If Wet Leg are a pop band, then pop is having the most delicious identity crisis of its life—and sign me up for the breakdown. On the second sold-out night at the O2 Academy, the Isle of Wight quintet strode onstage through a fog machine belching enough crimson haze to suggest a bonfire built exclusively from ex-boyfriends’ tote bags. 

Before a note was struck, the whole room felt like the prelude to a séance: strobe lights twitching like they were trying to contact the spirits of Riot Grrrls Past, and Rhian Teasdale swishing her strawberry-blonde hair with the casual menace of a witch who’s just learned the hex for “mansplain.”

Opening with “Catch These Fists,” which landed like a slap of cold water—urgent, bratty, instantly destabilising. 

Then “Wet Dream” slunk in, that rubbery bassline strutting around the Academy like it had been double-parked on Sauchiehall Street and didn’t care. Teasdale’s outfit—football socks, micro-shorts, sporty top and a determined knee support—made her look like a Little League star possessed by the ghost of Poly Styrene. A demonic PE lesson in the best possible way.

Center stage, a Palestine flag draped over a monitor drew a roar from the crowd—simple, unshowy, and defiant. 

Each member of Wet Leg seems essential to the strange, joyful machinery of their sound.

Rhian Teasdale, feather-light voice sharpened with sarcasm, is the band’s chaotic narrator. Hester Chambers, calm and deadpan on guitar, brings the melodic intelligence—her playing is all unshowy precision, the ballast to Rhian’s theatrical chaos. Henry Holmes on drums adds the backbone: punchy, unfussy rhythms with a post-punk snap that keeps even their silliest lyrics grounded. Ellis Durand on bass is the sly engine of the whole thing, giving their songs that propulsive bounce—lean, elastic, and just a little mischievous. Josh Omead Mobaraki, switching between guitar and keyboards, adds the atmospheric glue: shoegaze shimmer one moment, synth weirdness the next.

Together they sound like the accidental lovechild of Elastica, The Breeders, and early Yeah Yeah Yeahs—spiked with the knowing wink of Chicks on Speed and the polka-dotted mischief of Le Tigre. There’s a wiry, indie-sleaze agility to their playing, but the delivery is pure 2020s hyper-self-awareness.

“Oh No” jittered with the anxious brightness that Wet Leg do so well, somewhere between caffeinated surf-rock and a garage band having a collective existential wobble.

The red haze deepened during “Liquidize” and “Jennifer’s Body,” underscoring the darker mood that seems to have settled into their newer performances. Less breezy, more deliberate—like the band have found the low end of their own humour and decided to live there for a while.

Mid-set, the now-famous scream moment of “Ur Mum” plunged the room into darkness. Then the howl began. Two thousand Glaswegians bellowing for so long it passed through catharsis into comedy and back again. When the band finally crashed back in, it felt like a pressure valve releasing.

“U and Me at Home” was soft-footed and sweetly off-kilter—like slow-dancing with a friend you didn’t realise you missed. “Davina McCall” and “11:21” showed their knack for blending slacker charm with emotional precision, and “Pillow Talk” hit heavier than expected, a reminder that Wet Leg’s punchlines don’t dull their ability to be loud, muscular, and strangely moving.

The standout moment came during “Too Late Now,” when bubbles drifted across the stage—tiny, iridescent ghosts catching in the lights. It wasn’t whimsical so much as disarmingly vulnerable, a soft moment in a set full of winks and barbs.

They closed with “Angelica” and “Chaise Longue,” the double-whammy everyone knew was coming and still screamed for. “Angelica” shimmered with grown-up melancholy; “Chaise Longue” swaggered with its usual surreal confidence, still sounding like a private joke shouted across a dancefloor that the whole world accidentally overheard.

But it was “Mangetout” that ultimately finished the night—stranger, moodier, and more muscular than anything before it. Live, the song felt like Wet Leg tipping their hand, revealing a heavier, more atmospheric future lurking beneath the cheeky surface. Its closing chords hung in the room like the aftershock of something bigger than a punchline—less wink, more warning.

By the end, Wet Leg had turned the O2 Academy into a messy, ecstatic altar to millennial neurosis and post-pandemic swagger. They’re pop. They’re punk. They’re performance-art gremlins with guitars. Whatever they are, they’re getting sharper—darker around the edges, brighter in the centre.

And if this is pop?

Then we should all be so lucky to drown in its bubbles.

Wet Leg play Concert in the Gardens at Edinburgh’s Hogmanay on 31^st December 2025, in West Princes Street Gardens with support from Hamish Hawk and Lucia & the Best Boys. Tickets via www.edinburghshogmanay.com

Words: Angela Canavan

Images: Marco Cornelli

The stage at Glasgow’s QMU is suitably dark and smoky before The Horrors descend upon it tonight. Stepping out to the sound of synth drones and ambient guitar, the band have decidedly set the tone for the evening before the first song even begins.

 For a band with such a powerful atmospheric element to their music, it’s only right that The Horrors bring this to their live performances. Their most recent release, Night Life, achieves this more so than anything that came before it. With the addition of new members Amelia Sinclair-Kidd (formerly of Glasgow’s own The Ninth Wave), and John Victor (of Gengahr), The Horrors have enlisted their very own post-punk special forces, armed with an array of synthesisers and effects pedals, cultivating a sound that is equally eerie and unsettling as it is melodic.

 With twenty years of music-making behind them, The Horrors by now have a broad back catalogue to draw from. Tonight’s setlist sees them whirl through tracks from throughout their career, all fully revamped and given an even darker edge by the band’s new lineup. Tracks from latest release Night Life are well-represented, which in spite of the name marks a new dawn for the band, with the expert fusion of dissonant guitars with pulsing, often groove-heavy synth and bass flowing beneath it all, reminiscent of the likes of Nine Inch Nails and Depeche Mode. Frontman Faris Badwan appears like Lux Interior from hell, with all the twisted charm of The Cramps’ lead singer. Evidently well-rehearsed, The Horrors performance is incredibly tight, yet never compromises on its mood or emotion. So many of the bands’ songs feel like they’d be right at home on a film soundtrack, with a cinematic scope that the light design and performance only serve to bring further to life.

Article: Elliot Hetherton

Mercury Prize winners English Teacher brought their distinctive blend of sharp lyricism and atmospheric indie rock to Glasgow’s iconic Barrowland Ballroom, delivering a performance that felt both intimate and electric. Playing to a mixed-age crowd that filled the venue with warmth and anticipation, the band quickly established a sense of connection that grew stronger as the night went on.

One of the most memorable moments came when they dedicated “Nearly Daffodils” to the Scottish national football team. The gesture prompted a massive cheer from the still-elated crowd, followed by enthusiastic clapping and whistles as they matched the band’s energy beat for beat.

The main set closed with a stunning rendition of “Albert Road” sung with striking control and emotion, it built towards a spine-tingling crescendo from vocalist Lily Fontaine that held the audience captive. Once the band left the stage, the room erupted into a rhythmic chant of “one more song”, growing louder and faster until the band had little choice but to return.

Their encore began with a surprise: a stellar cover of Billie Eilish’s “Birds of a Feather.” They made the song their own, with an intense performance that filled the room with emotion. Finally, they closed the night with “A55,” a high-energy finale that left the Barrowlands buzzing. It was the perfect ending to a spellbinding gig; one that showcased English Teacher’s musicianship, charisma, and ever-growing command of a live audience.

Article: Kim Sabatelli

By the time the lights drop and Loaded begins to throb through the Art School PA — Primal Scream’s frayed-edge hymn to bliss and abandon — it already feels less like a gig and more like a ritual. VLURE have been away, out in Europe playing to rooms that don’t yet know to fear and adore them, but Glasgow has been waiting. And tonight, in a completely rammed Art School, the waiting breaks like a wave.

But first, the Ewart Brothers, Glasgow’s resident TikTok jesters, stride out in cowboy hats to deliver a eurodance parody called Kingston Bounce. It’s idiotic, hilarious, disarming — the kind of communal in-joke only a hometown crowd can metabolise — and the perfect misdirection before VLURE tear the whole room inside out.

When the band finally appear, the air pressure seems to shift. Euphoric is the opener, and the refrain — “Take it or leave it, I want it euphoric” — lands like a manifesto. This is the VLURE promise: all or nothing, but mostly everything.

Something Real follows in a storm of strobes and sweat, and when P Sweatpants barrels onstage — the human equivalent of a mosh-pit starter pistol — the room erupts. It helps that the track has just landed on the latest FIFA soundtrack, which half the crowd apparently still plays; the place moves like a loading screen exploding into life.

VLURE have always been a live band first, and tonight that truth feels almost absurd. Heartbeat pulses with the kind of synth melodrama that would make mid-period Depeche Mode blush. Feels Like Heaven and Show Me How to Live crash like rave-punk tidal waves. Escalate — the title track of their debut — is the night’s ignition point, prompting the kind of full-body delirium usually reserved for the last 45 minutes of a 4am club set. When the chorus hits, the Art School doesn’t react so much as convulse.

But the night’s emotional crest rises elsewhere. Tha Gaol bleeds into the raw, trembling How to Say Goodbye, Hamish Hutcheson’s elegy for his father. Amid a set built for maximal intensity, the sudden openness is devastating. You can feel half the room holding its breath.

Then Conor Goldie takes over for Better Days, an ode to the afters, to friendships built at 3am when the world blurs into something honest. He grins like someone who knows the whole room personally — and judging by the cheers, he might.

The final stretch is pure velocity. Shattered Faith appears with mischievous fragments of Faithless’ Salva Mea threaded through it — a nod to the band’s club-floor DNA. Between Dreams feels like VLURE at their widescreen best, all smoke, strobe, and spirit. And then comes Cut It, the band’s early-era weapon, still devastating, still euphoric, still capable of turning bodies into weather systems. The pit opens one last time. Bedlam, blessedly, ensues.

Afterward, there’s the obligatory Sleazy’s afterparty — Glasgow canon law — but the truth is the night has already peaked where it needed to. What VLURE delivered was more than a triumphant hometown return; it was a victory lap disguised as a purge, a celebration that felt both earned and necessary.

If Escalate marked their arrival, tonight marked something even louder: VLURE aren’t just back in Glasgow — they’re becoming the band Glasgow always believed they could be.

Images: Reanne McArthur

Words: Fran Tamburini

You might already know that when I stop at the merch after a gig it means that I really enjoyed the show, especially if I spend more than £30 on it. So you could have seen me asking about the fabric of the hoodie at the merch stand, while the woman behind the counter looked at me in a very annoyed way, like I was demanding she iron the entire pack of T-shirts they had behind the till. Totally understandable — I would have spat in my face if I were her; it was after 11pm, after all. But I was numbed by joy and excitement, still floating over the ballroom, carried away by the music of The Last Dinner Party.

Despite being awake since 5:30 in the morning, I wanted to enjoy the evening. Doors opened at 7pm at Barrowland Ballroom, and I was there ten minutes before, along with the guest queue and two other photographers. From the main doors you couldn’t see where the line of people ended, because it stretched around the turn that brings you in front of St. Luke’s. The security staff was buzzing as well, even though, as I discovered later, for other reasons. At the end of the stairs, before entering the main venue, a small gathering of people were collecting donations for food banks by selling The Last Dinner Party bows.

Once in the venue, the space filled up in less than half an hour, with people at the barrier already starting to sing. At 7:50, Imogen and The Knife came up on stage, and after a little warm-up with the first three songs, their incredible voice and sound exploded, overwhelming the entire room. And then we patiently waited.

The Barrowland was fully packed right before nine; the excitement was a continuous crescendo, and the temperature was steeply rising. Emily, Georgia, Aurora and Lizzie took their positions, smiling at the cheering crowd. This time there was someone else too, sitting behind the drums, and his name was Luca. And then Abigail Morris jumped onto the stage, spinning and bowing, and started singing the first song from their new album From The Pyre, “Agnus Dei,” followed by “Count The Ways.” After these, Abigail introduced every member of the band and brought us back to the last tour, kicking off with “The Feminine Urge” and “Caesar on a TV Screen.”

The band played twenty songs in total, and each one of them was a joy to experience. Aurora Nishevci sang “Gjuha,” opening the act by talking about the importance of languages and cultures. Lizzie Mayland — fresh from their solo debut EP The Slow Fire of Sleep — and Georgia Davis showed us their vocals, while Emily Roberts did what she does best with her guitar, and Abigail Morris followed them on the piano.

Honestly, listening to the tracks of From The Pyre live cannot be compared to listening at home. Seeing Abigail and Lizzie doing a chorus while playing “Rifle” moved me to tears. Same for “The Scythe” and “Sail Away.” “Inferno” was staged with an evocative choreography. And then it was time to jump and scream over the notes of “Burn Alive,” “Sinner,” and “Nothing Matters” from their debut album Prelude to Ecstasy.

It was indeed a great night, not only for music but also for Scotland. In the middle of “Woman Is a Tree,” a roar exploded through the crowd. People — and indeed the security staff I mentioned earlier — had been brandishing their phones just seconds before, watching Scotland’s game against Denmark for the World Cup qualification. Once the game was over and the screams of joy interrupted the song, the band joined the crowd in the celebration.

The band came back on stage for a very well-needed encore, enchanting us with “This Is the Killer Speaking” and a reprise of “Agnus Dei.” When we all left each other in tears, the band gave us another gift, letting us dance to “Yes Sir, I Can Boogie” by Baccara.

Nonetheless, I’m still there after three days, and I can’t wait to see them live again — hopefully at the next TRNSMT.

Article: Marco Cornelli

It should really come as no surprise that in a world of beautiful contradictions, a railway arch nestled beneath the rumbling train tracks of Glasgow’s Central Station becomes the unlikely cathedral for music so luminous, so joy-emitting, it transforms everything it touches. Midland Street is hardly picturesque—it’s all Dickensian grime, water weeping from ceilings, magnificent decay. So when the band appears, gliding towards the venue in velvet jackets and 70s-esque flares like peacocks who’ve stumbled through a time portal, the juxtaposition is nothing short of startling… and absolutely welcome.

These resplendent dandies from Brighton don’t just bring music—they bring transformation. A fresh, joyful, dare I say ecstatic vibe that illuminates this dark corner of town.

The intro over the PA teases what’s to come, but nothing fully prepares you for the explosion that follows. Irresistible and irrepressible, they radiate a positivity that initially seems almost frivolous—until you realise it’s deadly serious, meticulously crafted, deeply intentional. Take a moment to truly observe: the stage set, the aesthetic precision, the songs, the theatrical stagecraft—all of it so exquisitely orchestrated it borders on the miraculous. This is no happy accident or fortunate fluke. This is artistry disguised as pure, unadulterated fun.

The truly remarkable thing is that the band have only recently released their debut album, yet have already graced stages supporting Paul Weller and Kid Creole and the Coconuts on tour. They are unmistakably, undeniably on a meteoric ascent, and we are extraordinarily fortunate to witness them at this precise moment—like catching lightning in a bottle.

Barbara exist in a gloriously indefinable space—musically familiar in a quintessentially-English-meets-Southern-California-sunshine kind of way. Imagine cruising in a red Barchetta down Pacific Coast Highway, bathed in liquid-gold sunlight, vitamin D flooding your system, endorphins firing on all cylinders. Some draw comparisons to ELO’s symphonic grandeur, others to 10cc’s playful sophistication, but there are elements far more elusive and intoxicating—perhaps Mika’s theatrical exuberance colliding with Frankie Valli’s emotional precision, filtered through a kaleidoscope of pure pop alchemy. Yet in the live context they hit harder, sharper, more urgently than any comparison suggests, delivering immaculately formed pop that transcends eras and classification.

The banter and camaraderie between songs are an absolute joy to witness and absorb. They are refreshingly inclusive, generous, visibly delighting in the crowd as much as the crowd delights in them. A genuine exchange of energy and affection. Jelly dancing is a thing. Jelly dancing will become the thing.

Let Barbara’s star shine bright and long.

Life is too short to be dull… become a Barbarette.

Velvet jacket optional.

Abandoned joy compulsory.

Words: Nick Tamer

Images: Chris Hogge

Before Shame hits the stage, the room twitches with excited, boyish chants of “big, beautiful, naked women fall out the sky” – a seemingly instant classic from the band’s latest release Cutthroat. With support from Limerick five-piece Theatre, their gorgeous, ethereal folk-rock sound only momentarily calms the boisterous energy in the room. Frontman Charlie Steen staggers onto stage in a black leather vest worn open over a priest’s collar, finished with slim black sunglasses, and for the next hour he leads a chaotic sermon in Glasgow’s Garage. 

Opening with Axis of Evil, the crowd instantly begins a mosh pit that rages for the entire set. I doubt the venue has ever seen so many crowdsurfers, as not a single song passes without someone being launched into the air and carried overhead by friends. By the night’s end, some attendees are seasoned professionals, having been eased back to ground by security more times than I can count. Steen greets many of them mid-air with a handshake, drawing guttural cheers as they exit the pit. 

While their performance is rowdy and gleefully unserious, with Steen’s ironic monologuing and self-proclaimed bad dancing, Shame keep their progressive convictions evident with Palestine and Trans flags framing the stage they charge across. Bassist Josh Finerty is particularly energetic, sprinting laps and bouncing repeatedly, while the rest of the band hold the fort with a tight, polished musical set. 

The band balanced seasoned favourites like Concrete, Adderall, and One Rizla with belters from the new album. Lampiao is a clear standout, offering a particularly distinctive sound and catchy rhythm. I would have loved to hear Human, for a Minute, but admittedly there are other songs from that album that fit better with the overall vibe of the set. Nevertheless, Shame expertly balance the old with the new, and when Cutthroat’s titular anthem finally rings, Steen joins the crowdsurfers and glides towards the rumbustious night’s end.

Article: Anni Cameron

One thing I love about what I do is being introduced to incredible new music and local talent, capturing moments in time from artists’ careers. And from what I saw, Swim School is on a steady climb to the top.

On Friday evening, the female-led, all-Scottish rockers set the QMU on fire. It was an incredible showcase of homegrown talent and power, performed in their native Scotland and surrounded by long-standing, devoted fans. The band has cited Wolf Alice as an inspiration, and it shows: both groups are powerful, innovative, and led by a charismatic woman who commands the stage.

That said, her bandmates hold their own just as fiercely. A lead singer is only as strong as the musicians beside them, and Swim School has it all — haunting basslines, sharp guitar riffs, and impressive drum work.

QMU is a venue at the heart of Glasgow’s music culture, sitting right on campus and brimming with students. It felt like the perfect place to establish a new chapter in the city’s rich musical history. The room was bathed in a red-and-blue glow — sometimes a little too dark, but ideal for the atmosphere they created.

Their first album is only a month old, yet already feels like a strong, modern classic. Still, the band has a long history, treating fans to a mix of new and old songs in a rich setlist full of favourites.

A perfect Friday night devoted to amazing rock music, and a celebration of the young and thriving Scottish music scene.

Article: Mona Montella

Nation of Language strode onstage at SWG3 TV Studio looking like three people who had accidentally wandered into a rainbow warehouse séance.

From the opening salvo of “Spare Me the Decision” off 2023’s Strange Disciple, it was clear the Brooklyn trio were here to indulge the packed-out room in a glittering rummage through their back catalogue—like a synth-pop TK Maxx, but with significantly fewer tears and far better lighting.

By the time they launched into “Rush & Fever” from 2020’s Introduction, Presence, Ian Devaney’s baritone was so strikingly similar to Ian Curtis that for a moment you could swear the venue had become a spiritualist convention, the frontman channelling Manchester’s most morose cherub with unsettling ease. Paired with Devaney’s art-school-core dance moves—something between a metronome having an existential crisis and a preacher seized by a heavenly current—it was undeniable: Nation of Language are a band of substance over style, though they do style suspiciously well.

Then came “Surely I Can Wait”, prefaced by Devaney’s valiant attempt at local colour:

“As you would say here in Glasgow—Surely Ah Canny Wait.”

The crowd, naturally, lapped it up like a cat discovering cream for the first time. Draped in candy-coloured lights, the trio delivered a set throbbing with nostalgia for the ‘80s—so much so you half-expected the Stranger Things production team to burst in, clipboard in hand, asking why the hell these three weren’t already soundtracking Season 6.

A minor technical meltdown arrived with “In Your Head” when Devaney confessed, “This next part is supposed to be guitar, but it’s broken so I can’t play it.” If anything, the admission only added to their charm—there’s something deliciously human about a band who can conjure New Order-esque synth euphoria but still lose a fistfight with their own equipment.

Then came “Inept Apollo”, a dreamlike, Gary Numan-approved synth masterpiece: cold, metallic, and shimmering like the dashboard of a self-driving hearse. It throbbed with a kind of neon melancholy that would’ve made even Numan himself cock an approving eyebrow.

But it was “Friend Machine” that delivered the biggest jolt to the ribcage: Devaney’s falsetto soared above a drum machine so rattling it could make LCD Soundsystem tip their cap and mutter, “Alright, fair play.”

By the time the encore rolled around, the room was plunged into near-total darkness save for a few vintage strobe lights that looked like they’d been borrowed from the set of Blade Runner and never returned. Fans howled for “Gouge Away”, but alas—it appears to be absent from this tour’s offering, that little heartbreak left to the imagination.

The trio re-emerged to play the fan favourite “Weak in Your Light”, a shimmering, slow-burn synth hymn that drips tenderness in a way that feels almost indecent—like reading someone’s love letters aloud. “On Division Street” followed with its cinematic strut, before the evening closed with “The Wall & I”, a finale that pulsed, shuddered, and finally dissolved into a wash of analogue heartbreak.

Nation of Language left the stage like they arrived: quietly, stylishly, and with enough emotional shrapnel lodged in the room to keep everyone awake until at least 3am. Which, frankly, feels like the entire point.

Article: Angela Canavan

@ zombiefang_

Sunday (1994) comes with its own loyal following and distinctive aesthetic. The band takes the stage to an audio clip from Carrie and the iconic Twin Peaks intro — a perfect prelude. Combined with their outfits, the flowy silk of Paige Turner’s gown, and the haunting blue lights, the tone for the evening is set from the very start.

It all mirrors the ethereal, haunting vibe of their music. Paige’s mellifluous voice floats through the low-lit atmosphere of Òran Mór. It makes perfect sense that they would play in this venue — with its gothic, castle-like exterior, it feels like stepping into a den of vampires led by the band’s enigmatic frontwoman.

The setlist offered a balanced mix of songs from their debut record and their latest EP, Devotion, which lends its name to the current tour. Highlights included fan favourites such as Doomsday, Rain, and Still Blue.

Sunday (1994) already boasts a dedicated fan base — some attendees even dressed in similar flowing gowns, a testament to the excitement that builds when preparing to see a beloved band live. Scottish fans were treated to two shows: this evening at Òran Mór, following a night at The Mash House in Edinburgh — perhaps an even more fitting location for their dark, cinematic sound.

Sunday (1994) is an up-and-coming band you don’t want to miss. Their loyal following stems from the quality and consistency of their music, which has earned them growing industry praise and respect. It’s one of those rare moments when you can sense the bright future of a band already beginning to unfold.

Article: Mona Montella