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

Forty years after forming in East Kilbride, The Jesus and Mary Chain returned to the Barrowland Ballroom in Glasgow, celebrating both their roots and their current tour Glasgow Eyes celebrating 40 years since the release of the bands seminal album Psycho Candy. Tonight was a pilgrimage for fans who have followed the band’s noisy, trailblazing journey from local dives to shoegaze stardom.

Support act Ceil warmed up the Barrowlands with their ethereal, synth-drenched melodies that felt like Cocteau Twins dipped in a bath of 90s trip-hop. The Glasgow crowd, notoriously tough to please, were surprisingly gentle, nodding along in approval, likely out of respect for a band who felt like the perfect appetizer for the grunge to come .

As the house lights dimmed and the crowd surged forward, the JAMC sauntered on stage, opening with Jamcod, a dark, swirling blend of electronica and feedback that sounded like Kraftwerk meeting Moon Duo in a back alley. The song’s hypnotic, motorik groove proved the band hadn’t mellowed with age; they had merely evolved .

“Chemical Animal,” with its brooding two-note bassline and synth-laden doom, stood out as a high point from the new album. Its industrial-meets-goth swagger reminded everyone that even after four decades, the band could still surprise and seduce .

Older classics were lapped up eagerly by the crowd. Some Candy Talking turned the Ballroom into a haze of swaying bodies, while Only Happy When It Rains became a communal howl of catharsis, its ironic lyrics striking a chord with Glasgow’s famously moody temperament.

Between tracks, frontman Jim Reid joked, “Forty f***ing years, and there’s still faces out there!” The crowd roared back in appreciation, a mix of die-hards and newcomers caught up in the band’s timeless magic.

The encore started with Darklands, the melancholic anthem that brought a hush over the audience, followed by Just Like Honey, which sent shivers through the Ballroom with its iconic opening drumbeat. The night ended with Reverence, a searing blast of distortion that reaffirmed their punk roots and left ears ringing in the best possible way.

As the band ambled off stage as the final notes of the evening hung in the air this concert —it was a Glasgow love letter, inked with distortion, attitude, and a defiant middle finger to the passage of time. For The Jesus and Mary Chain, the Barrowland Ballroom wasn’t just another venue; it was home, and tonight they owned it. If you’ve never seen them live, you’ve been missing a piece of rock history.

Article: Angela Canavan

By the time Sprints took the stage, following opening act Chalk the room was feverish. The Dublin-based quartet has been on the road since January, but their energy is undiminished; if anything, it feels honed. This isn’t just a band; it’s a movement. Lead singer Karla Chubb commanded the crowd like a general, albeit one with a sly smile and a voice that can scorch the walls.

Right out of the gate, they tore into “To the Bone”, a track that surges and snarls like a runaway train. It’s punk with pop instincts: think Sleater-Kinney covering early Blondie while trying to outrun a speeding car. On “Tell Me”, their influences shifted again—La Tigre’s electroclash meets Bikini Kill’s unvarnished fury, a mashup of grit and glitter.

But it was during “The Fucking Cheek” that the crowd hit a collective high. Dedicated to “the girls, gays, and theys,” it was a raucous anthem that practically blew the roof off SWG3. The way Chubb spat the lyrics—“Do you ever feel like something’s gonna happen?”—felt less like a question and more like a prophecy.

Musically, Sprints exist somewhere in the Venn diagram of post-punk, riot grrrl, and garage rock. Their sound is all sharp edges and relentless momentum, like early Sonic Youth channeled through the ferocity of Amyl and The Sniffers. But it’s their lyrics that elevate them to something truly special. There’s humor here—Chubb’s quip about being “sensitive artists” before launching into a new song that the band are road testing tonight – another gut-punch of a song—but also a deeply rooted rage and love.

At one point, Chubb declared, “This song is about the thing I love most: women.” And you could feel it in every chord, every drumbeat, every scream. Songs like “Adore, Adore, Adore” and “I Liked You Better?” don’t just celebrate queer identity; they demand space for it.

There’s something radical about watching a band like Sprints in 2024. In a music industry that still too often sidelines queer women, they’re proof that not only is there space for these voices, but that they’re essential. This is music for the outcasts, the dreamers, the angry, and the hopeful.

Photos: Angela Canavan

Words: Fran Tamburini & Angela Canavan

Hailing from Belfast, Chalk are a band on a mission. Fresh off touring with Idles—a baptism by fire if ever there was one—they’ve sharpened their sound into something both brutal and transcendent.

If their influences are easy to spot (the ghost of Factory Records looms large), their execution is singular: this is a band that pulls from the past to build the future.

Frontman Ross Cullen is a sight to behold. Imagine Ian Curtis reincarnated and sent to a modern rave, his moves a mix of desperate flailing and deliberate possession. Cullen’s voice, raw and urgent, seemed to claw its way out of his chest, while his hair – a glorious cascade of volume – danced along with him like a co-star.

But there’s also something deeply soulful about his performance, as if each song is being dragged out of him against his will. His vocals, raw and visceral, evoke everyone from Mark E. Smith to James Murphy, but they’re delivered with a guttural sincerity that feels entirely his own.

Think early Gang of Four and Wire but with a distinctly modern twist. Meanwhile, guitarist Benedict Goddard laid down a foundation so thick and throbbing you could feel it in your teeth. Together with drummer Luke Niblock whose percussion was less a backbeat and more a full-body assault, Chalk delivered a set that felt like being caught in a thunderstorm you never want to escape.

Visually, Chalk’s set was as arresting as their sound. Strobe lights fractured the stage into shards of brilliance, casting the trio in flickering silhouettes that only added to their mystique. At times, it felt like we were witnessing not a performance, but a séance—a summoning of ghosts from the Hacienda era, fused with the raw urgency of 21st-century rebellion.

Their standout track, “Them” is a screaming into the void manifesto. The song barrels forward with the energy of a warehouse rave at 3 a.m., its layers of noise and melody swirling like a cyclone. It’s Factory Records meets the sweaty ecstasy of Berlin clubs—music that both celebrates and annihilates.

Luckily for us Glaswegians Chalk will be back in town on February 27th at King Tut’s. See you down the front.

Article: Angela Canavan

There’s something almost alchemical about Confidence Man’s live show—a transformation not just of music into movement, but of an audience into a giddy, uninhibited sea of joyous abandon.

On a dreich Sunday night in Glasgow, when the weather outside made even the most vibrant souls consider an early night, the Australian quartet turned the Barrowland Ballroom into a heaving Ibiza superclub. For 90 minutes, this wasn’t just a gig. It was aerobic absurdity, a fever dream of glitter and groove.

The band kicked off with “Now U Do”, a sly opening salvo that oozed playfulness. Janet Planet, resplendent in one of her many ensembles (we’ll get to that brassiere later), sashayed onto the stage with a confidence bordering on swagger. Her co-conspirator, Sugar Bones, matched her step for step, grinning like a man whose every wink comes with its own strobe light.

By the time they launched into “Does It Make You Feel Good?”, the question was rhetorical. The crowd—a mix of seasoned ravers, indie kids, and disco dads—was already in thrall, limbs moving in ways they might not on a Monday morning. Sugar Bones and Planet’s choreography is a marvel of stamina and satire, a sort of jazzercise-meets-Björk-on-a-bender extravaganza. That they can sustain this high-octane ridiculousness for an hour and a half defies belief. Watching them twist, strut, and leap, you’re less inclined to wonder how they do it and more inclined to wonder why anyone else bothers trying.

The set moved seamlessly into “All My People”, Planet had donned the now-iconic glowing brassiere, a piece of sartorial lunacy that’s half fashion statement, half dance-floor lighthouse. The audience, already whipped into a frenzy, responded to its unveiling like they’d just seen the Sistine Chapel ceiling for the first time.

The night’s first major highlight came with “Boyfriend (Repeat)”, a song whose titular repetition found a home in a communal singalong that could probably be heard as far away as Buchanan Street.

Confidence Man understand the mechanics of a great pop hook, but they also understand its theatrical possibilities. As the crowd screamed “He’a just a REPEAT of what I had before!,” Sugar Bones cavorted across the stage like a man possessed, Janet Planet preened like a disco queen, and their rhythm section—Clarence McGuffie and Reggie Goodchild, stoic behind meshed veil visors—kept the whole absurd machine running.

Costume changes came thick and fast, each one more ludicrous than the last. By the time “Real Move Touch” was played the showmanship had peaked – much to the sold out crowds delight.

The energy peaked again with “Holiday”, a sun-drenched banger that somehow managed to make Glasgow in late November feel Mediterranean. You could almost hear the waves crashing and taste the sangria—if you ignored the lingering aroma of Tennent’s.

An encore was inevitable, and Confidence Man delivered with “3AM (LA LA LA)”, a fitting closer for a night that felt less like a gig and more like a euphoric bender you never wanted to end. As they took their final bows, sweat-drenched and grinning, you couldn’t help but marvel at their stamina. The rest of us were knackered just watching.

Confidence Man may not take themselves too seriously, but their mastery of live performance is no joke. They are a glittering, unhinged reminder that sometimes, the best way to beat the gloom of a dreich night is to dance like your life depends on it. And if you don’t, well, “Now U Do.”

Pictures: Angela Canavan

Words: Fran Tamburini & Angela Canavan

Willie J Healey opened the evening with a swagger that felt plucked straight from a 90s hip-hop funk collective—whether that’s his actual side gig is anyone’s guess, but the vibe was undeniable. His basslines were thick and groovy, the kind you could spread on toast, and his set had a delightful unpredictability.

Healey’s stage presence oscillated between quirky stand-up comic and confessional diarist, leaving the Hydro crowd equal parts amused and mystified. Funk-laden grooves slinked and swaggered beneath his oddball delivery, and while nobody quite knew what to make of him at first, by the end, it was clear: the crowd was won over.

Idles—have undoubtedly became sector leading in their genre. The Hydro is a behemoth of a venue, more used to hosting pop juggernauts and orchestral explosions, but tonight it was the discotheque of choice for a band who’ve turned raw emotion into a battle cry.

Idles first roared onto my radar with their iconic debut at Glastonbury 2019. Watching them on TV, I found myself glued to Joe Talbot’s magnetic presence. It was a car crash of catharsis, impossible to look away from, his voice rasping like a chainsaw carving poetry into concrete. Their Tiny Desk Performance shortly after proved they could rip your guts out even in an office, their rawness scaled down but never diluted. And when lockdown finally lifted, they were the first band I ran to see live. It wasn’t just a gig—it was group therapy set to ear-shredding guitars.

Fast forward to tonight, and Idles still hold the same searing relevance. The Hydro might be cavernous, but Joe Talbot’s and crew have a presence so commanding it could fill ten of these rooms. He’s less frontman, more manic street preacher, screaming sermons on love and the suffocating weight of toxic masculinity. If punk is the wound, Idles are the salt.

It’s impossible to untangle Idles’ music from their politics, and tonight was no different. Talbot’s growl carried a fierce tenderness as he dedicated songs to the marginalized, the broken, and the hopeful. The message was clear: love is the antidote to hate, and it’s worth screaming about until your lungs give out.

Idles’ influence is everywhere now. You can hear their DNA in bands like Soft Play (née Slaves), Benefits, and Fontaines D.C.—acts unafraid to channel rage and vulnerability in equal measure. Idles didn’t just kick open the door; they smashed it to splinters and left a a nice pink neon sign that reads “Everyone Welcome”.

Idles stomped on stage to “Idea 01”, a pounding opener that set the tone for the night. Talbot’s snarling vocals cut through the noise, while the relentless rhythm section rattled the bones of everyone in the room. The band transitioned seamlessly into “Colossus,” its slow-burning intro teasing the crowd before erupting into chaos. The sheer weight of the track’s thunderous finale felt like a tidal wave crashing over the audience, uniting them in a frenzy of fists and roars.

“Mr. Motivator” followed, a kinetic burst of punk energy brimming with Talbots tongue-in-cheek affirmations. The song’s infectious chant of “You can do it!” turned the Hydro into an unlikely self-help seminar for a moment, though one delivered with blistering guitars and driving percussion. Talbot’s wry humor shone through as he grinned between verses, hyping the crowd into a sweaty frenzy.

For “Scum,”the audience were asked a special request: he asked the audience to sit on the floor. The Hydro floor—usually a swirling mosh pit—sank into an almost meditative quiet, a surreal sight for a punk gig. When the song’s chaotic climax hit, the crowd leapt to their feet as though released from a collective slingshot, the energy palpable.

A change of pace came with “The Beachland Ballroom,” one of Idles’ more soulful tracks. With a tender delivery, the rawness of his voice carrying the weight of vulnerability as the band leaned into the song’s swelling, melancholic grandeur. For a moment, the Hydro felt intimate despite its size, Talbot’s earnestness holding everyone in rapt attention.

Then came “Never Fight a Man With a Perm,” a riotous anthem that turned the floor into a swelling mosh pit. Guitarist Mark Bowen, begowned and grinning like a madman, shredded through riffs that felt like well timed uppercuts, while the crowd roared every word back at them. It was sweaty, chaotic, and unabashedly fun,

“Dancer” brought a playful yet driving groove to the set, its pulsating rhythms and infectious hooks a reminder of Idles’ ability to merge punk aggression with danceable beats. Then came “Danny Nedelko,” a celebration of immigrants and unity. The crowd shouted “My blood brother is an immigrant!” with fists raised, the message of the song resonating deeply in a city like Glasgow.

In a moment of humor and warmth, the band snuck in a snippet of “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” sung in an Trish drawl by Mark Bowen as he individually thanked his band mate’s it was a brief, festive interlude that underscored the camaraderie and joy woven into the evening.

The night reached its apex with “Rottweiler,” a feral, unrelenting closer that embodied everything Idles stand for. The song’s relentless outro felt like a declaration: punk rock is alive, and its heartbeat is deafening.

As the final notes rang out and the band stood basking in the crowd’s deafening applause, the Hydro floor was a mess of sweat, spilled beer, and grinning faces. 

As Talbot himself might say: this was the sound of love and rage colliding, of community, the sound of healing, the sound of punching toxic masculinity right in the face. And it was glorious.

Words: Angela Canavan

Pictures: Dale Harvey