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

It’s Halloween, and the crypt of the Hug and Pint serves as the perfect environment for secrecy and subterranean sonic beauty.

Any Slime City gig is a joy to behold, and tonight Glasgow’s own irreverent electro-nerd punks open proceedings with a surprise—and maybe not-so-secret—‘let’s try out our new material’ show. Their ability to transform left-field observations of the world and the absurdity of human existence into darkly humorous songs is remarkable, refreshing, and necessary. Yet beneath the wit lies something serious and thought-provoking—something that refuses to let you off easy.

Hard-hitting and melodically complex, the new tracks land with precision and purpose to rapturous reception. Trigger the Dads, Millennial Pause, Never Stop Giving Up—these are perfect Slime City: sharp, cynical, vital—and they sit seamlessly alongside old favourites like You and Everybody You Love Will One Day Die. The song titles alone make you smile before making you realise they might actually be right. Existential Armageddon on an individual level, delivered with a knowing wink and a middle finger raised.

A stunning performance for people who think too much and feel even more. Any band that creates a song called Lord, Make Me Chaste, But Not Yet deserves a Grammy at the very least—or, at minimum, your undivided attention.

Slime City’s new album National Record of Achievement drops 21 November.

29 November – Glasgow Art School. Album launch. Mark your calendars.

22 November – The Lexington, London.

After what seems like a lifetime, Desperate Journalist return to Glasgow to a hugely thankful and expectant crowd, who are rewarded with a stunning set of songs and a truly remarkable performance. The music sweeps over you like a continuous wave of emotion—an engulfing sonic landscape paired with lyrics and vocals that attack your deepest heartstrings with clarity and beauty. Emotions tangle and unravel in real time.

Vocalist Jo Bevan possesses a dazzling voice that sits somewhere between Björk, Jehnny Beth, and Sinéad O’Connor—a unique and devastating instrument. Her delivery is at times confrontational, words spat out as if expelling demons that have built up inside, teetering on the edge of a scream before pulling back with gut-wrenching restraint. It’s brutal and beautiful in equal measure.

While influences aren’t immediately obvious, there’s something familiar in the feeling—echoes of The Smiths, Talk Talk; that post-punk melancholy reimagined for our current moment. This is atmospheric, turbulent defiance. A disruption soundscape. Emotionally intense and deeply personal thoughts and feelings laid bare. A cathartic exorcism of life itself—tragic romance transformed into dynamic energy, despair meeting hope head-on.

What strikes you most is the conviction. Direct, breathless. Emotional drama that never feels performative because it’s so clearly real. Hope thwarted and dashed in an emotional storm, yet somehow still present. So much self-searching. So much reckoning. There’s a Morrissey-esque quality to the vocal delivery—those devastating throwaway comments turned into lyrics that cut deep and stay with you long after the final note fades.

This is deeply personal music for the masses—last breaths of defiance sung loud enough for everyone to hear. Such beautiful music in the most unlikely place.

If you missed this show, you missed something special. But there’s always next time—and with bands this good, there should always be a next time.

Words: Nick Tamer

Images: Chris Hogge

After five years off the road—and a name change that signaled both rebirth and resilience—HARD LIFE (formerly Easy Life) made their long-awaited return to Glasgow’s SWG3 on Tuesday night. The Leicester collective walked onstage to the sound of bagpipes, a perfectly tongue-in-cheek nod to their Scottish audience, and from that moment on, the room pulsed with anticipation.

Their set was an energetic fusion of hip-hop, soul, indie pop, and jazz—genres the band has always blended with enviable ease. HARD LIFE wasted no time reclaiming their place as one of the UK’s most compelling live acts, running through crowd-favorite cuts like “SKELETONS,” “PEANUT BUTTER,” “PETTY CRIME,” and “BEESWAX” with renewed swagger. Each track hit with the same offbeat charm and melodic warmth that defined their earlier sound, but there was a sharper edge this time—a confidence born from survival.

Halfway through the night, the band leaned into local spirit with a raucous, affectionate cover of The Proclaimers’ “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles),” a moment that sent the crowd into full voice and sealed the connection between band and audience.

HARD LIFE’s stage presence remains effortlessly cool—easygoing but magnetic. There’s a sense of good-natured defiance in the air; a band that’s been through it, standing taller than ever. Judging by the grins and singalongs echoing through SWG3, Glasgow was more than happy to welcome them back.

Article: Rose McEnroe

Sports Team are rowdy right off the bat. They shake, scream, kick, and spit beer that lands squarely on this photographer’s glasses. The first three songs — The Game, Bang Bang Bang, and Happy — already set the mood for an energetic night.

Their music is a unique blend of indie and folk rock, driven by sarcastic, insightful lyrics and a distinctive identity. It electrifies the crowd and sets it in motion — and Thursday night at the Art School in Glasgow was no different, with moshing and jumping encouraged by charismatic frontman Alex Rice.

These live shows perfectly capture the bold sound of their latest LP, Boys These Days — a somewhat nostalgic hymn to what it was like being young back then versus what it feels like now. This night in Glasgow follows their set at the iconic Barrowland Ballroom earlier this year, when they opened for the legendary Supergrass — yet it’s not hard to imagine them headlining that stage in the near future.

All things considered, this six-piece from London reaffirms its place as one of the most exciting live acts around — a band that continues to grow, evolve, and prove that chaos can, in the right hands, sound like pure joy.

Article: Mona Montella

Let’s be clear: life is not an easy gig, and despite what some may believe, there might not be an encore. So doing what you can, when you can, and for the greater good is more important today than it has been for quite some time.

Gogol Bordello present such a potent feeling of positivity in a music genre that is as familiar as it is alien. The fusion of punk and cross-cultural Gypsy themes—presented in an exploding piñata of riot and colour—is as welcome as summer after winter: a necessary antidote to darker times.

A multi-national troupe with a New York-centric heart, they create an irresistible, unrelenting tide of their unique left-field aesthetic. Similar in spirit—both visually and musically—to the incredible yet sadly self-imploding French Gypsy jazz collective of the late ’80s and early ’90s, Les Négresses Vertes, Gogol Bordello appear as a seven-piece band of vibrant colour and surging electrical charge that’s hard to ignore and utterly impossible to resist.

But hang on—tonight wasn’t about one band. It was about all three acts coming together as a collective front of friendship, unity, and solidarity, no doubt instigated by Gogol Bordello themselves. This collective spirit is something really quite rare in terms of a gig and audience perception: Eugene coming on to play with Puzzled Panther, Puzzled Panther joining Gogol on stage, then Harry of Split Dogs adding her fire to the mix—and finally, all of them together in one glorious, chaotic finale.

This is what live music should be: barriers broken down, egos left at the door, pure connection.

Eugene—chief Gogol himself—is, from the off and while people are still wandering into the venue, in the pit filming the fantastic NYC post-punk newcomers Puzzled Panther, whose cover of Venus in Furs reveals influences and roots that delve deep into New York’s musical history—that lineage of art-punk experimentation and raw energy that never quite goes away—combined with a danceability reminiscent of Primal Scream meets Manchester. Their music, and the way it’s presented, is very much its own unique thing: energetic, engaging, and utterly captivating in its youthful intensity.

Hard-hitting yet effortlessly personable, they command the stage with a confidence that belies their newbie status. There’s something magnetic about watching a band this early in their journey—this hungry, this alive. Their short thirty-minute set leaves you wanting more, and the buzzing feeling they create becomes a benchmark for the night as a whole. With a new EP freshly released, this is a band to watch closely—one that carries the torch of New York’s underground legacy while blazing its own trail forward.

Split Dogs attack the stage as if their lives depend on it. Chat is tempered with a “better get on with it” attitude that feels full-blown punk—sonic and visual blitz. Despite being quite different from the other bands tonight, they clearly come from the same gene pool, just a different branch: raucous and here to destroy. Harry’s vocals lead from the front, attacking the stage with her distinctive voice and infectious attitude—thirty minutes of pure adrenaline and defiance. A thrill to watch, and the perfect catalyst for what’s about to follow.

Gogol Bordello literally invade the stage, which suddenly seems too small to contain them. Sprinting towards the cheering crowd, Eugene slams down a bottle of what I thought was Buckfast—turns out to be Cabernet Sauvignon. It erupts over photographers in the pit, and the tone for the night is set. This is a full-blown visual and musical assault, especially when Pedro and Eugene combine to share vocals and deliver raga-rap as hard-hitting as it gets.

A continuous high-tempo, body-slamming beat; relentless accordion and violin drones carry through the songs with almost no let-up in the wave of emotion and energy. This is music that demands everything from you—your attention, your body, your voice, your heart.

Some smile-inducing moments include nods to several of their surprisingly less obvious 1980s influences: snippets of I Want Candy by Bow Wow Wow, Gangsters by The Specials, and TV Eye by The Stooges. The set becomes a celebration not just of their own music but of the lineage that brought them here—a reminder that all great music is built on what came before, reimagined and reborn.

It’s been impossible to review or even consider just Gogol Bordello in isolation tonight. This evening was as much about camaraderie as it was about music: older bands helping younger bands, and vice versa. Passing the torch while still holding it high—a beautiful, rare thing in an industry that too often forgets its roots.

Fraternity. Unity. Solidarity.

Revolutionary words. Revolutionary spirit.

Words – Nick Tamer

Images – Chris Hogge

On the night of 25 October 2025, Barrowland hosted three bands: support from Arkayla and Feet, followed by headliners The Royston Club. What unfolded was a night that leaned into emotion, energy, and connection.

From the start, the crowd filled the room with excitement — not just for the headliner, but from the moment the first band took the stage. Arkayla opened with confidence, their set full of punchy indie rock and a strong stage presence. They carried themselves like a band who knew how to warm up a room, and by the time they left the stage, the crowd was already leaning forward, ready for more.

Feet followed with great energy and rhythm. Their set struck a balance between tight musicianship and just the right amount of chaos. Propulsive grooves, sharp vocals, and a clear chemistry between band members made them stand out. By the end, they had won over a fair share of the crowd — and for me, they were the highlight of the night. Their final track left the room buzzing and perfectly set up for the main act.

When The Royston Club walked on stage, they wasted no time, launching straight into Patch Where Nothing Grows and Glued to the Bed from their newly released album Songs for the Spine — also the name of their current tour. Behind them stood a giant silhouette of a bull, a striking symbol that framed the performance with boldness and intent.

Frontman Tom Faithfull (vocals and rhythm guitar) balanced emotional vulnerability with rock urgency. His voice held the room’s attention throughout, while Ben Matthias (lead guitar), Dave Tute (bass), and Sam Jones (drums) delivered playing that was both tight and expressive. Their chemistry was clear — particularly on Spinning, where the live version carried extra emotional weight before lifting into full-band power.

The set mixed new material with early favourites, keeping the energy high while allowing moments of reflection. They closed with Cariad, a vulnerable track from Songs for the Spine, which created a rare stillness in a room otherwise charged with energy.

It was a night that confirmed The Royston Club’s growing success. With Feet and Arkayla setting the stage perfectly, this was a show that balanced intimacy and urgency — a night of jump-along rock and collective connection that left Barrowland glowing.

Article: Marco Cornelli