An isolated figure stands at the center of St Luke’s stage, clutching a microphone and singing deeply over the sounds of a synth keyboard.
Hawk captivates the crowd with his baritone vocals and direct eye contact during “JULIET AS EPITHET.” Three crashes of the cymbals lead into the next song, “MACHIAVELLI’S ROOM.” The bass and guitar players move in sync, swaying back and forth as Hawk takes the forefront, delivering the lyrics, “when you’re naked from the waist down.” This was one of the heavier songs of the set, featuring synthetic sounds, backing vocals, and guitar stabs during the outro. Hamish Hawk and his band aren’t shy about moving around on stage, creating an impressive stage presence throughout the set.
“BIG CAT TATTOOS” shifts to a more upbeat tempo, lifting the atmosphere in the room. During “I THINK YOU’D PREFER A FIRMER HAND,”Hawk presents jazz hands to the crowd.
“Glasgow, Glasgow, Glasgow. Oh yes. Hello… are we well? Oh, good. My name’s Hamish Hawk, we’re Hamish Hawk, and we’re just thrilled to be here. Thank you so much for coming.” The crowd cheers.
The band is a dynamic group with an incredible sense of rhythm, moving seamlessly from short intros into instant bangers. Their sound draws heavily from 80s influences, while incorporating the drama of modernity, creating a distinctive, fun, and unique musical experience.
It’s a packed house tonight at the iconic Glasgow Barrowlands, and from the very first note, there’s a palpable sense of anticipation in the air. Kicking things off is Teesside duo Benefits, the perfect warm-up act for what’s to come.
Their stripped-back setup—a stark fusion of electronic beats and jagged, urgent guitar riffs—forms the backdrop for a vocalist who seems to channel every ounce of anger and frustration into each line. Their performance is raw, visceral, and utterly gripping, dripping with a kind of feral energy that feels almost too big for the stage, let alone the support slot. They’re a force to be reckoned with, and for those unfamiliar, their upcoming UK tour in October is an absolute must-see.
After the adrenaline-charged set from Benefits, the room swells with excitement as Arab Strap take to the stage. There’s a certain comfort to the way Aidan Moffat and Malcolm Middleton settle into the spotlight; it’s the ease of veterans who know exactly how to command the attention of a sold-out Barrowlands crowd.
Tonight, they’re showcasing tracks from their latest album, I’m Totally Fine With It 👍 Don’t Give a Fuck Anymore, released earlier this year. It’s a record that, much like their live show, blends moments of melancholy with bursts of dark humour and irreverence, delivered with the sardonic wit we’ve come to love and expect from Moffat.
Opening with Allatonceness, a sprawling, hypnotic number, Arab Strap immediately establish the duality that defines their sound: the slow-burning, moody atmospherics juxtaposed with Moffat’s biting, spoken-word delivery. As the set progresses, the energy never dips.
Moffat’s stage presence is as always – magnetic, his baritone weaving tales of everyday despair and fleeting joy, all while the band maintains a steady, undulating groove behind him. There’s always something happening on stage—Middleton’s intricate guitar work cutting through the gloom, the rhythm section locked in tight, keeping everything anchored.
Highlights from the set include the haunting Girls of the Summer, the shimmering melancholy of Strawberry Moon, and the acerbic bite of Drag Queen, each track showcasing the band’s ability to move fluidly between wistful introspection and searing, confrontational power. But it’s Fable of the Urban Fox that truly stands out—a devastating slow burn that builds to a cathartic crescendo, leaving the crowd spellbound.
After a short encore, Aidan and Malcolm return to the stage alone for a stripped-down performance of You’re Not Thereand the fan favourite The Shy Retirer. The intimacy of these songs, paired with the sparse arrangement, makes for a poignant contrast to the evening’s heavier moments. The rest of the band joins them for the finale, Soaps, a crowd-pleaser that sees the Barrowlands erupt in a joyous, raucous singalong.
There’s something undeniably special about Arab Strap live. The interplay of bleakness and humour, despair and euphoria, creates a dynamic that few bands can match. It’s that unique mix of dour Scottish wit and sweeping, cinematic soundscapes that keeps their audience—tonight, a sea of die-hard fans—coming back for more. As the final notes fade and the crowd filters out into the Glasgow night, you can’t help but feel that PEOPLE REALLY DO MAKE GLASGOW.
Scottish national treasures “TEXAS” kickstart the heart of a mid September, Sunday night at Glasgow’s OVO Hydro as the band get together to preform “The Very Best Of” their entire catalogue of hits.
This live music extravaganza delivered an evening of pop rock, laughter and good spirit as front woman of your dreams Sharleen Spiteri engages the audience like no other with her interactive conversations with audience members – notably a comical moment from Sharleen as she sympathies with a visibly shorter woman in the audience, explaining she knows the feeling “been there! Let her up on your shoulders” she’s now directly speaking to the man beside the shorter woman.
The man must have looked reluctant to do such a thing and turned to the woman who was stood beside him. We quickly came to the understanding that the man has got absolutely no idea who the shorter woman is and has come to the concert with his wife “who’s this?… Oh that’s your wife!” laughter emerges from the audience as if we’re sat in the room watching a comedian. It’s okay Sharleen, your heart was in the right place.
The band not only look great, dressed like true 80s rockers in leather jackets, black denim and sparkling tailoring but also sound phenomenal, with light yet flexibly deep vocal tones, infused with breathy backing vocals and the subtle sounds of the drumming, bass and guitar working in conjunction to create the perfect sing along melodies the audience are clearly enthralled by. Stand out tracks included; “Black Eyed Boy”, “Summer Son” and “Inner Smile”.
The entire night was uplifting and TEXAS are a band that are a must see.
Gossip open their set with ‘Listen Up!’, as if snapping their fingers in the face of the audience, commanding them exactly where to direct their attention (not that they need much encouragement).
That grip on the crowd is one that doesn’t slip throughout the night, as the setlist sees the indie-rockers give a flying tour of both their beloved back catalogue and their 2024 comeback LP Real Power, all received with enthusiasm by an adoring audience.
At times perhaps stop-and-start, the set is peppered with Beth Ditto’s offerings of jokes, anecdotes, and the odd attempt at a Scottish accent.
The whole evening feels like one big reunion between old friends, with bit the band and the audience clearly loving every minute of it.
While a twelve year gap between albums may leave some bands eager to prove themselves, Gossip come across as assured in themselves, and relaxed in their performance- well, at least as much as one can be while performing Standing In The Way Of Control.
Sister Madds burst onto the King Tut’s stage to the euphoric sound of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, tearing into their set and immediately heightening the energy in the room.
For the duration of their set they keep that energy on a tight leash, doling out more and more to the audience with each song, solo, and singalong.
Having only released their first single Split Ends last year, Sister Madds have clearly built up a keen fanbase, out in force tonight in a packed, raucous room.
The band’s work infuses poppy melodies with heavier, rockier sounds, tied together by lead singer Maddie’s honest yet playful lyrics. Sister Madd’s set is unbelievably tight, each song building on the strength and buzz of the last while still leaving the audience pleading for more. By the end of the night everyone – not just the girls – did indeed get their fun.
Sleater-Kinney’s return to SWG3 in Glasgow felt less like a rock concert and more like a time machine that transported us back to an era when music was about rebellion, identity, and the glorious mess of girlhood.
Watching Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker—who’ve been the heroines of riot grrrl since before the Spice Girls made “girl power” a household phrase—was like seeing the North Star on a stormy night. They’ve always been there, guiding those lost in the wilderness of the music industry, refusing to follow trends, instead setting their own.
The night opened with “Hell” from their latest sonic manifesto, Path of Wellness, a track that snarls and smirks in equal measure. It was quickly followed by “Needlessly Wild,” which showcased the band’s well-honed talent for blending chaos with melody, aggression with harmony. Sleater-Kinney is the ultimate girl group, not just because of the way they embody the power of female friendship, but because of how they command the stage with an effortless cool that’s the antithesis of today’s overproduced pop spectacles.
What’s striking about Sleater-Kinney—this current incarnation of the band—is how tight their set is, how flawlessly they play off each other, a kind of telepathic communication honed over decades. Brownstein’s guitar is a weapon, her stage presence a mixture of punk bravado and art-school intellect. Tucker’s voice, as always, is a force of nature, soaring and scowling, leading the charge. The band was backed by an ensemble of equally cool women, a sort of riot grrrl militia, ensuring that the sound was as dense and urgent as ever.
The set was a gargantuan trawl through their sizeable back catalogue, from the punchy immediacy of “Hurry on Home” to the defiant melancholy of “Good Thing” and the seismic rumble of “No Cities to Love.” There was a collective laugh from the audience when the band joked about “thanking you all for coming out to see us on the eve of the Oasis reunion tour,” a nod to both their sly sense of humor and the fact that, no, Sleater-Kinney never needed to be anyone but themselves to pack a venue.
As the night went on, the intensity ramped up with iconic fan favorites like “Jumpers,” “Say It Like You Mean It,” and the gut-punching “Quarter to Three.” These are songs that have become anthems not just of a movement, but of the lives of the women who’ve found themselves through the music, who’ve screamed these lyrics at a world that never quite knew what to do with them. Here, in Glasgow, that ethos of girlhood, that underpinning riot grrrl spirit, was alive and crackling in the air.
The band debuted “Turn It On,” a new track that had to be restarted after a slight timing hiccup, a moment that only endeared them further to the crowd. It was a reminder that even legends are human, and that’s what makes them so important. Perfection isn’t the goal; it’s the raw, unfiltered emotion that counts.
They closed the set with “Modern Girl” and “Untidy Creature,” both delivered with a fervor that suggested they might just burn the place down and dance in the ashes. But the crowd, electrified and unwilling to let go, demanded more. The encore was a triumphant trifecta: “The Centre Won’t Hold,” “Dig Me Out,” and “Entertain”—songs that encapsulate everything Sleater-Kinney has always stood for: resistance, solidarity, and the pure, unadulterated joy of making noise.
Sleater-Kinney doesn’t just perform; they remind us of what it means to be alive in a patriarchal world that often feels intent on pushing us down. And in a city like Glasgow, with its history of grit and resilience, that message couldn’t have felt more relevant—or more welcome.
Bandit Country plus guests pulled in a sizeable crowd to King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut despite indie darlings Sweaty Palms playing south of the river in celebration of 20yrs of making music. For TGB, this was the place to be, with a lineup so electric it could have powered the city grid. Topping the bill was Bandit Country, but before we get to them, let’s talk about the motley crew that set the tone for the evening.
First up was Curdle, an all-girl outfit that came out swinging—and when I say swinging, I mean that quite literally. Their bass player, visibly pregnant, was thumping out riffs so heavy they probably made the baby kick in time. It’s rare to see a band this raw and unapologetic, serving up a sound that was equal parts punk snarl and maternal fury. Who needs a babysitter when you’ve got a rock show? The sight of this band will have you rethinking your life choices—and maybe giving your mom a call to say thanks.
Next, we were treated to Guevara, a band that looked like they stepped out of a fever dream. The synth player was dressed as an Ent—yes, the tree creatures from Tolkien’s fevered imagination—and somehow, it worked. Yes, we know Snapped Ankles have already went there… but it’s fun. The music was a swirling vortex of synths and fuzzy guitars that seemed to defy gravity. We loved the chaos in the arrangements on Crimson Tide.
But the night truly belonged to Insider Trading. Edinburgh’s latest export came out caterwauling like their lives depended on it, and by the end of their set, they might have convinced us all that ours did too.
“Spice Girl” and “Clarity” were the kind of tracks that make you feel something deep in your bones, even if you’re not sure what that something is. It was raw, it was loud, and it was absolutely glorious. If you don’t already have them on your playlist, you’re doing life wrong.
Then came the main event: Bandit Country. They opened with “In Retrospect,” a track that slinks through the speakers like a thief in the night, with echoes of Interpol and Arab Strap swirling through the venue. Yet, just when you think you’ve got them figured out, they hit you with that unmistakable soaring echos of the Glasvegas ache—a sound so full of longing and frustration that you feel it like a punch to the gut. It’s the perfect introduction to a band that’s all about calling out the daily grind, the messiness of life, and doing it with all the fury of a tornado in a tin can.
The set rolled on with “Rapture” and “Vanish,” songs that had the crowd moshing like it was the end of days. And maybe it was—the end of days for anyone thinking they could just stand still at a Bandit Country gig. The frontman was a revelation, leaping from the stage to preach his deranged gospel from the floor, turning the audience into his congregation with tracks like “Nothing Inspires Me Anymore” and “Lake to the River.” It was less a performance and more an exorcism of every frustration, every disappointment, every moment of existential dread we’ve all ever felt.
They closed the night in fine form with “Kowalaski,” a track that hit like a final, satisfying blow in a brawl you knew you were never going to win, but damn it felt good to go down swinging. As the final notes echoed out, there was no question: Bandit Country had taken no prisoners and left nothing but sweat-soaked satisfaction in their wake.
Their latest EP is out now, and if you’ve got any sense, you’ll give it a listen. But be warned: after last night, your speakers might not be enough. Bandit Country is a band best experienced live, loud, and as unfiltered as they come.
The Pixies rolled into Glasgow’s O2 Academy like a band with nothing left to prove, but plenty to remind us about. Right from the first feral chords of “Gouge Away,” the crowd was putty in their hands, whipped into a frenzy that would make a Glaswegian Saturday night look like tea with the Queen. Black Francis, as usual, had no interest in small talk—his mission was pure, primal sonic delivery, and boy, did the band deliver.
They served up an incredible set that was equal parts nostalgia trip and rock ‘n’ roll clinic, with deep cuts unearthed from the depths of their twisted back catalogue and no less than three cover versions sprinkled in for good measure. Not that anyone was complaining—when The Pixies decide to cover a song, they make it theirs, warping and twisting it until it’s less a tribute and more a resurrection.
Now, I’ve got to confess, I hopped on the Pixies train a bit late. It was “Where Is My Mind?” featured in Fight Club that pulled me in—something about the way Black Francis’s wails sounded like the ravings of a man teetering on the edge of sanity.
That voice was in top form tonight, alternately snarling, howling, and spewing out hyperbole like a deranged poet. The fact that the band didn’t pause between songs to exchange pleasantries with the audience wasn’t a letdown; if anything, it kept the intensity dialed up to eleven, with maybe a minor dip somewhere toward the middle of the marathon 2.5hr set.
They kicked off with “Wave of Mutilation”—and yes, they played it twice, with the UK Surf edit making a later appearance like an old friend crashing the party for one last round. Somewhere in the maelstrom of distortion and punk fury, they slipped in The Jesus and Mary Chain’s “Head On,” followed by the manic “Isla De Encanta,” each song pushing the crowd further towards ecstatic chaos.
As for personal highlights, the galaxy-spanning “All Over the World” felt like it could tear the roof off the place, while “Hey” and “Ana” offered a sort of twisted intimacy, the kind where you’re never sure if you’re supposed to sway along or check under your bed for monsters. When they dropped the live debut of “Motorola,” the audience collectively lost their minds—it was like watching a cult leader reveal his latest prophecy. From there, it was one hit after another: “Monkey Gone to Heaven” was a spiritual experience, “Is She Weird?” confirmed that yes, she definitely is, and “Debaser” along with “Here Comes Your Man” reminded everyone why the Pixies are still untouchable.
The cover of “In Heaven (Lady in the Radiator)” by Peter Ivers and David Lynch was a surreal curveball, fitting perfectly into the evening’s sense of warped reality. And then, with cruel precision, they wrapped it up with “Where Is My Mind?” and Neil Young’s “Winterlong.” No encore, just multiple bows to the audience. It was the perfect ending—a reminder that the Pixies don’t need to pander or drag things out. They came, they conquered, they left us in awe.
So here’s the bottom line: If you weren’t at the O2 Academy tonight, you missed a band still at the height of their powers, reasserting their place in rock’s pantheon. Tight as a drum, loud as hell, and cool as ever, The Pixies proved once again why they’re the stuff of legend.
Navigating your way into Edinburgh’s Summer Sessions at Highland Hall feels like a trial by dampness. The Scottish weather isn’t just a feature—it’s a headliner, threatening rain at every corner like it’s got a personal vendetta against joy.
The walk from the main road is less of a stroll and more of a test of your commitment to live music, as you trudge through the kind of terrain that makes you question if your festival footwear was more optimistic than practical. Mine was indeed not.
First on the lineup, far too early for their own good, was Alabama 3. Here’s a band that’s as British as afternoon tea but pretends they’re straight out of a Southern dive bar. They kicked things off by taking a cheeky swipe at Taylor Swift, perhaps trying to win over a crowd who looked more ready for a pint than a pop star put-down. And yet, despite the early slot, there was something about their Southern-fried charm that fit perfectly with the afternoon’s relentless gray.
Their set was a mix of tongue-in-cheek anthems and bluesy bangers. “You Don’t Dance to Tekno Anymore” got people nodding along, resigned to the fact that their techno days might actually be behind them. “Ain’t Going to Goa” and “Bam Ba Lam” brought a little fire, but it was “Woke Up This Morning” that really got the crowd going. The female vocalist was nothing short of hypnotic, her voice cutting through the drizzle like a beacon in the fog. You couldn’t help but get sucked into their world, even if you were still secretly wondering why they were playing in daylight.
As the afternoon rolled on, Embrace took the stage with the enthusiasm of a band that knows exactly what they mean to their audience. If Alabama 3 was a sly wink, Embrace was a warm hug. Their crowd was sizeable, drawn in by the promise of nostalgia wrapped in singalong choruses. And the band delivered, looking like they were genuinely thrilled to be there—possibly more thrilled than anyone else in the audience.
“All You Good People” kicked off their set, and it was like someone turned up the serotonin. “Nature’s Law” hit the emotional sweet spot, and by the time they got to “Come Back to What You Know” and “Ashes,” it was clear that this was a band who had found their sweet spot years ago and stayed there, comfortably, ever since. They closed with “Gravity,” a song that felt like a collective exhale after a set full of feel-good highs.
Then came The View, the Dundonian upstarts who arrived like a gust of wind strong enough to knock over your pint. These guys weren’t just playing to the crowd; they were challenging it. With a uniform of short shorts and shirts that screamed “we’ve been doing this since school,” they blasted into “Same Jeans” with an energy that could only come from a band who still believes in the power of loud guitars and relentless hooks.
“Wasted Little DJs” and “Superstar Tradesmen” followed, each track a testament to their scrappy, never-grow-up attitude. And as they rounded off their set with “Grace,” it was clear that The View might have been the storm we’d all been waiting for, the kind that makes you forget about the weather.
Finally, Ocean Colour Scene sauntered on stage to the kind of applause reserved for local legends. If the earlier acts were about shaking off the rain, OCS was about basking in the warm glow of collective memory. They started with “The Riverboat Song,” a track so ingrained in British rock culture that it might as well be piped through the speakers at every pub across the UK.
“Hundred Mile High City” cranked up the energy, with a guitar riff that could wake the dead, while “The Circle” and “Travellers Tune” played like a greatest hits of every pub back room gig you’ve ever stumbled into. And then came “The Day We Caught the Train,” a song so universally beloved that you could almost forget the walk, the weather, and the wet.
As the night drew to a close and the trek back to reality loomed, you couldn’t help but smile. Highland Hall, with all its quirks and challenges, had turned into a refuge from the everyday. And in a place where the rain is always a breath away, sometimes a great gig is all the sunshine you need.
On a humid Glasgow night, where the air was thick with a mix of anticipation and the scent of spilled lager, Marc Rebillet, AKA Loop Daddy, the musical madman, the maestro of the absurd—returned to the city that’s grown to love his particular brand of lunacy.
But tonight, at Galvanizers Yard, things felt a little different. The DIY charm that endeared him to a growing fanbase years ago, when he played in the smaller, grittier BAaD venue, had been upgraded—or perhaps downgraded, depending on your perspective—into something slicker, more polished, and dare I say it, a tad less wild.
Marc, bounded onto the stage in his signature boxer shorts and boots—because why would a man wear anything else when he’s about to unleash an evening of musical mayhem? His entrance was nothing short of a jailbreak, with Rebillet darting from one end of the stage to the other, as if he was fleeing from the very confines of his own sanity.
Behind him, the screen flickered with images that felt like the fever dreams of a 90s internet junkie: Pornhub-inspired graphics, giant inflatable cupcakes (or were those boobs? It’s hard to tell), and glitchy error codes that might have been pulled straight from the primordial soup of the World Wide Web. It was a strange, hilarious, and slightly disturbing sight—exactly what the doctor ordered.
The show began with a nod to the city that has, in a strange way, become a second home for the Loop Daddy. He opened with the Glaswegian chant, “Here We, Here We, Here We Fu@king Go,” the words rolling off his tongue with the ease of a local, and the crowd responded as if Pavlov had just rung his bell. It was a frenzied start, one that made you believe you were in for a night of unrelenting energy.
Yet, as the evening wore on, it became clear that the madness had been tempered. He seemed to seek out less audience participation, usually Rebillet would invite the audience to shout out random phrases, turning them into spontaneous musical potions.
Last time, it was “Mel Gibson is an Asshole” that sparked a maniacal wizardry from Rebillet. Tonight, there was less of that. The audience, once integral to the chaos, now seemed more like spectators to a well-rehearsed act.
That’s not to say the show lacked its moments of brilliance. One highlight was when Marc, mid-performance, snatched a red lace jacket from a fan and made a grand show of slipping into it, before plunging back into the audience, high-fiving and hugging his way through the crowd like a deranged, affectionate messiah.
At one point, he paused to ask an audience member, “Now what?” The answer, shouted back with the kind of authority only a Glaswegian could muster, was “Just Fu@kin’ Dance.” And dance they did, as Marc conjured a ten-minute disco beast of a track, looping that simple command into something almost transcendent.
But just as the night threatened to plateau—when it felt like the absurdity might be too calculated, too self-aware—the energy dipped.
That wave came when the shouts for old favorites began to ring out. “Night Time Things!” someone yelled, and Marc, ever the crowd-pleaser, obliged. It was as if a switch had been flipped. The crowd came alive again, the familiarity of those YouTube-born tracks bringing a renewed sense of excitement. He then asked the crowd to hunker down—a rare moment of calm—before launching into “Get Up,” a track that did exactly what it promised.
As the night drew to a close, Marc left the stage, but not for long. The crowd, unwilling to let the Loop Daddy go without one last flourish, demanded an encore. And, in true Rebillet fashion, he delivered with “I’m a Flamingo,” a song as absurd as it is catchy, with lyrics like “I’m gonna eat your grandmother” that would be disturbing if they weren’t so damn funny.
As the final notes rang out, and Marc Rebillet—clad in boxers, boots, and the remnants of a lace jacket—took his final bow, it was clear that while the madness may have been more controlled, more choreographed than before, it was no less enjoyable. Marc Rebillet has evolved, but thankfully, he hasn’t grown up. Glasgow wouldn’t have it any other way.
The Golden Bough 