Last night at Glasgow’s iconic Barrowland Ballroom, Godspeed You! Black Emperor (hereafter referred to as GY!BE, since even the band’s name feels like an epic) put on a show that could have easily doubled as a sonic séance or the soundtrack to the last apocalypse. For those who don’t know, the band’s name is inspired by a 1976 Japanese documentary about a biker gang, but frankly, the nine-member ensemble could have just as easily taken their name from a film about intergalactic space travel. If there’s a band out there that sounds more like the last signals of a dying star, I’ve yet to hear them.

But let’s back up. Yes, nine people. You read that right. This band brings so many musicians on stage, you start wondering if they’re running a DIY community or an avant-garde music cooperative. Each of them has a very specific role: one drummer plays a regular kit while another occasionally picks up a saw (you know, as drummers do), and the rest rotate between violins, guitars, basses, and a variety of mysterious stringed things I’m not entirely sure even have names.

Towards the back of the audience one visual technician is frantically switching between four Super 8 projectors, because, naturally, music like this can’t happen without visuals of grainy peace slogans flickering on the walls like coded messages from some secret, long-gone civilization.

The show begins with “Hope Drone,” which sounds less like a musical composition and more like something the Voyager probe picked up on its way out of the solar system. GY!BE doesn’t so much take the stage as descend upon it—wrapped in shadows, barely visible, as though even the idea of stage presence is too bourgeois for them.

The only real illumination comes from the Super 8 films spinning behind them, which is just as well since it matches the mood of the music: stark, mysterious, and possibly apocalyptic. Oh, and they asked the bar staff to dim the lights, because who needs to see what they’re drinking when you’ve got music like this to melt your brain?

The thing about a GY!BE show is that it defies the basic laws of rock concerts. There are no lyrics to sing along to (unless you want to try chanting “SUN IS A HOLE, SUN IS VAPORS” at your friends), and there’s no discernible verse-chorus structure to guide you. Instead, the band constructs vast soundscapes that build slowly, like glaciers grinding their way through the terrain, only to suddenly explode into a wall of noise that leaves the audience feeling like they’ve just been caught in a thunderstorm. The music is dynamic in the truest sense: quiet, eerie strings give way to distorted guitars, which give way to drums pounding like they’re scoring the fall of an empire.

The highlight of the evening came in the last 30 minutes, where—as any good GY!BE fan knows—things get real noisy. One of the drummers (the one who occasionally picks up a saw, because of course there’s a saw involved) decides it’s time to summon the thunderclouds and returns to his kit with a ferocity that makes you wonder if he’s been communing with some ancient weather god. Meanwhile, violins screech like alien communication, guitars loop on endlessly, and you start to feel like you’re floating somewhere between Earth and deep space. Somewhere in the madness, a few fans shout out from the crowd, but their voices are swallowed up by the avalanche of sound. At a GY!BE gig, this is as rowdy as it gets.

And then, almost as suddenly as it began, it’s over. No encore. No goodbye. Just a long distorted outro that sees various band members fiddle with some knobs on monitors creating a final note of distortion that’s left hanging in the air like the last remnants of a cosmic event. The crowd stumbles out into the night, dazed, confused, and wondering if what they just experienced was a concert or an art installation that somehow tore open the fabric of reality?

Here’s the thing about GY!BE: it’s not about catchy tunes or crowd-pleasers. They demand your attention, pulling you deep into their world of feedback, drones, and orchestral flourishes. And sure, it’s a little weird. A little intimidating. But it’s bold, it’s breathtaking, and it’s unlike anything else out there. At the end of the day, if you didn’t leave feeling like you’d just had your heartstrings and brain cells rearranged by alien forces, were you really even at a GY!BE show?

Images & Words: Angela Canavan

Friday night in Stirling. This ancient city has been a prominent backdrop to Scotland’s history, a witness to the rise and fall of many Kings and Queens. Tonight though, in the Albert Halls, nestled beside the castle, another type of Scottish royalty lay claim to the city.

 A small venue for Franz Ferdinand, Stirling’s Albert Halls provides the ideal setting for the band and fans to get a little closer. This short run of shows in lesser-played locations gives the band the opportunity to christen new material, including the bubbly and defiant Audacious, the lead single from newly-announced sixth LP “The Human Fear”. While these new songs don’t quite provoke the same response as classics like “Take Me Out,” the band continue to pour their energy into them and perform them as proudly as any of their hits.

 It would be remiss to describe Alex Kapranos plainly as a frontman; he’s a showman, an entertainer, and – chatting away with the audience you almost feel – an old pal. Twenty years on from Franz Ferdinand’s beloved debut, their hits still have the crowd bouncing and vying to out-sing the band themselves. Tonight, away from arena shows and festival headliners, there’s an understated confidence to the band, an assurance both in themselves as artists, and in the security of their own spot in Scottish history.

Words & Images: Elliot Hetherton

An isolated figure stands at the center of St Luke’s stage, clutching a microphone and singing deeply over the sounds of a synth keyboard.

Hawk captivates the crowd with his baritone vocals and direct eye contact during “JULIET AS EPITHET.” Three crashes of the cymbals lead into the next song, “MACHIAVELLI’S ROOM.” The bass and guitar players move in sync, swaying back and forth as Hawk takes the forefront, delivering the lyrics, “when you’re naked from the waist down.” This was one of the heavier songs of the set, featuring synthetic sounds, backing vocals, and guitar stabs during the outro. Hamish Hawk and his band aren’t shy about moving around on stage, creating an impressive stage presence throughout the set.

“BIG CAT TATTOOS” shifts to a more upbeat tempo, lifting the atmosphere in the room. During “I THINK YOU’D PREFER A FIRMER HAND,” Hawk presents jazz hands to the crowd.

“Glasgow, Glasgow, Glasgow. Oh yes. Hello… are we well? Oh, good. My name’s Hamish Hawk, we’re Hamish Hawk, and we’re just thrilled to be here. Thank you so much for coming.” The crowd cheers.

The band is a dynamic group with an incredible sense of rhythm, moving seamlessly from short intros into instant bangers. Their sound draws heavily from 80s influences, while incorporating the drama of modernity, creating a distinctive, fun, and unique musical experience.

Images & Words: Rose McEnroe

It’s a packed house tonight at the iconic Glasgow Barrowlands, and from the very first note, there’s a palpable sense of anticipation in the air. Kicking things off is Teesside duo Benefits, the perfect warm-up act for what’s to come.

Their stripped-back setup—a stark fusion of electronic beats and jagged, urgent guitar riffs—forms the backdrop for a vocalist who seems to channel every ounce of anger and frustration into each line. Their performance is raw, visceral, and utterly gripping, dripping with a kind of feral energy that feels almost too big for the stage, let alone the support slot. They’re a force to be reckoned with, and for those unfamiliar, their upcoming UK tour in October is an absolute must-see.

After the adrenaline-charged set from Benefits, the room swells with excitement as Arab Strap take to the stage. There’s a certain comfort to the way Aidan Moffat and Malcolm Middleton settle into the spotlight; it’s the ease of veterans who know exactly how to command the attention of a sold-out Barrowlands crowd.

Tonight, they’re showcasing tracks from their latest album, I’m Totally Fine With It 👍 Don’t Give a Fuck Anymore, released earlier this year. It’s a record that, much like their live show, blends moments of melancholy with bursts of dark humour and irreverence, delivered with the sardonic wit we’ve come to love and expect from Moffat.

Opening with Allatonceness, a sprawling, hypnotic number, Arab Strap immediately establish the duality that defines their sound: the slow-burning, moody atmospherics juxtaposed with Moffat’s biting, spoken-word delivery. As the set progresses, the energy never dips.

Moffat’s stage presence is as always – magnetic, his baritone weaving tales of everyday despair and fleeting joy, all while the band maintains a steady, undulating groove behind him. There’s always something happening on stage—Middleton’s intricate guitar work cutting through the gloom, the rhythm section locked in tight, keeping everything anchored.

Highlights from the set include the haunting Girls of the Summer, the shimmering melancholy of Strawberry Moon, and the acerbic bite of Drag Queen, each track showcasing the band’s ability to move fluidly between wistful introspection and searing, confrontational power. But it’s Fable of the Urban Fox that truly stands out—a devastating slow burn that builds to a cathartic crescendo, leaving the crowd spellbound.

After a short encore, Aidan and Malcolm return to the stage alone for a stripped-down performance of You’re Not There and the fan favourite The Shy Retirer. The intimacy of these songs, paired with the sparse arrangement, makes for a poignant contrast to the evening’s heavier moments. The rest of the band joins them for the finale, Soaps, a crowd-pleaser that sees the Barrowlands erupt in a joyous, raucous singalong.

There’s something undeniably special about Arab Strap live. The interplay of bleakness and humour, despair and euphoria, creates a dynamic that few bands can match. It’s that unique mix of dour Scottish wit and sweeping, cinematic soundscapes that keeps their audience—tonight, a sea of die-hard fans—coming back for more. As the final notes fade and the crowd filters out into the Glasgow night, you can’t help but feel that PEOPLE REALLY DO MAKE GLASGOW.

Photos : Rose McEnroe

Words: Angela Canavan & Rose McEnroe

Scottish national treasures “TEXAS” kickstart the heart of a mid September, Sunday night at Glasgow’s OVO Hydro as the band get together to preform “The Very Best Of” their entire catalogue of hits.

This live music extravaganza delivered an evening of pop rock, laughter and good spirit as front woman of your dreams Sharleen Spiteri engages the audience like no other with her interactive conversations with audience members – notably a comical moment from Sharleen as she sympathies with a visibly shorter woman in the audience, explaining she knows the feeling “been there! Let her up on your shoulders” she’s now directly speaking to the man beside the shorter woman.

The man must have looked reluctant to do such a thing and turned to the woman who was stood beside him. We quickly came to the understanding that the man has got absolutely no idea who the shorter woman is and has come to the concert with his wife “who’s this?… Oh that’s your wife!” laughter emerges from the audience as if we’re sat in the room watching a comedian. It’s okay Sharleen, your heart was in the right place.

The band not only look great, dressed like true 80s rockers in leather jackets, black denim and sparkling tailoring but also sound phenomenal, with light yet flexibly deep vocal tones, infused with breathy backing vocals and the subtle sounds of the drumming, bass and guitar working in conjunction to create the perfect sing along melodies the audience are clearly enthralled by. Stand out tracks included; “Black Eyed Boy”, “Summer Son” and “Inner Smile”.

The entire night was uplifting and TEXAS are a band that are a must see. 

Gossip open their set with ‘Listen Up!’, as if snapping their fingers in the face of the audience, commanding them exactly where to direct their attention (not that they need much encouragement).

That grip on the crowd is one that doesn’t slip throughout the night, as the setlist sees the indie-rockers give a flying tour of both their beloved back catalogue and their 2024 comeback LP Real Power, all received with enthusiasm by an adoring audience.

At times perhaps stop-and-start, the set is peppered with Beth Ditto’s offerings of jokes, anecdotes, and the odd attempt at a Scottish accent.

The whole evening feels like one big reunion between old friends, with bit the band and the audience clearly loving every minute of it.

While a twelve year gap between albums may leave some bands eager to prove themselves, Gossip come across as assured in themselves, and relaxed in their performance- well, at least as much as one can be while performing Standing In The Way Of Control.

Words & Photos: Elliot Hetherton

Sister Madds burst onto the King Tut’s stage to the euphoric sound of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, tearing into their set and immediately heightening the energy in the room.

For the duration of their set they keep that energy on a tight leash, doling out more and more to the audience with each song, solo, and singalong.

Having only released their first single Split Ends last year, Sister Madds have clearly built up a keen fanbase, out in force tonight in a packed, raucous room.

The band’s work infuses poppy melodies with heavier, rockier sounds, tied together by lead singer Maddie’s honest yet playful lyrics. Sister Madd’s set is unbelievably tight, each song building on the strength and buzz of the last while still leaving the audience pleading for more. By the end of the night everyone – not just the girls – did indeed get their fun. 

Words & Pictures: Elliot Hetherton

Sleater-Kinney’s return to SWG3 in Glasgow felt less like a rock concert and more like a time machine that transported us back to an era when music was about rebellion, identity, and the glorious mess of girlhood.

Watching Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker—who’ve been the heroines of riot grrrl since before the Spice Girls made “girl power” a household phrase—was like seeing the North Star on a stormy night. They’ve always been there, guiding those lost in the wilderness of the music industry, refusing to follow trends, instead setting their own.

The night opened with “Hell” from their latest sonic manifesto, Path of Wellness, a track that snarls and smirks in equal measure. It was quickly followed by “Needlessly Wild,” which showcased the band’s well-honed talent for blending chaos with melody, aggression with harmony. Sleater-Kinney is the ultimate girl group, not just because of the way they embody the power of female friendship, but because of how they command the stage with an effortless cool that’s the antithesis of today’s overproduced pop spectacles.

What’s striking about Sleater-Kinney—this current incarnation of the band—is how tight their set is, how flawlessly they play off each other, a kind of telepathic communication honed over decades. Brownstein’s guitar is a weapon, her stage presence a mixture of punk bravado and art-school intellect. Tucker’s voice, as always, is a force of nature, soaring and scowling, leading the charge. The band was backed by an ensemble of equally cool women, a sort of riot grrrl militia, ensuring that the sound was as dense and urgent as ever.

The set was a gargantuan trawl through their sizeable back catalogue, from the punchy immediacy of “Hurry on Home” to the defiant melancholy of “Good Thing” and the seismic rumble of “No Cities to Love.” There was a collective laugh from the audience when the band joked about “thanking you all for coming out to see us on the eve of the Oasis reunion tour,” a nod to both their sly sense of humor and the fact that, no, Sleater-Kinney never needed to be anyone but themselves to pack a venue.

As the night went on, the intensity ramped up with iconic fan favorites like “Jumpers,” “Say It Like You Mean It,” and the gut-punching “Quarter to Three.” These are songs that have become anthems not just of a movement, but of the lives of the women who’ve found themselves through the music, who’ve screamed these lyrics at a world that never quite knew what to do with them. Here, in Glasgow, that ethos of girlhood, that underpinning riot grrrl spirit, was alive and crackling in the air.

The band debuted “Turn It On,” a new track that had to be restarted after a slight timing hiccup, a moment that only endeared them further to the crowd. It was a reminder that even legends are human, and that’s what makes them so important. Perfection isn’t the goal; it’s the raw, unfiltered emotion that counts.

They closed the set with “Modern Girl” and “Untidy Creature,” both delivered with a fervor that suggested they might just burn the place down and dance in the ashes. But the crowd, electrified and unwilling to let go, demanded more. The encore was a triumphant trifecta: “The Centre Won’t Hold,” “Dig Me Out,” and “Entertain”—songs that encapsulate everything Sleater-Kinney has always stood for: resistance, solidarity, and the pure, unadulterated joy of making noise.

Sleater-Kinney doesn’t just perform; they remind us of what it means to be alive in a patriarchal world that often feels intent on pushing us down. And in a city like Glasgow, with its history of grit and resilience, that message couldn’t have felt more relevant—or more welcome.

Words: Angela Canavan

Pictures: Angela Canavan

Bandit Country plus guests pulled in a sizeable crowd to King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut despite indie darlings Sweaty Palms playing south of the river in celebration of 20yrs of making music. For TGB, this was the place to be, with a lineup so electric it could have powered the city grid. Topping the bill was Bandit Country, but before we get to them, let’s talk about the motley crew that set the tone for the evening.

First up was Curdle, an all-girl outfit that came out swinging—and when I say swinging, I mean that quite literally. Their bass player, visibly pregnant, was thumping out riffs so heavy they probably made the baby kick in time. It’s rare to see a band this raw and unapologetic, serving up a sound that was equal parts punk snarl and maternal fury. Who needs a babysitter when you’ve got a rock show? The sight of this band will have you rethinking your life choices—and maybe giving your mom a call to say thanks.

Next, we were treated to Guevara, a band that looked like they stepped out of a fever dream. The synth player was dressed as an Ent—yes, the tree creatures from Tolkien’s fevered imagination—and somehow, it worked. Yes, we know Snapped Ankles have already went there… but it’s fun. The music was a swirling vortex of synths and fuzzy guitars that seemed to defy gravity. We loved the chaos in the arrangements on Crimson Tide.

But the night truly belonged to Insider Trading. Edinburgh’s latest export came out caterwauling like their lives depended on it, and by the end of their set, they might have convinced us all that ours did too.

“Spice Girl” and “Clarity” were the kind of tracks that make you feel something deep in your bones, even if you’re not sure what that something is. It was raw, it was loud, and it was absolutely glorious. If you don’t already have them on your playlist, you’re doing life wrong.

Then came the main event: Bandit Country. They opened with “In Retrospect,” a track that slinks through the speakers like a thief in the night, with echoes of Interpol and Arab Strap swirling through the venue. Yet, just when you think you’ve got them figured out, they hit you with that unmistakable soaring echos of the Glasvegas ache—a sound so full of longing and frustration that you feel it like a punch to the gut. It’s the perfect introduction to a band that’s all about calling out the daily grind, the messiness of life, and doing it with all the fury of a tornado in a tin can.

The set rolled on with “Rapture” and “Vanish,” songs that had the crowd moshing like it was the end of days. And maybe it was—the end of days for anyone thinking they could just stand still at a Bandit Country gig. The frontman was a revelation, leaping from the stage to preach his deranged gospel from the floor, turning the audience into his congregation with tracks like “Nothing Inspires Me Anymore” and “Lake to the River.” It was less a performance and more an exorcism of every frustration, every disappointment, every moment of existential dread we’ve all ever felt.

They closed the night in fine form with “Kowalaski,” a track that hit like a final, satisfying blow in a brawl you knew you were never going to win, but damn it felt good to go down swinging. As the final notes echoed out, there was no question: Bandit Country had taken no prisoners and left nothing but sweat-soaked satisfaction in their wake.

Their latest EP is out now, and if you’ve got any sense, you’ll give it a listen. But be warned: after last night, your speakers might not be enough. Bandit Country is a band best experienced live, loud, and as unfiltered as they come.

Words: Angela Canavan

Photos: Angela Canavan

The Pixies rolled into Glasgow’s O2 Academy like a band with nothing left to prove, but plenty to remind us about. Right from the first feral chords of “Gouge Away,” the crowd was putty in their hands, whipped into a frenzy that would make a Glaswegian Saturday night look like tea with the Queen. Black Francis, as usual, had no interest in small talk—his mission was pure, primal sonic delivery, and boy, did the band deliver.

They served up an incredible set that was equal parts nostalgia trip and rock ‘n’ roll clinic, with deep cuts unearthed from the depths of their twisted back catalogue and no less than three cover versions sprinkled in for good measure. Not that anyone was complaining—when The Pixies decide to cover a song, they make it theirs, warping and twisting it until it’s less a tribute and more a resurrection.

Now, I’ve got to confess, I hopped on the Pixies train a bit late. It was “Where Is My Mind?” featured in Fight Club that pulled me in—something about the way Black Francis’s wails sounded like the ravings of a man teetering on the edge of sanity.

That voice was in top form tonight, alternately snarling, howling, and spewing out hyperbole like a deranged poet. The fact that the band didn’t pause between songs to exchange pleasantries with the audience wasn’t a letdown; if anything, it kept the intensity dialed up to eleven, with maybe a minor dip somewhere toward the middle of the marathon 2.5hr set.

They kicked off with “Wave of Mutilation”—and yes, they played it twice, with the UK Surf edit making a later appearance like an old friend crashing the party for one last round. Somewhere in the maelstrom of distortion and punk fury, they slipped in The Jesus and Mary Chain’s “Head On,” followed by the manic “Isla De Encanta,” each song pushing the crowd further towards ecstatic chaos.

As for personal highlights, the galaxy-spanning “All Over the World” felt like it could tear the roof off the place, while “Hey” and “Ana” offered a sort of twisted intimacy, the kind where you’re never sure if you’re supposed to sway along or check under your bed for monsters. When they dropped the live debut of “Motorola,” the audience collectively lost their minds—it was like watching a cult leader reveal his latest prophecy. From there, it was one hit after another: “Monkey Gone to Heaven” was a spiritual experience, “Is She Weird?” confirmed that yes, she definitely is, and “Debaser” along with “Here Comes Your Man” reminded everyone why the Pixies are still untouchable.

The cover of “In Heaven (Lady in the Radiator)” by Peter Ivers and David Lynch was a surreal curveball, fitting perfectly into the evening’s sense of warped reality. And then, with cruel precision, they wrapped it up with “Where Is My Mind?” and Neil Young’s “Winterlong.” No encore, just multiple bows to the audience. It was the perfect ending—a reminder that the Pixies don’t need to pander or drag things out. They came, they conquered, they left us in awe.

So here’s the bottom line: If you weren’t at the O2 Academy tonight, you missed a band still at the height of their powers, reasserting their place in rock’s pantheon. Tight as a drum, loud as hell, and cool as ever, The Pixies proved once again why they’re the stuff of legend.

Photos: Elliot Hetherton

Words: Angela Canavan