Never strongly embraced in Italy, my birthplace, Cage the Elephant—a Kentucky band that moved to London at the end of the 2000s—led a sold-out show at the O2 Academy in Glasgow on 13th February 2025. The performance took me back to my 20s, when I would listen to a randomly picked selection of indie rock bands, smugly sharing them with my small group of followers on Facebook.

So, I was feeling quite nostalgic.

The band was supported by two opening acts: Girls Tones, an American high-rock duo that stole my heart, and the caffeinated hard rock of Sunflower Bean.

For those who were still caught up in the allegations against him and his well-documented struggles with mental health, the Neon Pill Tour, promoting their latest album, presented a reborn Matt Shultz. Dressed in a sweater I had always dreamed of owning, classic Maison Margiela boots, and sober yet effortlessly cool gold jewellery, he exuded confidence.

As soon as the lights went out, Shultz leapt onto the stage, immediately illuminated by a perfectly placed spotlight. Backed by his loyal brother Brad and a solid band, he ignited the cheering pit with standout tracks from previous albums, such as Cry Baby and Too Late to Say Goodbye.

The first song from the new album to make an appearance was Good Time, infused with hip-hop influences. It was quickly followed by Neon Pill, which reaffirmed the band’s signature sound. But if the crowd expected a typical promotional tour, they were mistaken—myself included. Only three new songs were played throughout the night, the last of which was Rainbow, a track clearly inspired by reggae.

Sticking to the night’s nostalgic theme, Cage the Elephant delivered a mixed setlist of past hits, creating a show that felt like pure fan service. The crowd jumped, sang, and momentarily forgot their everyday worries, reliving the energy of their youth. Songs such as Halo and Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked built up to a climactic finish with Sabretooth Tiger.

Yet, as the venue erupted in chants for an encore, the band returned, treating the audience to four more songs, including their unforgettable Cigarette Daydreams and Come a Little Closer, which closed the night on a high.

After such a nostalgic show, I can only wish the band the best for the rest of the tour and hope they receive the same incredible response they found in Glasgow. Personally, I can’t wait to see them again soon.

Article: Marco Cornell

It must be a great thing to be born from the same ring of fire as the likes of Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Lone Justice, and X.

Formed more than a decade ago, this fiercely independent DIY four-piece comes together to present their own personal brand of heart-wrenching storytelling to a Rum Shack crowd full of rockabilly attitude mixed with Americana swagger.

A crystal-clear voice that evokes eras past and a Gretsch guitar chiming to create a soundscape that feels both familiar and yet from somewhere far away. But don’t be fooled—Jenny Don’t and The Spurs are cowpunk through and through. Resplendent in their Western-influenced, self-embellished wardrobe, this Portland-based four-piece is instantly lovable and a joy to behold. Evolving from their punk roots, they have crafted a sound uniquely their own, and their latest album, produced by Colin Hegna of The Brian Jonestown Massacre, sees them reaching new sonic heights.

An instrumental introduction of Sidewinder launches the band into a beautifully curated set filled with dazzling moments. Their joy in playing live is obvious for all to see, with Jenny smiling throughout, engaging with the audience, and at times almost line dancing to the beat.

New tracks Unlucky Love, Flying High, and the latest album’s title track, Broken Hearted Blue, glimmer between older songs. The classic Your Cheatin’ Heart is covered, as is Black Cadillac, a long-lost and incredibly rare track by Jenny’s cousin, Sonny Wallace. The set ends with a ballistic cover of “Walking in my Grave” by Portland’s prolific DIY cult heroes, Dead Moon.

You’ll never be able to see Dead Moon or The Gun Club play live… but you can see Jenny Don’t and The Spurs. Don’t miss them. Don’t.

This is cowpunk hardcore. This is not nostalgia—this is now and should not be missed.

Words: CECH

Images: Chris Hogge

It’s a rare thing for a man who’s spent most of his life teetering between rock-and-roll brilliance and total self-destruction to still be standing, let alone swaggering. But Peter Perrett, the louche lounge lizard of post-punk, is a different breed. He’s always been the sound of regret wrapped in a sneer, a poet of the permanently disappointed, a man who writes love songs like they’re ransom notes. And if you thought that, at 72, he might have lost his bite—think again.

At his latest show, Perrett sauntered onto the stage looking every inch the 70’s rock star suitably disheveled, clad in a baggy T shirt and shades clamped to his eyeballs. The crowd amassed also a reflection the bygone decadent dandy standing somewhere between a Dickensian pickpocket and a veteran war criminal, the audiences had suitably attired themselves for tonight’s performance. The band—tight, sharp, with his sons Jamie (who opened tonight’s show) and Peter Jr. ensuring the family business is still booming—locked in, and off we went on another ride through Perrett’s tangled mind.

Opening with “Dignity”, he delivered every line like a man who’s lost and found it more times than he can count. His voice, somehow both crumbling and imperious, filled the room with the authority of a fallen emperor reminiscing about his glory days—and making you feel guilty for not having lived through them.

And then there was “Sweet Endeavour” – a song that sounds like the morning after a lost weekend, where the memories are vague but the consequences are crystal clear. The guitars swooned, Perrett sighed, and somewhere in the crowd, a woman with too much eyeliner and too many bad choices in her past clutched her drink a little tighter.

But Perrett, being Perrett, couldn’t resist throwing a hand grenade into the reverie. Enter “Secret Taliban Wife”, a song that proves he still delights in making his audience simultaneously smirk and squirm. Delivered with the deadpan humor of a man who’s seen it all, it’s both a piss-take and a love letter—probably to the same person.

The show’s climax? “War Plan Red/Heavenly Day” a two-part suite that veered between menace and euphoria. Perrette, now stood triumphant, waving his arms like a rock-and-roll messiah who’s just remembered where he left his stash. And then, of course, there was “Another Girl, Another Planet”—still untouchable, still one of the greatest love songs ever written for someone you don’t really love at all.

Ending on “Beast”, Perrett gave one final sneer, one last guitar-driven gut punch. The band walked off, but he lingered, looking out at us with the gaze of a man who’s survived too much to ever be sentimental. “See you later,” he said, like a threat or a promise…

Article: Angela Canavan

The weekend was really only ever about tonight.

A Jill Lorean gig always fills my heart with joy, and as I ventured to the cold and wet Southside for tonight’s sold-out show, I was excited at the prospect of finally hearing the new album live.

Songs of love, despair, hope, and the everyday allow you to connect to the music in a way that feels immediate and deeply understood. It’s actually hard for me to put into words how hard-hitting and emotionally uplifting tonight’s performance was. How can a trio fill time and space with such energy and raw emotion that the whole effect is truly overwhelming? Maybe it’s because there’s so much going on in the world right now—most of it unsettling and difficult to explain. Maybe tonight’s songs, and their delivery, are a direct reaction to that.

A virtuoso voice, power chords, and an incredible rhythm section delivered their message like a silver bullet. If you’ve ever seen or heard Patti Smith spew Babelogue or sing the last half of Gloria, you’ll know what I mean. The set was a beautiful fusion of new and old, coming together to great effect. The songs are stunning, and the live setting enhances every aspect of them.

This is the best I’ve seen Jill Lorean—powerful, yet relaxed and playful.

The theme of absorbing the now, of taking charge of your own destiny, of changing seemingly impossible scenarios… That was Jill Lorean tonight. Tell me, what film does that remind you of?

The clue is in the name.

Tonight’s hometown gig was sublime.

Jill Lorean are Jill O’Sullivan, Andy Monaghan, and Peter Kelly.

Words: CECH

Images: Chris Hogge

The Glad Cafe is always a fun place to be, and the addition of Haydn Park Patterson, aka Last Boy, as support for Jill Lorean was a lovely surprise. Haydn is best known as a founder and lead member of Glasgow’s new wave, post-punk, synth heroes Ninth Wave. Despite following their socials and buying their vinyl, I had never been in the right place at the right time to see them play live. What joy!

Tonight’s solo performance was both surprising and mesmerising.

A Tascam multi-track cassette player provided a heavy backdrop of sound and drone, to which affected guitar and evocative vocals were added. Haunting harmonies and Celtic DNA combined to deliver music that transports you elsewhere.

Over too soon and effortlessly beautiful—take any opportunity you get to see and listen to Last Boy.

Words :CECH

Photos: Chris Hogge

“Je Voudrais Good Time” indeed!

I’ve never seen a gig quite like this one. Us Glaswegians (and one solo Canadian?) have been counting down the days. It’s a Sunday night at McChuills, and finally, the moment has arrived—a night of indie/electronic/cowbell/synth/Britpop sounds, humorous commentary, and PE shorts.

The stage appears more spacious than usual, as the band puts their trust in an almighty drum machine—undoubtedly to make room for all the galloping that takes place up there. A terrific tactic for enhanced performing! “BIG IN THE SUBURBS” is a huge hit, with the lead guitarist catapulting himself into the audience—something he seems to make a habit of. The band carries a sense of urgency, both sonically and physically, making them an exhilarating watch.

Although they’re relatively new—having released their first single, “ME AND YOUR MATES,” in May 2022—WELLY performs as if they’ve been touring for over a decade. This Brighton bunch is like gold dust in today’s musical world—think Sports Team meets Blur, with a hint of the ’80s.

The lead singer of Welly frequently chats with the audience between songs.

“Who took a gap year, then?” he asks.

“Me!” an audience member eagerly replies.

“Where did you go?”

“To college!”

“No, no, a gap year… as in a break from education.”

“Yeah, I took a gap year before university to go to college.”

Laughter erupts before they launch into “SOAK UP THE CULTURE,” a track dedicated to exploring time spent away from home—in the nicest way possible. This electrifying song boasts a repetitive chorus, making it brilliantly memorable and easy to sing along to.

A handful of my favorite Welly lyrics and songs:

• “My pockets must have holes ‘cause I don’t know where it all goes” – from “SHOPPING”

• “Don’t spend a lifetime looking for heaven when you can find it on the A27” – from “BIG IN THE SUBURBS”

• “Unpack your morals for Jack Kerouac’s novels” & “Posing for exposure on holiday in Cambodia” – both from “SOAK UP THE CULTURE”

Beyond their fantastic music, I have to highlight Welly’s authentic lyrical approach and their ability to create such a playful, uplifting atmosphere. It’s clear they’re just being themselves, and that authenticity shines through.

There’s no doubt this band is on an upward trajectory—they’re bound to skyrocket. Get a ticket to see them now while you still can, because they are going to be massive.

Their debut studio album drops at the end of March, and you can find upcoming tour dates here:

https://worldwidewelly.com

Article: Rose McEnroe

Jacob Alon is the kind of artist who could wring tears from Thom Yorke himself, if only because their music captures that perfect, painful sweet spot between melancholy and ecstasy—like Damian Rice, if he’d stopped sulking in a Dublin bedsit and started mainlining glitter.

Their latest single, “Liquid Gold” – yes, named after the poppers, because of course it is—is a shimmering, serotonin-spiked gut punch about the doomed pursuit of connection through the flickering ghost-lights of online dating. The tragedy of modern intimacy: fleeting, disposable, and yet, somehow, still desperately beautiful.

Alon takes to the stage in what can only be described as industrial fairy couture—bejewelled leather kilts, mesh tops, floral crowns, and glittery eyeshadow that looks like it was applied by Tinkerbell in Studio 54.

It’s giving Midsummer Night’s Dream meets Berlin warehouse rave, with just a dash of B&M Bargains bags with stage props haphazardly chucked towards the back of the stage. Raw, chaotic, and unapologetically real from start to finish.

And yet, beneath all that dazzling, delightful absurdity, there’s a voice—soft, unsteady, and utterly arresting. When they open with “Sertraline”, the room of 500 Glaswegians—noisy, drink-slinging Glaswegians—falls so silent you could hear a phone vibrate (and we did later in the set) It’s a feat that even Yorke himself, patron saint of the Sad Lads, might struggle to pull off.

The setlist reads like a diary entry scrawled in eyeliner on the inside of a crushed-up Rizla packet. “Don’t Fall Asleep” is a song “about a horrible thing that happened and the nightmares it left behind,” Alon admits, with the kind of sincerity that makes you feel like they’re opening a wound just for you.

“Confession” is a heart-bruising swell of guitar harmonies and ghostly keys, a song that shimmers in the air before stabbing you straight in the chest.

Then, in a moment of absurd brilliance, they pivot into a cover of The Korgys’ “Everybody’s Gotta Learn Sometime” only reworked into a much filthier, much funnier “Everybody sucks and fucks sometimes.” It’s hard to get a room of weary, winter-battered Glaswegians to genuinely belly laugh on the last Friday of January, but Alon does it—because that’s what they do. They pull you in, gut you, and then wrap you back up in a tinfoil blanket of absurdity and joy.

There’s no encore. Because, as Alon says, encores are fake. Instead, they close with “Liquid Gold”, that glittering, tragic anthem to desperate connection, breathless pleasure, and the ever-widening gap between the two. A trumpet player emerges from the wings, Alon submits to the spit-and-sweat closeness of the moment, and we all watch an artist teetering on the edge of something truly magical.

The night wasn’t just about the music. It was about radical acceptance, about the queers and the outsiders and the fighters, about turning a Friday night gig into a full-throated “fuck you” to fascism. If there’s any justice, Jacob Alon won’t just break your heart—they’ll be filling rooms far bigger than this one in no time.

Article: Angela Canavan

Have you ever been to one of those gigs that is so captivating and so all enthralling that you go home and end up playing your guitar until the early hours?

Arriving early, I was amazed to see that the venue was already half full and that the largely young crowd had already tightly packed out the front of stage areas. With such an air of excitement and lively chat, it was hard not to be engulfed by it. The night was only ever going to go one way.

Californian Punk Rockers Destroy Boys primarily came to Glasgow to promote their current album ‘Funeral Soundtrack #4’ but the night was much more than that.

We all know that the world is currently spinning off axis, like a Gyroscope in the last throws of stability and the pre-gig presentation by Extinction Rebellion Scotland and the presence of Youth Demand ensured that some serious topics of the day were addressed. In addition, the importance of mutual respect, awareness, empathy and activism were to be continual topics in the set. The age of Destroy Boys is often mentioned and yet tonight their maturity and positive live force is something to be celebrated amongst their much younger fan base.

‘Here we, here we, here we fucking go…’ started to be chanted as the house lights went down and Destroy Boys came on stage to an explosion of sound. Impossible to see anything, it was only when the red stage lights came on that you could see Violet Mayugba’s expression of total shock as she looked out at the gathered crowd….it was as if her breath had been taken away amazed at the enormity of support that she had just glimpsed.

As expected, the new songs feature heavily in a blistering set. The crowd loving every moment…at times too enthusiastically. Emotion busting songs such as ‘Cry Baby’, ‘Shadow’ and ‘K Street Walker’ results in some serious crowd surfing and yet, one of the main highlights is a stripped down version of ‘Boyfeel’, with Alexia Roditis, SG in hand and the crowd joining in. A final encore of ‘Fences’ sees the band leave on a sonic high with applause and gratitude being shared in all directions.

I’ve a feeling that the assembled crowd left tonights show with minds spinning, full of positive thoughts and ideas for the future.

If you haven’t had one of those after gig…go home and play the guitar nights…go and see Destroy Boys…and if you haven’t got a guitar…get one.

Words: CECH

Images: Chris Hogge

The magic of catching a band in the embryonic stages of a new year tour is a privilege, a shimmering snapshot of creativity unbound. No slick production polish, no festival-season preening—just raw, road-tested material. Tracks that may live a fleeting life, aired once under the dim, intimate lights of a venue and then lost forever to the cutting room floor. It’s music at its most alive, unpredictable, and vital.

And where better to experience this phenomenon than at McChuills, the beating heart of Glasgow’s east end? Not just another venue—no, McChuills is a cultural institution, its walls soaked in decades of passion and rebellion. A socialist dream turned sanctuary for misfits and mavens alike.

During Independent Venue Week, its role as a grassroots hub feels all the more poignant. Here, scenes are born, identities forged, and the waifs and strays of society find community. Tonight, the place is buzzing, packed to the rafters with everyone from rising stars like Walt Disco and Humour to the indie glitterati of Glasgow’s own underground.

This is where I finally—finally—got to catch Conscious Pilot, a band I’d shamefully missed despite friends singing their praises louder than a Mark E. Smith rant. Turns out, the hype was justified. If anyone’s still wondering if the spirit of indie sleaze is alive and well, let me confirm: it’s thriving. Frontman Joe (with the swagger of a cult leader) channels all the sneering, throaty brilliance of The Fall, while the jangling, knife-sharp guitars could have been pulled straight from The Rapture’s darkest corners.

Their track “My God Is So Angry” is a brooding, angular manifesto, a sonic Molotov cocktail that captures the anxiety and irony of modern discontent. “Kitchen Knife” goes in for the kill with dual vocals from Emmy also on lead guitar —a razor-sharp interplay of harmony and menace, underscored by guitars that cut like a stiletto heel on a sticky dance floor.

But it’s “Filthy Nite”, their closing number, that cements their place in the Glasgow canon. The crowd is a writhing mass of limbs and sweat, and you can’t help but feel this track will become a cult anthem—or at least a bittersweet memory for those lucky enough to have been there.

As the night deepens, Do Nothing saunter onto the stage. If Conscious Pilot are raw electricity, Do Nothing are a finely tuned engine, purring with purpose. Glasgow’s, a city that’s adopted them as one of its own, greets them like prodigal sons returned. From the first pulsing beats of “Happy Feet”, the band exudes an irresistible confidence.

Then there’s “LeBron James,” a track that turns the Acid Arch into a punk-disco cathedral. Lead singer Chris Bailey (whose tones are pure velvet, equal parts Morrissey and Bryan Ferry) prowls the stage, weaving between grinding basslines and searing synths. Guitarist Kasper Sandstorm cuts jagged riffs that skitter and soar, bassist Charles Howarth anchors the chaos with pulsing urgency, and drummer Andrew Harrison – oh, the drums!—provides a heartbeat that’s both feral and faultless. Together, they create a sound that is both nostalgic and futuristic, like Gang of Four beamed into a Blade Runner universe – if that universe was set in post recession Britain…

New tracks like “Yes” and “Stars” show a band unafraid to evolve, while fan favourites “New Life” and “Contraband” whip the room into a euphoric frenzy. There’s something profoundly tight about their performance—slick without losing edge, practiced but still pulsing with danger.

As the set wraps up, the crowd demands more. And Do Nothing oblige, returning for a two-track encore that feels less like a victory lap and more like a benediction. “Summer of Hate” is a swirling, angry anthem, and when the band closes with the razor-sharp, world-weary brilliance of “Handshakes,” it feels less like the end of a gig and more like the closing scene of a film you’ll never forget.

Here’s the thing: nights like this are why grassroots venues matter. They are the crucible of culture, the unpolished gems in a world increasingly smothered by algorithms and corporate sterility. Glasgow’s UNESCO City of Music status isn’t just a title; it’s a responsibility. McChuilles, and places like it, aren’t just venues—they’re lifelines. For the bands, for the fans, for the city itself. Long may they reign.

Article:

Angela Canavan

Ah, January—famously the month of broken resolutions, empty wallets, and grey skies. You’d think, in a city like Glasgow, where even the seagulls look like they’re frowning, people would be holed up in their flats, clinging to their last tenner like it’s a golden ticket. And yet, LeisureLand only went and sold out King Tut’s. That’s right—the hallowed ground that launched the likes of Oasis and Paolo Nutini was absolutely heaving. If selling out this venue in mid-January doesn’t scream “we’re onto something,” then I don’t know what does.

But before we dive into LeisureLand, let’s talk about their support act Vanderlye—a band so hypnotic, they should come with a health warning. Imagine Britpop in a leather jacket colliding with grunge that hasn’t washed its hair in a week, and you’ve got Vanderlye. Their set was a slow-burning bonfire, with “Guilty Lovers & Heartbreak Serenades” blazing brightest. It’s no wonder this track nabbed Single of the Year at the 2024 Unsigned Music Awards with over 9,000 nominations—though, let’s be honest, it probably only needed one listen to clinch it. “This Plastic Ego” was another standout—a snarky, snarling ode to self-destruction that felt like it could’ve been scrawled on a pub bathroom wall after a particularly bad breakup.

Unfortunately, just as Vanderlye announced their final track, “Romantic Anarchy,” the plug was pulled, leaving the audience muttering mutinous curses and glaring at their watches. You could tell people came just to see Vanderlye; they’d have happily rioted if someone handed them a pitchfork.

But all was forgiven the moment LeisureLand ( Adam Dolan – vocals, Connor McGeechan – bass/vocals, Scott Simpson -guitar/vocals, Reece Paul – guitar, Struan Battison – drums) swagger on stage. Their lead singer Adam Dolan strode out like he’d just won the lottery, the World Cup, and a free chippy supper all in one go. His grin alone could’ve powered the stage lights.

LeisureLand kicked off with two brand-new demos, “Just Like the Movies” and “Daydream”—tracks so fresh, they practically smelled of wet paint. They were warmly received, though the crowd still seemed to be defrosting. By the time “Suzie” rolled around, though, the place was a furnace. This track is a banger in the purest sense—like someone bottled the fizz of early Britpop and added a splash of George Ezra’s hummable choruses. Hearing it live was like seeing Sam Fender and Paolo Nutini in a fistfight, with The La’s acting as referee.

But it was the last two songs that really tipped the night into legendary territory. “Waster” turned King Tut’s into a cathartic free-for-all, with Dolan vaulting the barrier to sing with the front row, beaming like a kid who just got let loose in a pick-n-mix shop. Then came the final track, “Jamaica Street,” a love letter to Glasgow that had the crowd losing their minds. The floor was literally bouncing like it was about to take off, with pint glasses splashing and people dancing with wild abandon.

LeisureLand are a band who don’t just play gigs—they throw parties. Watching them felt like finding out about an underground rave before it hits the mainstream, except this rave is fronted by a singer with the raw, gravelly soul of Nutini and the cheeky swagger of Britpop’s golden era. If January is supposed to be dreary, someone forgot to tell LeisureLand—they’ve just lit a fire that’ll keep Glasgow warm well into Spring.

Words: Angela Canavan

Pictures: Angela Canavan