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

 It’s a frosty January evening, the kind Glasgow excels at, but inside The Hug and Pint, it’s a different story. The place is packed, sweaty, and thrumming with anticipation as Fog Bandits take the stage. By the end of the night, one thing is clear: this is a band who know how to make noise, make friends, and make you question whether you’ve had enough electrolytes for this level of moshing…

The band stormed out with “I Want to Set the World on Fire”—an apt opener for a set that burned with energy from start to finish. If Queens of the Stone Age ever went drinking with Echo and the Bunnymen, Fog Bandits would be the resulting hangover soundtrack. The second track, “If I Could Love You,” had a grungy earnestness, the kind that makes you wonder, “Who even are these guys, and how are they this good?”

By the time they launched into “The Coven,” I was hooked. Think of it as a sonic witch’s brew—dark, brooding, and just a touch of 80s hair metal flair. It’s not a song so much as an incantation, conjuring heavy basslines and jagged riffs.

Speaking of bass, the fourth track “HOUNDS” delivered enough low-end punch to rattle your pint glass clean out of your hand. It was a masterclass in rhythmic dominance, the kind of groove that makes your knees involuntarily give out.

And then came “Take the Money and Run” with its underlying emo overtones. This is the kind of number that brings the crowd together in a sweaty embrace, with the lead singer egging us on like the Pied Piper of GWR.

Mid-set, the band teased us with an unreleased track (working title? Anyone?), prefaced by, “This one’s not out yet, but please bounce around to it.” And bounce we did.

But the real highlight—the pièce de résistance—was their utterly gaudy, gloriously trashy cover of Britney Spears’ “Toxic.” Imagine the original, but filtered through the lens of a band who love chaos and aren’t afraid to make the crowd go feral. Moshing to Britney? It was like Christmas had rolled around again.

By the halfway point, the lead singer, who clearly moonlights as Mick Jagger’s dance coach, announced: “We need a break, as this man here”—gesturing to an audience member glossy with sweat—“is sweaty as all hell.” It was a moment of pure Glaswegian camaraderie.

A slower number “Pretty Little Words” a Radiohead-esque lament—gave us a brief moment of pause as the melancholy bassline wrapped around us like a comforting gloom.

The set barreled toward its conclusion with the penultimate track, “Ready or Not,” and the closer, “Vile.” By this point, the Hug and Pint had reached fever pitch. The front row of moshers surged forward, and in an act of true rock and roll madness, the lead singer was hoisted into the crowd. As the bassist shouted, “Keep him!” the gig reached its chaotic, sweaty zenith.

There’s a rare, almost magical quality about a Fog Bandits gig: it feels like everyone in the room is part of the same gang. Strangers share knowing grins, drinks are spilled without malice, and the band plays like they’re performing for pals in their living room.

Musically, the Bandits deliver a heady cocktail of 70s hair metal swagger and 90s grunge grit. Tracks like “The Coven” ooze theatricality, while others (ahem, “Toxic”) scream, “We’re here for a laugh, too.” On Spotify, their recorded sound is tighter and more polished, but live? It’s raw, sweaty, and utterly electrifying.

Fog Bandits at The Hug and Pint was a riotous start to 2025. Equal parts sweaty mosh pit and swaggering snake-hip dance party, it was everything you could want from a gig. They left the crowd grinning, exhausted, and slightly concerned about the state of their shoes.

Photos: Dale Harvey

Words: Angela Canavan

Article: Dale Harvey @daleharvey

After playing Glasgow earlier in the year supporting The Hives’ tour, it was time for Bad Nerves to headline their own tour at the legendary King Tut’s.

UltraQ has been the support band for this tour, and as soon as lead singer Billie Danger started singing, there was a wave of recognition around the room. Billie Joe (of Green Day fame)’s son, with an unmistakably similar voice. They were a tight support band with an undeniable root in pop punk, but through the set, they bounced between a variety of genres. From the growling on Peace of Mind to the surfer rock vibes of Some Dice, there was something for everyone.

Before the show started, the security began going around the room hanging up “No Crowd Surfing” signs, which was a pretty good warning about the energy everyone was expecting to be brought tonight. “Here we fucking go” echoed around the room before the band even got to the stage, not dampening that expectation much. “The Ramones on crack” was being used to describe the band, and it was immediately accurate. The whole band was a bundle of energy from the start with Baby Drummer and Palace, and the crowd matched them with a mosh pit forming in a way that doesn’t happen too often in Tut’s. Lead singer Bobby Nerves is effortlessly cool, and while the comment “I knew this was going to be a good crowd” was predictable, the beaming grin on his face made it clear it was a genuine sentiment.

Much like their often-referenced influence, the Ramones, the songs flowed smoothly from one into another. There weren’t a lot of breaks for the band or crowd, nor, like the support band, much experimenting across genres. But when everyone was clearly enjoying themselves that much, why change something that works so well? The punk rock influences would have been worn on sleeves, but of course, they were mostly all in vests.

After a lengthy and sweaty set, everyone was granted a brief respite before the encore as they finished with You’ve Got the Nerve, Can’t Be Mine and Dreaming. Those three songs alone made it clear that getting a ticket to this show—as Bobby Nerves informed everyone earlier, “the fastest sellout of the tour”—was pretty lucky. When Bad Nerves are back in Glasgow, it is almost certain to be in a much bigger venue.

Article: Dale Harvey

Article: @zombiefang_ Angela Canavan

Glasgow’s subterranean sanctuary for sweat and sound, Stereo, bore witness to the triumphant, cacophonous finale of Doss’s European tour. A night where DIY ethos met the debauched fervor of rock ‘n’ roll, and out Glaswegian mother tongue was wielded like an epistle of streetwise colloquialisms—a shield against pretension and a cudgel for satire.

Doss, a band as controversial as they are beloved, have become synonymous with the DIY scene. They don’t just play it; they are it—its lifeblood coursing through their snarling riffs and relentless rhythms tonight the crowd felt less like fans and more like kin.

The night began with Comfort, Glasgow’s very own answer to Sylvester—if Sylvester had a punk streak and a loop machine. Sean and Natalie, queer punk electro-clash champions, armed themselves with thumping drums and acerbic wit. Tracks like “Real Woman” and “Not Passing” were hypnotic, sweaty tirades against conformity that transformed the floor into a joyous, ecstatic battlefield. A sister-brother duo with wit woven into their DNA—an amuse-bouche for the anarchy that was about to follow…

Then came Doss: Sorley Mackay, Brodie Mackay, Chilton Fawcett, and Mark Black—each a vital organ in this Frankenstein’s monster of a band. The Mackay brothers are a rhythm and vocal section so tight it’s like they’ve spent their entire lives finishing each other’s sandwiches (well the likely have). Chilton’s drumming is an exercise in controlled chaos—he can stop a song on a dime or obliterate it entirely with the weight of his kit. Sorley, on guitar , brings a snarling groove that seems to simmer with Glaswegian defiance.

Mark Black’s bass playing? Filthy. Crunchy. Like an electric eel writhing in the Clyde. And oh, to be a fly on the wall at the Black family’s Christmas dinner table—comedian Paul Black is Mark’s brother who also seems to have the comedy gene in his bones too. Surely a table laden with both banter and barbs.

Then there’s Brodie, backing vocals with a sneer that could cut steel and a voice that could resurrect the dead—though only to mosh them back into the grave.

From the opening notes of “Dirty Fuckers”—a vitriolic manifesto aimed squarely at the promoters who plague the DIY scene—the room became a heaving, moshing mess. This is Doss at their peak: venomous, incendiary, but never losing their sharp wit.

Tracks like “Redundant” followed, a wry look at social dynamics that sounds like Gang of Four fighting The Jesus and Mary Chain in an abandoned car park. “King of the Castle” was a riotous standout—a sonic reimagining of Scottish playground chants, delivered with such menace you half-expected someone to square-go the sound tech.

The band’s infamous “The Mullets Are Moving In”—a scathing satire on gentrification—elicited guttural roars from the crowd. It’s equal parts biting social commentary and unhinged anthem, proving once again that Doss are both Glasgow’s chroniclers and part of its collective conscience.

By the time “Concrete Cowboy” swaggered in, with its twangy, noirish edge, the pipes of Stereo were dripping condensation, the air thick with the stench of spilled lager and triumph. The penultimate track, “Lungs,” has an almost saccharine sweet guitar riff that eventually becomes a screaming blister of distortion.

Finally the band treated the audience to a second pass at “The Mullets are Moving In” that was so blistering that the band played it twice for sheer laughs, an act of cheek that sent bodies crowd-surfing faster than you could say, “Mon doon tae the front.”

Between tracks, Sorley a moment to address the crowd with a heartfelt, expletive-laden thank-you: “Youse got us out a black hole when we got our gear nicked. This started in my room as a wee silly project, and now look at it, so good to see so many of you out!” A sentiment that landed as heavily as any bass drop, reminding everyone why Doss trey stand out in their own,

Doss closed the night not with a whimper, but with a roar. Their songs, part punk diatribe, part Glaswegian gospel, had turned the basement of Stereo into a molten pit of unity. By the time the last chord reverberated through the room, the crowd looked like they’d survived a small earthquake rather than a gig.

In a scene awash with pretenders, Doss stands alone, bloodied but unbowed. And last night, they cemented their legacy as Glasgow’s DIY darlings and perhaps Scotlands loudest export.

Article: Angela Canavan

If there’s one thing Glasgow does well, it’s big, sweaty nights of chaotic energy wrapped in glorious guitar riffs. Tonight’s show is like a festive night out/homecoming for some of our home city’s best new talent as Dead Pony took to the QMU the stage with a ferocity that had the sold-out crowd bouncing off the walls.

First up was Soapbox, despite some early lineup changes, their current roster – Vocals – Tom Rowan Drums – Jenna Nimmo Guitar – Angus Husbands Bass – Aidan Bowskill– packs a punch that could knock out a lion . Their bass-heavy track “Yer Dah” was an early highlight, with frontperson Rowan’s unmistakably Glaswegian baritone cutting through the room like a razor-sharp wit in a pub argument.

Soapbox wear their influences on their sleeves, blending the raw power of The Specials with a dose of DMA’s chaos – it’s like a musical cocktail mixed by a mad bartender. Their politically-charged anthem “Fascist Bob” was a particular standout, a snarling, bear of a track that stomped through the set like a drunk uncle on Hogmanay. Soapbox are tipped for big things, so don’t miss them when they headline The Garage on April 25th.

Next up, Gallus reminded everyone why they’re one of Glasgow’s finest exports since Irn-Bru. Frontman Barry Dolan couldn’t seem to stay on the stage, instead spending most of his set moshing, wailing, and sweating it out in the crowd’s sweaty embrace. Their latest single “Depressed Beyond Tablets” is the musical equivalent of caffeine and chaos – a high-energy meal deal of ska-infused swagger and punk rock grit.

Gallus’s sound ranges from Sports Team to Wunderhorse with tracks like “Looking a Mess” and “Fireflies” proving they’ve got range as well as riffs. Make sure to catch their headline gig at the Oran Mor on April 18th, and prepare to dance, scream, and possibly lose a shoe.

By the time Dead Pony hit the stage, the crowd was absolutely feral – in the best way. Opening with “Ignore This,” they made it clear that months of touring hadn’t dulled their edge one bit. Lead singer Anna Sheilds beamed ear-to-ear as she confessed it had been a lifelong dream to play the QMU, let alone sell it out. The band’s energy was infectious, with tracks like “About Love” and “Rainbows” showcasing a versatility that ranged from angsty punk to dreamy alt-rock.

Dead Pony’s influences are easy to spot – there’s a bit of Paramore’s emotional punch, a splash of Wolf Alice’s grungy cool, and enough Glasgow grit to keep them utterly unique. The band played a tight set and all brought something special to the table, from thunderous drums to guitar riffs sharp enough to cut through the thick Glasgow air.

One of the night’s most memorable moments came when Sheild’s somehow convinced the entire audience to zealously perform the Macarena during “Bad Girlfriend.” It was a weird, wonderful, and uniquely Dead Pony moment.

The night snowballed towards its dramatic culmination that included; “Everything Burns” and “Cobra,” but the real magic happened during their cover of Limp Bizkit’s “Break Stuff.” Inviting members of both Soapbox and Gallus on stage, it was a chaotic, joyous mess of a performance that felt like the perfect summation of the night.

Closing with fan-favorite “Mana,” Dead Pony cemented their place as one of the most exciting live acts on the scene. If last night was anything to go by, their next gigs will sell out even faster – so grab a ticket and prepare to lose your voice.

Photos: Dale Harvey

Words: Dale Harvey & Angela Canavan

It’s been almost twenty years since Vampire Weekend first sprung to life, with the time since seeing them grow and develop their signature indie-pop sound into the richer, almost orchestral arrangements heard on their latest record, Only God Was Above Us.

Tonight, the band starts the show as the three remaining original members, opening with a handful of their earliest songs, set against a plain backdrop bearing only their name. This stripped-back start quickly bursts into a fuller, seven-piece setup, as the band’s sound widens to accommodate the greater breadth of their new music.

The nearly two-and-a-half-hour set encompasses every aspect of Vampire Weekend’s career, taking in hits such as Oxford Comma and newer offerings like the blistering Gen-X Cops. At no point does this massive performance risk becoming drawn-out, moving with a flow and structure reminiscent of a stage show, forming a narrative that keeps the audience dying to hear what comes next.

As Vampire Weekend brings the show to an end with album closer Hope, each member withdraws from the stage one by one until it lies empty. After such a stunning set, few could be left wanting more, and yet that’s exactly what Vampire Weekend comes back to give. Returning to the stage, frontman Ezra Koenig proclaims, “The show’s over; we’re just hanging out now,” as the band proceeds to take audience requests for covers. In this final portion of the evening, the band covers tunes such as Hey Jude, Hungry Heart, and an unexpected yet impressively executed Chop Suey.

Throughout the evening, Vampire Weekend exudes a certain confident ease, with an evident love for the music they’ve created and the fans who’ve made it all possible. Never arrogant, the band is clearly sure of its own abilities and tonight comes across as one ready and willing to take on the weight of its own legacy.

Article: Elliot Hetherton

Opening for the night were Glasgow’s finest new upstarts, Mélange, whose danceable punk riffs filled the room with head bopping glee, their final track, Psychosomatic, set the tone for the chaos to come. But it was Cumgirl8 who hijacked the evening, transforming the basement of The Hug and Pint into a seedy, shimmering riot of sound, satire, and subversion.

Let’s get one thing straight: if you’re distracted by Cumgirl8’s lingerie-clad, fishnet-sporting, bloomered aesthetic, then you’ve missed the memo. These four women are soldiers in the fourth wave of feminism—a movement shaped by intersectionality and digital disruption—and their defiance is wrapped in fishnets, not for titillation, but as a gauntlet hurled at the male gaze. It’s a bold reclamation of their bodies, a rebellion that screams: “Here’s your objectification back, mate—choke on it.” It’s this very battle cry that has sold out a venue on the other side of the Atlantic.

Each member of Cumgirl8 embodies an intoxicating mix of chaos and precision. Veronika Vilim, whose blonde locks glint like NYC’s neon gutters, swaps guitars for a candy-pink butterfly iPad programmed with glitchy digital beats. Lida Fox, on bass, is the band’s brooding metronome, pulling thick, rubbery lines straight out of a cyberpunk dive bar. Chase Lombardo the drummer with a banshee’s snarl, doesn’t so much play as summon storms. And then there’s Avishag Rodriguez, wielding her guitar like a machete, slicing through the noise with distorted riffs that feel like broken glass in a velvet glove.

Cumgirl8’s music is a heady cocktail of Tamagotchi pop, Riot Grrrl snarls, and the saccharine-yet-savage edge of early 2000s electroclash. It’s as if Bikini Kill shacked up with Ladytron, sharing a diet of glitch-core and existential dread. Tracks like Dumb Bitch marry drum machines with sardonic, tongue-in-cheek lyrics that tip the hat to their feminist mission. It sounds like a party stomping through an 80’s goth graveyard.

I Don’t Wanna Go takes you by the throat with its pulsating synths, a kind of punk anthem reimagined for the TikTok generation. Meanwhile, UTI had drummer Lena clambering over her kit like a Slipknot poltergeist, shrieking, “I got a UTI! I cry between my thighs” It’s not just a song—it’s a health PSA wrapped in a sneer.

Hailing from New York City, Cumgirl8 is a love letter to a city that birthed punk, no wave, and every gritty subculture worth a damn. Their sound—and their very existence—is a response to a society drowning in surveillance, misogyny, and the commodification of rebellion. These women aren’t just making music; they’re staging a cultural intervention. Their videos—where they dress as iconic feminists like Gloria Steinem and Angela Davis—mock the sanitized hero-worship of these figures, reminding us that feminism isn’t a Pinterest board; it’s a fight.

The dark humor woven through their set was sharp enough to leave scars. When a DI cable malfunction delayed the show, the band’s chatter about the sound guy’s “dirty fingers fingering holes” had the crowd both wincing and howling. It’s this blend of irreverence and insight that defines them. They’ll tell you about UTIs and antibiotics one minute, then sucker-punch you with an anthem about agency and autonomy the next.

And then there was Somebody New, a moment of pure, sweaty catharsis. An overzealous fan was welcomed on stage to scream along to every lyric, a gesture so unexpectedly wholesome that the band’s collective grin lit up the room like a malfunctioning strobe light.

Their penultimate track, Cicciolina, paid tribute to the Italian pornstar-turned-politician with a hypnotic rhythm that felt like a manifesto disguised as a dance party. There’s a kind of magic in how Cumgirl8 threads their influences—pop, punk, electroclash—into something so distinct, so undeniably their own.

But it was the finale, Picture Party, that took the show into uncharted territory. Under a strobe light that turned the room into a rave on the brink of implosion, the band unleashed a full-throttle assault of pounding beats and warped synths. It was a Chicks on Speed sensory overload, a celebration of chaos where every bass drop felt like the floor might cave in.

Cumgirl8 isn’t just NYC’s coolest new punk band—they’re a glitch in the matrix, a razor-sharp reminder that rebellion is messy, funny, and infinitely necessary. Their music is both a middle finger and a lifeline, wrapped in a glittery neon bow. As they swaggered off stage sweat soaked and grinning to raucous applause, one thing was clear: the future belongs to them.

Article: Angela Canavan

Since the subgenre’s birth in the late eighties, the precise meaning of the word shoegaze has become as warped and distorted as the sounds it so ubiquitously describes. Over time, as influences have broadened, the term has inevitably blurred. However, DIIV’s formidable performance tonight serves as an exemplary reminder of the characteristics that define the genre.

That’s not to say the band is pining for the Good Old Days—far from it, in fact. DIIV’s set is interspersed with tongue-in-cheek videos critical of hyper-consumerism and the empty promises of capitalism. At points, these videos appear to feature deepfakes of the band members themselves, posing as CEOs or salespeople offering the promise of a better life—if only you’d buy their product. More self-aware than most artists, DIIV acknowledges their position as individuals fortunate enough to make a living through music, while simultaneously critiquing their own role in consumerism.

In a live setting, DIIV eschews the showmanship of a frontman or lead guitarist typically associated with guitar bands. Instead, the emphasis shifts to the collective sound created by all four members, playing in such harmony that they seem like a singular entity, giving life to music greater than the sum of its parts. This aligns with their philosophy of anti-consumerism and anti-individualism, raising the question of what more we could achieve by working together and prioritizing common interests.

Musically, DIIV’s performance tonight is one that will not soon be forgotten—their sound is as unrelenting as it is textured and nuanced. Yet it is the message they leave with their audience that will truly linger after the show is over. More authentically punk than most self-proclaimed punk bands, DIIV delivers a playfulness and originality that spares any risk of eye-rolling.

Article : Elliot Hetherton

Opening tonight’s show was Glasgows finest, The Era making waves in the local scene since we last caught them at Tennement Trail in September. The band draped in black leather cut quite a serious shape on stage and their blend of electroc- clash grunge is the perfect prequel to The Horrors, stand out track has to be “Black Leather Lover”.

The Horrors‘ long-awaited performance at Glasgow’s Room 2 was a captivating journey through two decades of music, all while celebrating the release of their latest album, Night Life. The venue, dark and moody with minimal lighting, perfectly set the tone for the band’s immersive, atmospheric sound. Red and green lights repeated on stage, casting shadows that complemented the band’s ethereal post-punk, shoegaze, and krautrock-inspired music. It was the ideal setting for an unforgettable night, filled with both familiar anthems and exciting new material.

The band has been through many changes over the years, and their recent lineup update — with keyboardist Amelia Kidd and drummer Jordan Cook joining the fold — brings a new energy to their already expansive sound. But even with these changes, The Horrors still felt unmistakably themselves, retaining that unique ability to blend hypnotic rhythms and jagged guitar lines while expanding their sonic palette.

Opening with the pulsing “Whiplash’s”, the new lineup immediately showcased their tight cohesion. Kidd’s atmospheric keyboard work added a new layer of depth to the band’s evolving sound, while Cook’s drumming brought a fresh dynamism to their often intricate beats. Frontman Faris Badwan, as ever, was magnetic, his haunting vocals cutting through the crowd’s energy like a knife.

The setlist included a mix of songs, from the swirling, hypnotic groove of “Three Decades” to the angular, post-punk drive of “Mirror’s Image,” the audience was treated to a full range of the band’s musical spectrum. The epic “Machine” was a standout, building in intensity until it reached a cathartic climax. “Still Life” followed, showcasing The Horrors‘ ability to fuse beauty and darkness, the song’s melancholic atmosphere seeping into the room.

As the night progressed, the crowd’s energy only heightened with the introduction of new tracks from Night Life. Songs like “Trial by Fire” and “The Silence That Remains” resonated with the audience, who embraced the band’s new direction without hesitation. These tracks maintained the band’s signature moody vibe while exploring more electronic and experimental territory. If anything, the new songs fit seamlessly into the set, proving that The Horrors continue to evolve without losing their identity.

However, the true test of The Horrors’ resilience came during the extended version of “Sea Within a Sea.” In the midst of the track, Badwans mic unexpectedly cut out, but rather than halting the performance, the band continued playing, undeterred. What followed was a 20-minute journey into sonic chaos, with the crowd joining in, chanting and cheering as the band powered through. It was a moment of pure catharsis, with the audience’s energy and the band’s ability to improvise creating a surreal and unforgettable atmosphere. All along whilst the sound engineer tackled resolving the issue on stage.

Despite the earlier mic issue, The Horrors didn’t skip a beat. Rather than ending the show prematurely, they powered through with an encore, as if to make up for the brief disruption. The closing song, “Something to Remember Me By,” was met with loud cheers and applause, as it’s one of the band’s most beloved tracks. The crowd swayed and sang along, giving Badwan and the band a sendoff befitting of a performance that had truly come to life.

In many ways, the night encapsulated everything that The Horrors stand for: a band constantly evolving, pushing the boundaries of their sound, and forming deep, unspoken connections with their audience. Night Life signals a new chapter for the band, and if this show was anything to go by, the journey is only getting more thrilling. The Horrors’ resilience in the face of technical hiccups, their ability to seamlessly weave new material into their established catalogue, and the undeniable connection they have with their fans all made for a truly unforgettable night in Glasgow. 

Article: Reanne McArthur