Despite breaking down en route to Glasgow, the ironically named Automotion arrive just in time to deliver a six-song set that’s hard to define but easy to love. Their sound sits somewhere between psych, shoegaze, and abrasive rock, creating a unique blend that is both edgy and melodic. Their style recalls Glasgow-based Man of Moon and the ever-influential My Bloody Valentine, yet Automotion brings its own experimental edge to the mix.
The two-man-fronted, four-piece band fills Mono with a hypnotic sonic landscape that’s warmly received by the nearly full venue. Later, I discover that Automotion are soon to head into the studio with a roster of producers. Who knows what exciting results this prospect will bring, or how their sound will grow and develop from here?
Perhaps the best way to define Automotion is as multi-layered and ever-evolving. They are, without a doubt, one to watch.
Tonight feels like an old-school night. The area around the O2 Academy is buzzing, there’s a guy selling dodgy shirts for cash or card (new school), and The Laurieston is mobbed. There is such an air of expectation and excitement… as if people need tonight… need bands to fight back and have a voice where the solitary individual doesn’t.
Amyl and the Sniffers come on stage to chants of ‘Fuck Trump,’ and Amy is smiling from ear to ear, letting out a feral call to arms. Eyeing up the crowd, she probably realises that the night is already theirs. It feels like a homecoming gig… buckle up… the touch paper is lit.
As they launch into ‘Doing My Head In,’ Amy thrashes around the stage, and the boys deliver a sonic assault that is so much heavier than could’ve been imagined years ago. Gone are the DIY, sub-2-minute pure punk slices of ‘Stole My Bike…’; the band have grown and matured into one of the most vital and important bands around. They are now so musically accomplished that even the older songs are thunderous, where before they might have just been angry. Think less Ramones… less CBGB… think more Fast Eddie.
The fact that they have been flatmates in the past and friends for such a long time is evident. Their ease on stage is heartwarming. With plenty of banter and joking… Buckfast is drunk, Gus is advised not to go running despite wearing a Jamaican football team tracksuit, and it’s fairly obvious that the party is going to continue at Sleazy’s.
Songs from the new album feature heavily in tonight’s set. ‘Security’s’ and ‘Guided by Angels’ become crowd sing-alongs, yet it is the beautifully slow-tempo ‘Big Dreams’ that provides one of the most touching moments of the evening. A sheer delight. Normal service is soon resumed as the band launch into a hard-hitting ‘It’s Mine’ and the classic ‘Got You.’
‘Tiny Bikini,’ ‘Me and the Boys,’ and ‘You Shouldn’t Be Doing That’ are such gems. Simple lyrics dealing with the complexities of the modern world. Everyone can relate and appreciate.
The night concludes with the surprising inclusion of 2017’s ‘Balaclava Boogie’ and the mind-blowing ‘GFY.’
Tonight saw the band at the top of their game, so far from home (Oz) but adored as if they were ours.
This may have been the worst of days for some, but it was the best of nights for all.m inside the hallowed walls of Glasgows O2 Academy.
The tour continues, with the band going on to play three nights at the Roundhouse in London… the place where Patti Smith famously said, ‘I haven’t fucked much with the past, but I’ve fucked plenty with the future.’ In Glasgow, Amy reassures us that the ‘future is not written in stone.’ Sometimes the best forms of defence are attack.
With the results of the American election hanging heavily in the air, Atlanta’s DIY punks Upchuck were always going to deliver a full-throttle, full-frontal assault of venting, brutal, and direct music.
How could it be any other way? Expressing anger, disappointment, and yet possible salvation, the backlit stage, along with dry ice, gives the air of a bubbling cauldron… an underworld of sound and light that attacks the senses and is unrelenting in its delivery.
Released on Famous Class Records, Upchuck are two albums in and start with heavyweight favourites like ‘Boss Up’ and ‘Freaks’. KT, engaging and mesmerising, marauds the stage, looking up high, middle finger saluting… looking for answers… offering solutions… Fuck Trump.
Mikey on guitar takes time to look out at the near-capacity crowd, possibly considering how different the night is compared to their last Glasgow show at The Hug and Pint in May.
Chris steps from behind the drums, strides to the front, and delivers a slice of Spanish-language ferocity. As the band reassembles, the lights drop, and the strobe lights strike. Upchuck swagger through their performance, taking the willing crowd with them. The visual and sonic impact cannot be underestimated.
KT launches herself into the audience to finish off the set with a blistering rendition of ‘Upchuck’, as the spotlight falls on her and the whirlpool she has created.
It is over all too soon. A lot of friends have been made, and Upchuck will be back.
Although not defined by their name, the raucous and physical expulsion of anger, disaffection, or frustration is very much a part of their DNA and their show, especially tonight. On another day, it may be a reflection of happiness or joy.
Ice Spice’s Halloween show at Barrowlands in Glasgow had all the ingredients for a spectacle but was a bit like a trick-or-treat bag that’s half-empty. This 24-year-old, bringing her debut album Y2K to the Glaswegian stage, surely hoped for more bodies to fill the venue, but with Halloween parties in full swing elsewhere, the Barrowlands was a ghost town by its usual rowdy standards.
Ever the diva, Ice Spice made an eyebrow-raising entrance before she even hit the stage, demanding photographers vacate the photo pit, forcing shots to be snapped from afar—a move more Mariah than millennial. Dressed as a Playboy bunny, she hopped onto the stage with an inflatable rabbit and an entourage of dancers and pyrotechnics, all building up to an opening bang with “Popa.” Despite the sparse crowd, she commanded attention from the get-go, her charisma filling in where the audience numbers lacked.
“Princess Diana” brought out a surprising level of regal attitude, followed by “Barbie World,” which got a cheer as big as any roar you’d expect from a full house. Tracks like “GYAT” and “Boy’s a Liar Pt. 2” threw punchy, catchy hooks that had the crowd bopping along as if to banish the Halloween chill. And for all her diva flourishes, Ice Spice did bring warmth, chatting playfully with fans as if they were an intimate circle of friends at a Halloween afterparty.
She wrapped up with “Think U the Sh*t (Fart),” a cheeky finale for a performer whose mix of bratty confidence and down-to-earth charm creates a tension both fascinating and funny. A Halloween treat? Yes. But here’s hoping next time the crowd is more tricked out too.
Bob Vylan at SWG3 in Glasgow was an electrifying performance, the kind that seems to raise the venue’s temperature by sheer energy alone. Having first experienced him at TRNSMT 2023, we were primed for his brash, hybrid punk, which blends grime, hardcore, and protest music with a kind of raw defiance. He opened with “Reign,” setting an immediate tone of aggression and purpose. Next, “Get Yourself a Gun” pumped up the crowd, blending vicious riffs with biting lyrics.
The tempo shifted slightly when he dropped into a gritty, reverberating cover of Roy Ayers’ “Everybody Loves the Sunshine,” casting a shadow over the track’s original warmth. But it was in “We Live Here” that Bob Vylan’s ethos truly hit home—a visceral critique of life under Britain’s social and racial inequities, performed with an urgency that seemed to resonate deeply with the audience. He closed with “Hunger Games,” an explosive finale that left no doubt about his intentions to push, prod, and provoke.
Onstage, his presence is relentless, a blur of frenetic movement and razor-sharp vocals, every beat fueled by a passion for change. Driven by his own experiences of inequality, Bob Vylan’s music aims not just to entertain but to confront and challenge, grounding his anger in lived experience and a desire for social justice.
Celebrating his 17th solo album, Paul Weller steps onto the Barrowland stage. An artist who’s never faded away, one who’s continually evolved, Weller shows gratitude to the jubilant crowd and adjusts his guitar.
My mind drifts back to images of The Jam—young, raw, and playing a street concert in London’s Soho in October 1976. Forty-eight years may have passed, but, in essence, little has changed. Paul Weller remains stylish, politically charged, and tirelessly prolific. So many songs. I glance at tonight’s set list—21 tracks, not even counting the encores.
With a voice like no other, one that feels stronger and more assured than ever, Weller takes us on a journey through the vast landscape of his career, touching on everything from The Style Council’s “Shout to the Top!” to The Jam’s “Start!” The night crescendos in a powerhouse finale with “Town Called Malice.”
What more can be said about this artist that hasn’t already been written? His career is so multi-faceted it seems impossible to capture it all in a two-hour set, but that’s exactly what happens. The performance is mesmerizing, the transitions between songs seamless and unified, creating an invisible thread that ties it all together.
It’s a beautiful night in a hot, sweaty Barrowland. The crowd adores Paul Weller, and he reciprocates as they cheer him on.
What you give is what you get.
Sixty-six years strong, and Weller’s still not out.
If you ever wanted to see the end of civilization staged by two men thrashing about on a stage, holding back chaos with guitars, drumsticks, and a great deal of sweat, well, welcome to Soft Play at the Barras. They’re the prophets of post-punk hedonism, the harbingers of the apocalypse, and on this gray Sunday night, they reminded Glasgow that in the middle of the daily grind, we’re all just one missed rent payment from primal screams and headlong dives into the pit.
Kicking things off, we had Panic Shack—the Cardiff-based tornado of a band fronted by a banshee with big hair, killer eyeshadow, and a wardrobe raided from a thrift shop riot. They opened with “I Don’t Really Like It,” a fast, brash anthem that had the early crowd pogoing in solidarity.
Panic Shack don’t just play music; they weaponize it. You could call it punk, garage rock, or even glam-grit chaos, but their set felt like a beautiful, anarchic mess of attitude and eyeliner, laced with synchronised death drops that would make RuPaul weep.
And the standout? “The Ick”— , leaning hard into DIY punk energy with enough glam swagger to pull it off. A tune for anyone who’s ever been five minutes into a date and regretted everything.
As for Soft Play, they’re not here to coddle your feelings. Their mission is to tear down the patriarchy while dressed in the musky sweat of a thousand gym bros. The sound? Think of it as therapy by fire. They’re armed with bellowing bass, guitar riffs that scrape like nails on the chalkboard of your mind, and lyrics that don’t so much call out injustice as beat it senseless.
They open with “All Things”—a high-octane manifesto that declares, without preamble, that Soft Play aren’t interested in being your nice indie darlings. They’re here to rip the whole setup apart. Isaac Holman dual singer and stand-up drummer (because apparently sitting down to drum is for the pithy) spits out lyrics like he’s announcing the end of the world, while guitarist Laurie Vincent, a tangle of limbs and intensity, spends the night bounding across the stage like a feral cat in an alley fight.
“Mirror Muscles” follows, and by now the audience—2,000 strong, shouting like a mob awaiting bread— are lapping it up. It’s primal and beautiful.
When they hit “Fuck the Hi Hat,” it’s clear that Soft Play don’t just play music; they create ritualistic mayhem. The guitarist Laurie vanishes into the crowd, and the moshing intensifies.
Halloween is right around the corner and we spot a gorilla and a banana (we hope the came together) furiously thrashing around and all. Security’s on high alert, plucking bodies out of the pit like errant popcorn kernels on a hot stove.
Then there’s “Punks Dead”—their rallying cry, their anthem, and it has every single person in the room screaming along in unity. They’re channeling it, absorbing every raw ounce of Glasgow grit and fury and flinging it right back. And then they ask, “Can we find the backflip king of Glasgow?” as “Girl Fight” roars into action. Out from the depths emerges some brave gymnast—fueled by adrenaline and probably more than a few pints of Tennents—who nails the move to roars that could raise the dead.
There’s a pause. A hush. As Laurie appears, a sweating visionary with a mandolin in hand, they dedicates “Everything and Nothing” to “anyone going through something.” It’s a moment of grace, as if we’ve all been baptized in the fray. It’s soft, it’s unexpected, and for one strange moment, the Barras feels more like a cathedral than a ballroom.
And then, as if that flicker of tenderness never happened, they end with The Mushroom and the Swan and Beauty Quest, reaching the final crescendo with The Hunter, the track that serves as their gateway drug of choice. It’s loud, raw, and devastating. In a world gone mad, Soft Play have found their rightful place as the house band of the end times, and they’re making sure we’re all dancing as it comes crashing down.
Few artists can command a stage like John Grant, and at Glasgow’s legendary Barrowlands—a venue known for its electric energy and storied history—Grant’s performance was nothing short of magnetic. Originally from Michigan, Grant has won a global following with his fusion of synth-pop, electronica, and indie-rock, crafting a sound that’s both expansive and intensely personal. Tonight, the Barrowlands crowd witnessed a set that was as theatrical as it was heartfelt, with every track a study in atmosphere, vulnerability, and pure musical prowess.
But before Giant’s synth-driven grandeur took hold, it was Big Special’s turn to rile up the crowd. Channeling gritty post-punk and garage rock energy, Big Special stomped on stage with a wild confidence that instantly captivated. Their rallying cry—“We’re not John Grant, but we come with a message: the disco starts now!”—set an audacious tone for the evening. The duo’s sound is all grit and raw fervor, and their punchy, anthemic tracks like Black Horse Legs and Distant Stories resonated deeply. “Anyone want to be honorary Midlanders?” they called out, managing to wrest a few whoops from a tough crowd.
“We don’t get to play the Barrowlands that often so let’s do have a dance on that famous dance floor..” with that both members of the band carrying a cymbal launch themselves in amongst the throngs of people gathered to cry out through dancing with more than just a pinch of audience participation. Their track “Tries” With a gritty blend of post-punk stomp and sharp humor, Big Special pulled off an opening that was both chaotic and unforgettable.
When the lights dimmed and John Grant’s set began, it was like stepping into a different universe. His stage was packed with synthesizers, drum machines, and gadgets, setting the scene for his synth-pop and electronic-fueled odyssey. Opening with the haunting Spooky Intro, inspired by horror films, Grant set a cinematic tone before launching into All the School for Nothing, wielding a keytar and effortlessly shifting between irony and sincerity. This track—blending new-wave edge with electronic melancholy—captured the essence of Grant’s unique sound: a rich blend of synth-pop atmospherics and emotional vulnerability.
The show felt like two acts. The first half was operatic and sweeping, highlighted by disco laden tracks like Black Belt and Mars, with the stage lights casting an otherworldly glow that turned Barrowlands into an interplanetary dance floor. His disco-heavy sound and signature humor came through on tracks like Daddy and Zeitgeist, creating an immersive, larger-than-life experience.
The second half saw Grant delve into his melancholic, introspective side, shifting effortlessly into synth ballads like Glacier and Pale Green Ghosts, with a stripped-back sound that left the crowd entranced. With Boy from Michigan, Giant turned reflective, sharing his anxieties about the upcoming U.S. election. These moments revealed his rare ability to balance grandeur with raw vulnerability.
“I’m wearing this because I feel very reverent,” he joked, donning a robe and summoning his assistant for a pair of sunglasses—an irreverent moment amid the theatrical intensity as the band prepared for the encore.
The night closed with a full-throttle finale featuring Meek AF, The Child Catcher, and an extended, rocked-out version of Chicken Bonesthat took the energy to new heights. John Grant’s performance was a blend of theater, synth-pop disco, and rock intensity—a true spectacle that showed why he holds such a special place in his fans’ hearts.
It’s a cold, wet night. Typically Glaswegian. Winter is decidedly setting in, and any lingering summer warmth is now long gone. It is, after all, Scotland. On this particular dreary October night, however, it’s not all doom and gloom, and in the city’s Old Fruitmarket, there is a respite to be found.
Nina Nesbitt has been putting out music for more than a decade now, breaking through with her 2012 EP The Apple Tree. On her most recent record, Mountain Music, she leans more toward a folk sound, creating a warm, enveloping feeling that inhabits the album. Tonight, that is reflected in her stage design, decorated with autumnal leaves, warm lamps, and wool jumpers. A couple of songs in, Nina takes a moment to introduce her backing band, most of whom contributed to the recording of her latest album, coming together to add their individual touches to Nina’s stunning vocals and guitar playing.
The setlist focuses heavily on songs from Mountain Music, and with a new verse of Big Things, Small Town (written en route to the venue) dedicated to her own Scottish roots, Nina is evidently proud of her heritage. Throughout the night, the audience stands completely entranced, in near-total silence except for moments when Nina invites them to join in singing.
“You will leave here more sad than you arrived,” jokes Nina toward the start of her set. By the end of the night, she couldn’t have proved herself more wrong.
The night began with Real Farmer, a quartet of punk from the Netherlands, their energy taut, sharp, and urgent. We loved tracks “Consequence” and “The Straightest Line” They tore through their set like a band with something to prove, culminating in an impassioned cry of “Up the Punks” and rallying shouts for the freedom of Palestine and Lebanon—a plea so raw it hung in the air long after the amps had quieted.
Then, a shift. The Libertines graced the stage just five minutes late—a far cry from the chaotic, impatient days when their lateness was as infamous as their music. Gone are the times when fans waited an hour or more for Pete Doherty to stumble on stage; now, he’s as likely to bring his dog up with him as he is to bring the mayhem. The Albion Rooms backdrop loomed behind them, a ghost of their past and a nod to the ramshackle glory days, but tonight felt different. This was a band, seasoned but not broken, reflecting on the past without being strangled by it.
As the first notes of “The Delaney” hit, followed by “The Likely Lads,” the crowd’s response was immediate—bodies thrown over each other, arms reaching out for the starry ceiling above. It was like watching old friends meeting again for the first time, and the room was soon swimming in bodies, sweat, and memory. The Barrowland Ballroom—famous for its ability to wrap a crowd into a communal, sweating embrace—became a living, breathing extension of the music they loved as teenagers.
Carl Barât and Pete Doherty, who’ve weathered more than a decade of public highs and devastating lows, stood side by side like brothers. There’s a palpable sense that these two have dug through the dirt of their past and emerged scarred but united, and there’s beauty in that. They exchanged glances, and without a word, the music took over—the timeless swagger of “Up the Bracket” paired effortlessly with newer material like “Merry Old England” and “Night of the Hunter.” The room was alive with nostalgia, yes, but also a sense of something deeper, a resilience built over time.
During “Can’t Stand Me Now,” the crowd screamed every word. It was an odd kind of interlude—both a reminder of fractures past and a sign of how far they’ve come. The crowd eager for more, and the band only too happy to oblige them with a six-song encore that felt like a victory lap through the heart of their catalog.
Pete paused for a moment before “Man With the Melody,” making a heartfelt mention of John Hassall and the history of this song—a footnote in the tangled web of Libertines side projects and what-could-have-beens. They gathered around John, their bassist and the understated man with the melody, to deliver a somber yet tender performance. It was like they were paying tribute to their younger selves, as John wrote this song at the tender age of 16.
And then came the final onslaught: “Last Post on the Bugle,” “Time for Heroes,” “What a Waster,” and, of course, the grand finale—“Don’t Look Back into the Sun.” The Barrowland Ballroom, dripping with sweat, reverberated with the echoes of countless gigs, countless moments of elation, and pain shared between audience and band. Each song was like a dagger twisted in the ribs of time—cutting, but a reminder that you’re still alive.
Gary Powell, ever the powerhouse on drums, thanked the audience with the same passion that drove every beat of the night. His final plea to “Free Palestine” was a perfect punctuation—a reminder that, despite the fun and chaos, The Libertines are still a band with a heart that beats for more than just their own legend.
There’s humor in the darkness here, though. The Libertines have always known that life is a tragic farce—one moment you’re a cult hero, the next a washed-up headline—but tonight they laughed in the face of all of it. That’s what made this show at the Barrowland so electric. It wasn’t just about nostalgia, it wasn’t about the chaos of youth—it was about finding meaning in the wreckage and carrying on, bruised but with a smile.
The Golden Bough 