny front-of-house mix.

Yet every so often the old Kings of Leon emerged.

The Bucket still swaggered. Four Kicks reminded everyone why this band were once impossible to ignore. Black Thumbnail retained its snarling edge. And Pyro remains one of modern rock’s finest slow-burning anthems.

Then came Knocked Up, Cold Desert and, especially, Arizona, proving that beneath the stadium polish there is still a remarkably gifted band capable of creating atmosphere without resorting to bombast.

The evening’s genuine turning point arrived with Use Somebody. Those soaring vocal refrains—the very thing that had begun to feel repetitive earlier in the show—suddenly found their purpose. Tens of thousands of voices took over, and for a few minutes Bellahouston became one enormous choir. It was one of the rare occasions where the band’s restrained performance actually worked in its favour.

Ironically, the biggest disappointment came right at the end.

Sex on Fire has become both Kings of Leon’s greatest commercial triumph and, arguably, their artistic burden. Watching thousands instinctively lift their phones as the opening riff rang out felt entirely predictable. It remains a colossal anthem…

But that’s precisely the problem.

For a band with a catalogue as rich as Kings of Leon’s, ending every show with the song that transformed them from respected rock band into global pop phenomenon feels increasingly unimaginative. It’s the safe choice rather than the brave one. You leave remembering the singalong instead of the band.

This wasn’t a return to the hungry, volatile Kings of Leon who once made Youth & Young Manhood and Aha Shake Heartbreak. Nor was it a cynical greatest-hits package from musicians going through the motions. It sat awkwardly somewhere in between: a hugely accomplished band balancing artistic credibility against the expectations that come with having one of the biggest rock hits of the 21st century.

The songs are still there. The craftsmanship remains undeniable. But the danger, the swagger and the unpredictable spark that once made Kings of Leon feel essential now surfaces only in flashes.

Bellahouston got exactly what it paid for: a polished stadium show packed with hits. It just never quite felt like witnessing a great rock band at full stretch.

Words: Angela Canavan

Images: Ryan Buchanan