There is a discernible quality to Of Monsters and Men, one they have in common with most – if not all – artists coming out of Iceland. From the first notes of Television Love, their music immediately evokes a place, an aesthetic, an image so specific to both hardcore fans and casual listeners alike. It feels as if their music belongs to open, wide landscapes, even if the best we could offer them was a stage at the O2 Academy in Glasgow. If not as impressive and iconic as the Barrowlands, this venue still preserves some of its original Art Deco beauty.
It was with Television Love that they chose to open this date of The Mouse Parade tour, immediately followed by Dream Team, both from their latest indie-folk release All Is Love and Pain in the Mouse Parade. A long time coming since their previous album, Fever Dream, which was released in 2019, this return was eagerly awaited by their fans, who sold out this and multiple other dates.
This album once again offers introspective lyrics, sonic exploration, and a wide variety of themes such as love, loss, loneliness, and pain. The haunting lyrics are masterfully interpreted live by vocalists Nanna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir and Ragnar Þórhallsson, who are accompanied by equally mesmerising musicians. The stage itself was simple and soft, illuminated with white, pink, and blue lights (reminiscent of dawn in Iceland, as per my brief encounter with the country). The natural lighting enhanced the visuals of their stripped-down and understated performance. It was only the band and their instruments on stage — no machinations or other special effects. An experience as pleasant as it was enchanting, it gave the audience full access to the line-up: the drummer, Arnar Rósenkranz Hilmarsson, was positioned at the side of the stage rather than hidden behind shadows or smoke machines, as most drummers are. It was something that reminded me of seeing sections of a human body, like looking inside a machine to see how it works.
However, the band did not forget to honour their previous releases during their St Valentine’s Day gig, offering a collection of older and newer tunes: King and Lionheart and possibly their most famous song, Little Talks, both from My Head Is an Animal, the album that launched them to international success back in 2011.
“D–D–DMA’s!” the buzzing Glaswegian crowd roars in anticipation as they await the stage entrance of their beloved Australian indie kings, DMA’s. Tonight marks the celebration of the 10th anniversary of their 2016 album release, Hills End — a record that defined an era of indie music, soundtracking the teenage years and early adulthood of so many.
The band glide onto the stage and are met with an adoring reception, opening with “Timeless”, “Lay Down” and “Delete” — a trio of Hills End bangers. The magic, love and effervescence can be felt in the air as the crowd scream every word, ad-lib and even guitar solo of these immense tunes, with Tommy O’Dell’s inviting, warm vocals almost overpowered by the sold-out audience.
The band’s charisma is undeniable as they move around the stage in high spirits. Rhythm guitarist Johnny Took briefly pauses his high-energy performance to praise Glasgow, declaring it “the best place to play” and applauding the city’s legendary crowds.
They continue with “So We Know” — a tear-inducing, heartbreaking listen. O’Dell’s vulnerable solo vocals are enough to bring a tear to the eye, contrasted beautifully by the melodic outro that stops it from falling, replacing sorrow with a quiet sense of inspiration. This flows seamlessly into the next track, “Melbourne”.
“Silver”, taken from their album The Glow, is received rapturously by the crowd. DMA’s possess a clear sense of self and musical integrity. They understand how they connect as a unit to create harmony, remaining true to themselves and to the world they’ve built alongside their fans.
Tonight marks the first of two Hills End anniversary shows at the O2 Academy Glasgow.
Amelia Moore opened for Ashnikko and absolutely killed it, owning the entire space with her silky yet powerful voice, creating an intriguing listen. Amelia Moore could well have been a main act, reminiscent of modern pop stars such as SZA, Tate McRae and The 1975.
The Smoochies Tour is here! Ashnikko brought hyper-pop hysteria to Glasgow’s O2 on Wednesday night with a wondrous entrance, crawling on all fours out of a tiny door before bursting into insane energy levels with “STICKY FINGERS” to open the set.
Working with two dancers, the choreography and set design were notably excellent throughout the performance. Ashnikko takes power on stage and absolutely dominates the entire room, flaunting a bratty, extra persona that her loyal fans live for.
Ashnikko is a woman of many traditions, showing an incredible artist–fan dynamic as she persistently speaks to the audience throughout song breaks and even has one-to-one conversations. She announces her first tradition, “TRINKET TRADING”, where fans can hand her handmade items on stage and she shows them off to the audience. A lucky girl in the front row got that special interaction, passing Ashnikko a handmade hairband with little Sylvanian Family dolls sitting at a table having tea, as Ashnikko praised the creativity.
Ashnikko even goes as far as bringing a fan on stage for her “SMOOCHIES GIRL” tradition. Just when I thought the audience couldn’t get any louder, “STUPID” turned up the volume by a mile — an absolute modern music masterpiece. “I WANT MY BOYFRIENDS TO KISS” and “DAISY” were two of the more popular songs that got the crowd going nuts.
Ashnikko presented a confident, fun, engaging and memorable set — one she could only be proud of.
The dystopian, almost sci-fi stage set—tripod-mounted light panels, pure white backdrop—clashes perfectly with the creaking beauty of the Barrowlands. Pure, simple, uncomplicated. Easy to understand yet jarring and unsettling. A space from a different world, dragging us into today while staring dead-eyed at tomorrow. Before a single word is spat, before a single beat drops, this is the music made visible.
Sleaford Mods: deceptively simple beats and melodies cut through with hard-hitting, take-no-prisoners lyrics that slice open the banality and drudgery of working-class England. They focus on the parts of the country often overlooked, maybe even forgotten— high streets boarded up, the lives ground down. Jason Williamson delivers his deadpan vocal with metronome precision, every syllable landing exactly where it needs to. Set to one side, Andrew controls the music but he’s no passenger—his unassuming dance moves, all awkward jerks and minimal gestures, push focus even harder towards Williamson and his relentless delivery. The duo work in perfect asymmetry.
Beautiful duets appear via the lights : Gwendoline, Billy No-Mates, Aldous Harding (see you at the bandstand in June), and a real-life-in-the-flesh Sue Tompkins. No Amy Taylor tonight, but her absence doesn’t diminish the intensity.
Williamson explains he’s been told to chat more between numbers. That model might fit other bands. It doesn’t fit here. We didn’t come for small talk or backstage anecdotes. We came to hear the words, the stories, the message delivered within the songs—raw and unfiltered. How much more do we really need? The added grunting and primal screams are enough. More than enough.
The entire performance punctuated with feral dance moves—sometimes verging on a dad-dancing Can-Can, sometimes resembling an East Midlands take on Tai Chi. Simple, undoubtedly disturbed and disjointed, and because of that, subliminally powerful.
From ‘Mork and Mindy‘ onwards, the beats begin to fracture, melodies thicken, bass hits harder. The sonic palette shifts, darkens, becomes something heavier. Like the avenging love child of Patti Smith’s ‘Babelogue‘ and Alan Vega’s Suicide, Sleaford Mods present music as innovative and experimental as it is alternative—yet they’re unafraid to embrace the mainstream, to weaponize it. Their cover of ‘West End Girls’ demolishes the original. Musically similar, but the delivery is the key. Where Neil Tennant tried to sing, he should’ve channeled his inner Jason Williamson. They’ve taken a synth-pop classic and turned it into something colder, sharper.
Did you ever see the TV programme Mork and Mindy? No? FYI: Mork, the alien, descends to Earth in human form, trying to understand humanity. At the end of every show he contacts Orson to explain what he’s discovered about the life they live. That’s what Sleaford Mods accomplish—absorb, reflect, react. They’re visitors from nowhere trying to make sense of the mess we’re in. And from what I can tell, the more they see, the less they understand. The bleaker it gets, the louder they need to shout.
Bands like Sleaford Mods are essential to times like this. They hold up a mirror that doesn’t lie, doesn’t soften, doesn’t offer false hope. They deserve our continued support and the message deserves our undivided attention.
Tonight, Sleaford Mods were hypnotic, mesmerising and—more importantly—relevant, presenting a black-and-white zeitgeist of disintegration. Two men, a laptop, a few lights, and the uncomfortable truth.
The entrance is coy, humble, and almost shy. There is a slight wave from a low-slung hand and then a smile breaks out. Then, suddenly, in the twinkle of those eyes there is mischief, there is intent… there is something to be said and you are going to listen. Ezra Furman is back, and it seems like an age since she was last here.
After easing into the night with a simmering Grand Mal, the set quickly starts to boil over with No Place and Trauma. Such powerful songs so early in the set, sending a clear message of the rage to come.
Many bands play loud and fast and declare their anger or angst in quite straightforward terms — often easily understood and possibly easily forgotten. Tonight, with Ezra Furman, the message is altogether more subtle, and the delivery and lasting effects are seismic. These songs are about a life lived — and at times directly endured — not just third-party, voyeuristic interactions. With a voice that almost defies genre, and with machine-gun-like intensity, Furman snarls as words crackle with emotion: raw and highly charged, frustrated, strained, and deadly potent. There is a savage release that relays stories of everyday love and heartbreak. Highs and lows. Car rides… car rides seem to be a thing. At times sardonic, at times naively optimistic, and yet crushingly realistic. The tales are relatable, and that draws you in.
Deeply personal and emotive, you are quickly brought on side. Quieter moments, including a two-song solo interlude, allow for tongue-in-cheek interactions and self-effacing humility. Furman comments on a declining fan base… which may, in some strange way, be intentional — a clear and determined move away from the Sex Education era, regardless of how successful that may have been financially.
The newer songs are polished, fuller, less abrasive, yet they sit perfectly — still jarring, with that perfect vocal delivery leading the charge. Some older favourites are stripped back and remind me of The Velvet Underground. And again, that voice, glued to rasping guitars, with that desperate intensity connecting them all. Sunglasses still reminds some of Dylan and Sunset of Springsteen — but that is okay. They all have something to say.
“Tell ’em all to go to hell.” A fitting end to a beautiful night. An artist at the top of their game, an artist continually changing. I am fascinated to see where Ezra Furman goes next. Such tumultuous times for an American, and that really is the perfect catalyst for artistic reaction. Ezra Furman is the perfect artist to lead the charge — involved, vocal, and savage.
As she said, “We are from the US and we are not okay.”
For once, a multi-venue festival that didn’t feel like an endurance sport. Cowgate Block Party did the radical, almost suspiciously sensible thing of spacing its acts out just enough that you could actually catch at least part of a set without sprinting up stairwells like a panicked roadie or choosing between bands the way you choose which limb you’re prepared to lose. It was refreshing — humane, even — like someone involved had experienced first hand the pain of having to flip a coin to decide who to see…
Set across Sneaky Pete’s, Legends and the Bongo Club, the night unfolded like a well-timed pub crawl curated by someone locked in to what is fresh and new and a Spotify premium account. Three venues, too many bands, not enough time, and a creeping sense that if places like Sneaky Pete’s go under, live music in Edinburgh will be replaced entirely by silent discos and men explaining crypto.
This was grassroots music clinging to the walls like Blu Tack — ugly, essential, and holding the whole thing together.
Filmstar
Opening the day at 3:15pm is a thankless task, but Filmstar leaned into it with the air of a band who sound like early Oasis if Liam had gone to therapy and Noel had stayed home. Britpop DNA, slightly scuffed round the edges, songs that feel like they were written staring at a bus window wondering where it all went mildly wrong. Comfort music, like a battered leather jacket you’ll never throw away.
Alex Apolline
Alex Apolline has the haunted gentleness of Phoebe Bridgers wandering through Portobello at dusk, mixed with the dreamy detachment of Slowdive-era shoegaze. Dreamy chat, maximum atmosphere. Her songs drift rather than land — like “Muscle Memory” with its still-don’t-feel-like-home melancholy. Hopeless romantics only. Anyone who can get a room full of Edinburgh punters to sing a long so early in the afternoon has our seal of approval.
Bathing Suits
Bathing Suits opening salvo was “We’ve just ate and we’ve ate too much,” which instantly placed them somewhere between slacker irony and techno-thrash before the room packed out. Loose-limbed acid haus so hot it would melt your face off. This is what chaotic noise sounds like when orchestrated in a beautiful manner. As they jump across feedback monitors, dance manically and remove clothing layer by layer song by song their set is a glorious riot of spectacle and ear bleeding distortion- think the Klaxons being strangled by Fcukers– and it was glorious. Our favourite track was “Lousy Havoc”.
Gurry Wurry
Gurry Wurry feels like Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci’s anxious cousin who listens to Neon Neon and drinks oat milk — which makes sense, given Andy Monaghan of Frightened Rabbits is currently producing the next album. Steeped in 70’s twee aesthetics, well manicured moustaches and ladles of Ned Flanders style twee audience interactions – makes Gurry Wurry instantly disarming. Songs like “Like a Landlord” turn everyday observations into small emotional gut punches, satire rubbing up against the mundanity of life. “Hairline” brushes troubles away like a panic attack disguised as a pop song. Intelligent, funny, quietly devastating.
No Bad News In Heaven
Falkirk’s own No Bad News in Heaven — a lean, wired three-piece girl-powered trio — took to the stage with the sort of bracing intensity that makes you feel like you’ve accidentally wandered into the best kind of chaos. On tracks like “After Everything”, they shepherded a cascade of skeletal rhythms and haunted, pinprick melodies, all underscored by restless guitar lines that seemed to crackle against the night air. There was something both urgent and elegiac in their sound, a little like early Sleater-Kinney meeting a storm-tossed dream, and by the time they were done the crowd felt like it had been both shaken and baptized all at once.
Quiet Years
A surprise act with vocals delivered in a proudly well-enunciated Scottish dialect — imagine Arab Strap if they’d discovered optimism, briefly, then immediately distrusted it. Their songs feel like letters you never sent, especially “Imagined Truths” with honeyed vocals and dreamy synth melodies the chorus is painfully catchy and easily lodges into one’s cranium. There’s something Frightened Rabbit-adjacent here too: vulnerability without self-pity, sadness with good posture, manic dance moves and something uplifting at the heart of it all. Good to see some millennials give Gen Z a run for their money. Definately ones worth keeping an eye on…
Ellis.D
Ellis.D, the Brighton-based solo force has arrived with full band backing, they move through tracks with a restless, electric energy that feels like it’s just about to spill over. On “Humdrum” and “Drifting”, jagged synth lines and taut rhythms collide with vocals that hover between defiance and vulnerability, each note pulling you in different directions. There’s an almost cinematic quality to his presence, made stranger by the fact he bears an uncanny resemblance to the singer from The Kooks — charming on first glance, but with a bite that’s entirely his own. It’s art-punk, it’s restless, and it’s unmistakably Brighton.
Dream Nails
Dream Nails didn’t play — they attacked. Sonically, think Bikini Kill colliding with early Le Tigre, with the volume and venom of Amyl and the Sniffers. This wasn’t a gig, it was a rally. Queer, confrontational, joyous fury. “This is for queer people and allies” they landed like a punch wrapped in glitter. The kind of set that makes you want to slay the patriarchy and overthrow capitalism simultaneously. Special mention goes out to their track “Vagina Police” which was gloriously delicious played live.
Girl Group
Girl Group are what happens if the Spice Girls were raised on post-Y2K feminism, riot grrrl theory, and good trainers. Four-part harmonies tight enough to bounce coins off, hooks that sound like HAIM after a night out with Peaches. “SuperDrug” landed like a souped up VengaBoys but with street cred and incredibly precise choreography, it felt like a group hug disguised as a pop song. Stage presence bouncing between irony and sincerity — exactly where modern pop should live.
Insider Trading
Edinburgh’s own four-piece Insider Trading brought their jagged, textural energy up the A-road in a performance that felt like post-punk poetry colliding with shoegaze haze and Midwest emo heartbreak. Tracks like the bruising, math-edged “Spice Girl” — all stabbing guitars and sneering hooks — and the almost cinematic “Again”, with its slowcore builds and sprawling nine-minute arc, showcased a band carving out a sound both abrasive and beautiful, like Sonic Youth jamming with Slint in a damp cellar.
DOSS
DOSS stripped things back to three members and still hit like a brick. Glasgow post-punk with teeth: think young team attitude and El Dorado swigging sneer. “King of the Castle’ is delivered with poignant urgency and the sneer of early Gilla Band with thumping baselines and louder guitar parts. “Mullets Are Moving In” is gentrification commentary disguised as a banger. On “Lungs”, DOSS sound like they’re playing from inside a locked room, every note ricocheting off the walls before forcing its way out. The track moves with a nervous, compressed energy — guitars sawing at the edges, rhythm snapping tight enough to sting — while the vocal arrives less as a melody than a kind of strained exhalation. It’s a song built on pressure rather than release, simmering with the sort of discomfort that feels deliberate, even necessary. DOSS remain the benchmark against which their peers are measured.
By the end of the night, Cowgate Block Party didn’t feel like nostalgia — it felt like resistance. Bands shouting into basements, crowds pressed shoulder to shoulder, and venues that matter precisely because they’re uncomfortable, loud, and slightly falling apart.
If this is what grassroots music looks like in 2026, then good. Let it be scrappy. Let it be funny. Let it swear.
Because when those places go, you don’t just lose rooms and stages — you lose the noise, the friction, the thing that makes a scene feel alive, and that, quietly, would be the real tragedy.
Opening tonight was Eneko Lane, who sounds like he’s been writing sea shanties from his cot — all salt-air melodies and emotional ballast.
His song about Glasgow lands like Celtic Harry Styles (he has the hair too) but crucially after Harry has found himself, lost himself, and decided to sing about it while walking barefoot along the beach in 2026.
There’s something quietly assured about Eneko’s songwriting: the confidence of someone who knows exactly where they’re from, even when they’re drifting. If folk pop is going to survive the next decade, it’ll be because artists like this remembered to give it lungs and let it breathe.
Then there were Stuffed Animals, an Edinburgh band with one foot in the sunshine and the other stomped firmly on a fuzz pedal. Their sound pulls from calypso guitar rhythms and fuzzed-out shoegaze, a combination that shouldn’t work but somehow hits instantly — like your brain recognising a colour it didn’t know had a name.
Tracks like “Fork” arrive already formed, joyful without being flimsy, noisy without being macho. The lead singer gives off a Flight of the Conchords chic — humour as texture rather than punchline — and you get the sense this is a band who know exactly how likeable they are without ever winking at it. Wilding, wide open, and very much a group about to start making moves this year.
Edinburgh based Curiosity Shop are the sort of band that make you feel like you’ve accidentally wandered into a storybook — only to realise halfway through that the pages are sharp enough to give you a paper cut.
We’ve had our eye on this band for the past two years – making sure to catch them at both Tenement Trail slots and this week The Skinny (glad you lads caught up) have heralded them as ones to watch out for in 2026.
The last time I felt this gently unmoored at King Tut’s was watching Mercury Prize-winner Jacob Alon (who is here snapping their signage on the King Tut’s steps) before the world cottoned on. That same sense of oh, this matters hangs in the air with Curiosity Shop — a band dealing in whimsy not as escapism, but as quiet resistance. This is exactly the level of playful seriousness we need heading into 2026: folk music that smiles sweetly while slipping existential dread into your coat pocket.
Their sound is built from deceptively quaint components: harmonica wheezing like an old busker with secrets, double bass thudding warmly (played with the kind of physical affection usually reserved for lifelong pets), accordion and flute weaving around each other like they’re flirting at a village fête. It’s a barrel full of twee joy — the kind that would absolutely kill Tinker Bell on sight if she tried to gatekeep it.
There’s a dreamy lethargy at the heart of Curiosity Shop that feels tailor-made for January: that month where hope is fragile, resolutions are already fraying, and music has to work harder to convince you to feel something.
Their lead singer’s voice wavers between ANOHNI and the Johnson’s falsetto -style tenderness and fragile, helium-light highs, creating a constant undercurrent of disparity — sadness wrapped in nostalgia, melancholy disguised as memory.
Opening the set with “Rambling”, they ease you in like a friendly stranger who immediately knows too much about your childhood.
It wasn’t long before our firm favourite “Books on the Wild” arrived, its swelling crescendos blooming with hope, lore, and core joy — the kind of song that feels like it’s building a shelter around you while aiming for a chorus singalong. This is indie folk that understands that softness can be a weapon, and that joy doesn’t have to shout to be radical.
Lyrics drift by like half-remembered library books — “when I was young I read books all the while” — and suddenly you’re not sure whether you’re listening to folk songs or rereading yourself.
In a landscape stuffed with algorithm-polished sameness, Curiosity Shop sound gloriously human — like they’ve been raised on storytime, library dust, and slightly warped cassette tapes. If modern indie keeps chasing irony, Curiosity Shop are chasing wonder, and somehow managing to catch it.
Think The Moldy Peaches after a literature degree, Belle and Sebastian if they’d read less theory and more fairytales. Whatever the comparison, Curiosity Shop aren’t just rummaging through nostalgia — they’re refurbishing it, sanding it down, and turning it into something you might actually want to live inside.
If this is what folk music sounds like when it remembers how to dream again, then consider us open for business.
Curiosity Shop will be playing at The Doublet in Glasgow on the 11th of March and Leigh Depot 12th of March.
It’s been a long time since BRMC released any new work, and many may have thought they’d simply faded away into the ether, becoming another casualty of time and changing tastes. How spectacularly wrong they were.
Tonight sees the 20th anniversary celebration of Howl—an album sometimes overlooked or dismissed in preference to BRMC’s heavier, more visceral side. This was always going to be a fascinating night of will they… won’t they play the big tunes that laid the foundations of their enduring success, the anthems that built their legacy.
It’s incredible to think that BRMC have been going for more than a quarter of a century. How did that happen? Where did those years go? Some in the crowd had seen them at T in the Park in 2002, when the band was in its infancy, with only one album to its name. Fast forward to a rainy night on Glasgow’s south side and here we are, eight albums deep, still standing, still playing.
This was a night of beautiful contrasts—dark and light, quiet and chaos. A slow-burning, skin-and-bone acoustic first half of roots music, performed without any front lighting to speak of—silhouettes and shadows, mystery and intimacy. BRMC showed a truly melodic and beautifully simple, considered side, laying bare the fragility and shimmering essence of their work. Howl was celebrated in a dark-as-hell, hypnotic state that gently flowed and undulated, combining old-school voodoo with 21st-century Americana. This was BRMC stripped back, sombre and musically mesmerising.
This wasn’t immediate gratification—this was the long game, the slow burn that would eventually ignite into something explosive.
After time spent in the darkness of The Upside Down, everyone knew that Howl had been properly celebrated, honoured in the way it deserved. And with that acknowledgement came an increase in intensity, a creeping anticipation of what was coming next. You could feel it building in the room—tension, expectation, readiness. The fuse had been lit, quietly smouldering in the darkness.
Then, finally, the pin was pulled and the audience was rewarded with an explosive, cathartic performance of euphoria-inducing favourites.
‘Red Eyes and Tears’ ignited the second half of the evening with ferocious intent, and the continued fervour simmered and built to boiling point until tracks like ‘Berlin’ and ‘Punk Song’ saw the crowd erupt. Sneering yet laid-back Northern Californian vocals, delivered with a touch of MC5-meets-Bolan Tabasco, provided the perfect ingredients. Mixed with a machine-gun snare, booming kick drum and tribal chanting—at times led by the crowd itself in a beautiful exchange of energy—it resulted in a second half of electrifying and genuinely life-affirming music. A blitzkrieg attack of lighting saw the near pitch-black, back-lit scenario explode into a night-and-day effect of colour and strobes, visual chaos matching sonic intensity.
This, I think, is really what people had come to see. As much as Howl is loved and respected, it’s these heavier, mind-altering moments that most of the crowd had been waiting for—craving. The release after the restraint. The explosion after the slow burn. The transformation was complete and glorious.
By the end of the night, BRMC had transformed into a full-blooded, skin-and-bone, flesh-and-blood beast that ripped apart the darkness and softness of the beginning with a full-on rock and roll display. A performance encompassing nuance and subtlety as well as the raw power and ebb-and-flow dynamics of a band who’ve been around long enough to understand how to take an audience on a genuine journey.
I cannot even guess what the next chapter of BRMC will bring, but now that they’re back at the coalface, I’m sure it will be worth paying attention. And I guess I’ll see you there.
There are nights at the OVO Hydro when Glasgow feels like the capital of something bigger than itself, when the rain outside turns into a badge of honour and nostalgia comes roaring back not as a memory, but as a living, sweating thing. Stereophonics, playing to a sold-out Hydro, delivered exactly that: a two-hour sermon on why British guitar bands from the 90s and 00s refuse to lie down quietly and become “heritage”.
Opening the night in support of Stereophonics, Finn Forster carried himself with the wide-eyed gratitude of an artist fully aware of the scale of the moment. Between songs there was easy, self-deprecating chatter, thanks offered sincerely for being invited onto such a vast arena tour. Hailing from a small-town upbringing that still clings to his songwriting, Forster introduced “Sisters” with a quiet dedication to his siblings, a track born from family bonds and formative days that clearly still shape his perspective. It was an early reminder that his songs are rooted not in spectacle, but in lived-in emotion.
“Circle” proved another standout, its indie-folk guitar work looping and unfurling like thought patterns you can’t quite escape. Forster’s sound trades in sharp metaphor rather than polish — earnest without being soft, reflective without drifting. There are echoes of modern folk storytellers like Sam Fender and Ben Howard, but Foster’s delivery feels more intimate, like overhearing a confession rather than being preached a chorus. His music doesn’t chase the zeitgeist; it walks alongside it, hands in pockets, eyes wide open.
By the time Stereophonics bounded energetically on stage the crowd were raring to go. They opened with “Vegas Two Times” and “I Wanna Get Lost With You”, instant crowd pleasers that immediately filled the room with a buoyant jubilation. No easing in, no polite overture. “Vegas Two Times” clattered in like a pub door kicked open at last orders, all chug and swagger, while “I Wanna Get Lost With You” arrived glowing and widescreen, a chorus that swelled like headlights on a motorway at midnight. An opening salvo of songs that won the Hydro over instantaneously the crowd was already theirs, arms up, voices cracked, hearts willingly mugged.
Kelly Jones remains one of British rock’s great frontmen: part preacher, part street poet, part man who looks like he’s seen some things and written them down anyway. His voice — that unmistakable sandpaper rasp — still sounds like it’s been dragged through a coal mine and polished with melody. On guitar, he slices rather than shreds, letting riffs breathe and bruises show.
Beside him, Richard Jones on bass is the band’s quiet gravitational pull, holding everything in place with lines that roll like tidewater — steady, essential, impossible to ignore once you notice them. Adam Zindani, on guitar, brings colour and lift, his parts threading through the songs like sunlight through a grey Welsh sky. And on drums, Jamie Morrison plays with power and restraint, driving the songs forward without ever overplaying — a modern engine built to honour an older blueprint.
That blueprint, of course, belongs to Stuart Cable, the band’s original drummer and founding member, whose spirit hung heavy and proud over the night. There was something deeply moving about hearing these songs thundered out in an arena, knowing they were born in rehearsal rooms, teenage dreams, and chaos. Kelly addressed it with characteristic self-deprecation and warmth:
“Those pictures are from our first ever ever tour when Stuart Cable did our first gig. I was about 12 and Stuart was about 15, we used to wheel our drum kit around in a shopping trolley. Now we are on tour with eight buses, we are contractual to be here and to have every one of you, but basically what I’m trying to say is — has anyone seen my shopping trolley?”
It landed exactly right: funny, tender, and quietly devastating. A fitting tribute to Cable, who may be gone but remains embedded in the DNA of every beat.
Stand-out moments came thick and fast. “Have a Nice Day” shimmered with irony and uplift, a song that has aged like a favourite leather jacket — scuffed, but better for it. “Mr. Writer” still bites, its sneer intact, while “Maybe Tomorrow” unfurled like a lighter held aloft in a stadium of strangers who suddenly feel like friends. “Fly Like an Eagle” soared without bombast, proving Stereophonics know the difference between arena rock and music that simply belongs in arenas.
Then came “I Wouldn’t Believe Your Radio”, reimagined as a semi-acoustic left-turn, complete with a ukulele party solo from Kelly that felt like a pub sing-along gatecrashing a rock show. It was joyous, ridiculous, and utterly perfect — the sound of a band comfortable enough in its legacy to mess with it.
And here’s the thing: 14-year-old me would be quite shocked to be standing here, loving — genuinely loving — the resurgence of millennial indie bands from the 90s and 00s. Shocked not because it’s happening, but because it works. Because these songs haven’t shrunk with age; they’ve expanded. They’ve picked up life along the way.
There is a steadfast fan front of stage holding up a sign pleading “Please Play 1000 Trees” a song untill tonight had remain off of the tour set list. Instantaneously 14,000 Glaswegians participate in an en masse singalong – a moment of untold joy for this writer and the gathered crowed.
The encore sealed it. Balloons were released into the crowd like stolen childhoods, bouncing overhead as the band tore through “100MPH”, “Traffic”, “C’est la vie”, and finally “Dakota” — a closer so colossal it feels less like a song and more like a communal out-of-body experience. Thousands of voices yelling “I don’t know where we are going now” as if the answer matters less than the journey.
Stereophonics at the Hydro weren’t trading on nostalgia. They were weaponising it — turning memory into momentum, grief into gratitude, and a shopping trolley into eight tour buses without ever forgetting where the wheels first touched the ground.
My first time at the OVO Hydro also happened to be my first time seeing Wolf Alice live. Until recently, I’d somehow let their first three albums — My Love Is Cool, Visions of a Life, and Blue Weekend — slip past me. But arriving on 7 December, fully caught up and newly immersed in their catalogue, I was ready to experience the band touring The Clearing, their fourth studio record. Outside, Glasgow was soaked in hours of rain, but the queue remained buoyant, chatter carrying a sense of collective anticipation. Hope, it seemed, was already circulating long before the lights dimmed.
The evening opened at 7pm with Bria Salmena, performing to a still-settling crowd. Her set was moody and atmospheric, weaving a brooding ambience that felt almost ritualistic — the kind of slow-burn introduction that rewards attentive ears. By the time she finished, the Hydro had quietly filled to capacity.
Next up were Sunflower Bean, whom I’d last caught in late 2024 supporting Cage The Elephant. Their energy arrived like a jolt: a snappy blast of indie-rock, all confident vocals, taut musicianship, and the visual flourish of a bottle of Buckfast. Their sound hit cleanly in the cavernous venue, building the sense that something bigger was imminent.
When Wolf Alice finally emerged, the arena shifted entirely. The stage glimmered — silver fringe, glam-rock sheen, a cascade of shimmering lights. They opened with “Thorns,” a slow, tension-building cut that immediately showcased Ellie Rowsell’s vocal elasticity. From there, “Bloom Baby Bloom” and “White Horses” snapped the crowd fully awake, a one-two punch bridging the new album’s aesthetics with the band’s established dynamic.
Across the setlist, they moved fluidly between nostalgia and reinvention. Fan favourites “Bros,” “How Can I Make It OK?,” “Delicious Things,” and “Formidable Cool” delivered full-throttle sing-along moments, while the feral charge of “Yuk Foo,” “Play the Greatest Hits,” and “Giant Peach” stirred the arena into something closer to catharsis — a reminder of the volatility that first set them apart.
Rowsell and bassist Theo Ellis commanded the stage with an instinctive dual pull: her voice drifting from fragile confessionals to soaring raw power, his presence adding kinetic flare and showmanship. Together they anchored the band’s shifting emotional terrain.
The encore brought the night to a near-mythic close. “The Last Man on Earth” unfurled with the kind of slow-motion grandeur that feels almost too big for a room, even one the size of the Hydro. Then came “Don’t Delete the Kisses,” a crowd-wide chant that softened the edges of the night into something warm, communal, and dreamlike.
And just like that, the band vanished backstage, leaving us glowing in the mid-lit pit as “Bohemian Rhapsody” blasted through the speakers. Neon lights flickered; strangers danced; the final traces of adrenaline settled into the realisation that Wolf Alice would return to Glasgow in just a few months — headlining TRNSMT next summer.
If The Clearing is a record about searching for meaning in the debris, then this show proved the band are still experts at building something transcendent from the noise.
The Golden Bough 