Sunshine, Censorship, and the Joyous Racket of the Righteous

By a miracle of climate chaos or perhaps just divine pity, Glasgow Green baked in an uncharacteristic, near-Biblical blaze of sunshine for Day One of TRNSMT—though the radiant glow was slightly dimmed by the dull thud of two notable absences. First came the news that Wunderhorse had pulled out of their set tomorrow, presumably because the sun was making their eyeliner sweat. But more controversially—and with the scent of censorship lingering heavily in the air—Kneecap were given the boot a month prior, not by the organisers, but by the stony hand of Police Scotland, who made it known that allowing the Irish rap trio to headline King Tut’s might just scupper the whole festival’s licensing.

It was a move straight out of the paranoid playbook of the 1980s—fear the youth, fear the Irish, fear the poetry. What next, banning Sylvia Plath?

But try as they might to snuff out the spirit of resistance, the Glasgow crowd would not be cowed. They showed up blazing—not just under the sun, but with politics stitched into their sleeves and wrapped around their shoulders. Irish flags mingled with Union Jacks (imagine that—something finally uniting us besides cheap digs at the Old Firm), and Palestinian flags flapped defiantly in the breeze, a banner of solidarity and the middle finger to polite silence.

Far from being a damp squib, the politically-charged atmosphere felt electric. Band after band turned their platforms into pulpits, encouraging the crowd to belt out chants of “Free Palestine!” with the same gusto normally reserved for Wonderwall at 2am. Who said music had lost its balls?

We began our day at the ever-treasured King Tut’s stage, where Arthur Hill was busy turning water into wine—metaphorically, of course, though I wouldn’t put it past someone to have vodka in a Capri-Sun pouch. With a smile as wide as the Clyde, he worked the crowd with singalong charmers like “John Wayne” and “Iced Coffee,” tossing out anecdotes and grins like sweets at a kid’s party. When he asked if any Lilys were in the crowd, and several screamed in response, he dedicated a song to them—a cheeky move that left the crowd beaming. His new tune, “Man in the Middle,” was the kind of thing that burrows into your chest and starts building a nest—catchy, warm, and entirely too good for TikTok fame.

Over on the main stage, Jamie Webster strutted out like a working-class preacher with a guitar instead of a Bible. Every word of “Days Unknown” and “Something in the Air” was met with fists in the sky and voices raised so loud you’d think Lennon and McCartney had come back from the dead for a duet. The Scottish sun kissed his face like a benediction, and by the time “Weekend in Paradise” hit, the entire crowd looked half-drunk on joy.

Back at King Tut’s, Good Neighbours proved they were more than just hype. They exploded onto the stage like a Mentos in a bottle of Irn-Bru. The duo of Oli Fox and Scott Verrill were charismatic whirlwinds, whipping the crowd into a frenzy with “Small Town” and their just-dropped track “Suburbs.” You’d think they were seasoned veterans, not newcomers—they closed with “Daisies” and the fans knew every word. One to watch? They’re already being watched.

Then came Schoolboy Q, California’s answer to a Glasgow kebab at 2am—unexpected, messy, but absolutely essential. He brought fire, sweat, and a DJ in a bucket hat that deserved his own headline. His set was like being slapped in the face by every bad decision you’ve ever made—and loving it. The crowd lapped it up tracks like; “Man of the Year” and “Collard Greens”.

The Royston Club came swaggering in like indie’s last great hope, and by God, they may just be. Their set was a full-body punch of jangly guitars and lyrical bite, peppered with unreleased bangers like “30/20” and “Curses.” They tore through their hits like lads on a sugar high, and by the time they closed with “52,” the King Tut’s stage was bouncing like a bouncy castle filled with lager.

Then came Wet Leg, who walked onstage like cult leaders dressed for a heavenly wedding. Rhian Teasdale’s voice cuts through like gossip at a christening, and the band delivered a sun-drenched sermon with “Catch These Fists,” “Angelica,” and the brilliant “Davina McCall.” It was indie-pop with a glint of murder in its eye—dangerous, divine, and utterly unmissable. I first saw them open for Inhaler across the road at the Barrowlands, and now they’re commanding thousands. Glory suits them.

Over on the BBC Introducing Stage, Bemz was the musical equivalent of a blacked-out Audi revving through Sauchiehall Street at 3am—slick, stylish, and unapologetically loud. Blending danceable beats with razor-sharp lyrics, he had the sizeable crowd in a trance by the second track. There’s a swagger to Bemz that feels earned. They didn’t ask for attention; they demanded it, and the crowd gave it up gladly dancing to stand out tracks; “Zidane” and “26”

Confidence Man: Disco Evangelists of the Apocalypse. To close King Tut’s, Confidence Man marched on like intergalactic missionaries of joy. Janet Planet and Sugar Bones were a caffeinated fever dream, blasting out “Now U Do,” “Firebreak,” and “Real Move Touch” with the swagger of Studio 54 meets Club Tropicana. This wasn’t a gig—it was an aerobics class for sinners. By the time “Holiday” hit, we were converted.

And then, to seal the day with a diamond-encrusted fist, came 50 Cent. He arrived like a muscle car roaring into a car park full of Corsa drivers—loud, brash, and entirely magnetic. “P.I.M.P,” “Disco Inferno,” and “Many Men” had the crowd throwing their arms around strangers, while “In Da Club” brought the kind of communal euphoria rarely seen outside of a pub quiz win.

TRNSMT Day One was a burning joy—literally and figuratively. Music that made us dance, lyrics that made us think, and a crowd that refused to be silenced. The spectre of Kneecap’s absence loomed large—but their spirit was alive and kicking in every chant, every flag, every raised voice.

Dear Police Scotland: when you try to silence protest, you only make it louder. When Kneecap do finally play Glasgow (Hydro 30.11.25) it won’t be a gig. It’ll be a reckoning.

And we’ll be there, singing at the top of our lungs, sun or no sun.

Words: Angela Canavan

Images: Angela Canavan

Marco Cornelli

The sun had been beating down for days and everywhere in Glasgow was hot… really hot, and tonight’s show at Oran Mor was undoubtedly one of the hottest tickets in town.

Goodbye Mr MacKenzie had been invited to play in celebration of the venue’s 21st anniversary of hosting music, and the gig was to be held in one of Scotland’s most beautiful venues – The Auditorium. The upper reaches of a converted church, with an iconic ceiling designed by Alasdair Gray. Such a beautiful backdrop for a show that had sold out months before.

The crowd, simmering with anticipation, breaks into a chorus of raucous approval as the band slowly take their positions and launch into a menacing version of ‘Hands of the Receiver.’ Martin, leading from the front, ever enigmatic, with arms outstretched, taking in the adulation or maybe giving thanks. Big John doing what he does best, delivering searing and at times supersonic guitar riffs. It is remarkable that the band is made up of all but one of the original band members, with Fin and Derek providing a pulsating, beating heart, and Rona, an almost era-defining layer of keyboards.

I first saw the band many, many years ago… possibly 1988, and their anthemic song Goodbye Mr Mackenzie has stayed with me ever since. Even after the band had split, I would find myself humming or singing that one line that hooks you in and doesn’t let go. I get the feeling that a lot of the people here tonight have also found themselves in a similar position.

Tonight wasn’t just about celebrating Oran Mor… it was also about celebrating a band and era of music that still resonates today. So many bands are being discovered or rediscovered, and it is down to many factors that beautiful nights like tonight can happen. I find myself at times reminiscing and at times spellbound by a band who seem stronger and more assured than ever. The on-stage addition of Jim Brady (Nanobots and Arrows Meet) and Tippi Hedron (The Hedrons) is a trump card move… adding additional voodoo and depth to an already all-consuming experience.

What an absolute scorcher of an evening – in every sense of the word. It was hotter than hell and the 17-song set was a joy to behold. Nights like tonight can be few and far between… a sensory and physical overload of joy. Drenched. Euphoric. Let’s go again.

Images: Chris Hogge

Words: Nick Tammer

Scarlett Loran opened tonight’s mass – a quintessentially online ingénue who looks like she’s been pulled straight from the algorithm’s imagination. Hailing from somewhere that feels like a Tumblr blog and sounds like the moon singing back to itself, she floated on stage with the kind of coy banter that walks the tightrope between indie darling and cosmic trickster.

Playing alongside The session keyboardist (who, by the way, met Scarlett Loran just hours earlier in a hotel lobby like some rom-com subplot). “This next one’s about the moon,” she told us, before admitting it was actually about her boyfriend. Suki Waterhouse would nod in approval. Standout tracks like “Tide” and “Silver Microscope” made it clear – she’s not just a pretty tweet, she’s a poet in 70’s bohemian threads.

But the main sermon tonight came from Stephen Wilson Jr. – a man who looks like he’s been carved from Kentucky oak and sings like he gargled gravel in the Garden of Gethsemane. I’ll admit, I walked into the Barrowlands tonight curious but unconvinced. Could this bourbon-soaked balladeer really translate his studio grit into something as raw and alive as Glasgow? Spoiler alert: yes. With the subtlety of a crowbar and the grace of gospel, he not only translated it – he set it on fire.

The set opened with “Preacher’s Kid” – a wild, grinning, full-band explosion of Southern gothic sincerity. The crowd roared his name like it was a war cry: “Stevie! Steeeeevie!” In that gloriously guttural Glaswegian way that makes you feel like you’re part of something ancient and tribal.

“Billy” came next, a song that feels like Neutral Milk Hotel took a road trip through Appalachia with a flask full of heartbreak and a notebook of unfinished poems. Wilson introduced it with a story – one of many – revealing a natural ease on stage that only comes from bleeding on small-town barroom floors for years. “Hillbilly,” he mused. “Where I’m from, it wasn’t a compliment. But let’s reclaim it.” It was part jovial banter with a new friend you’ve just bought a drink for at the bar, part sermon, part therapy – and the audience were the devout.

Then came “Patches” – “for anyone who has a hole in them… or a hole in their guitar,” he quipped with a crooked grin. And just like that, laughter and lump-in-the-throat living side-by-side. Gratitude, grief, acceptance – these weren’t just themes, they were liturgies.

His band – a ragtag ensemble of Americana Avengers – deserve their own mention; Scotty Murray – a lap steel whisperer who looked like he’d fallen out of a Fleetwood Mac tour van, Miles Burger on bass guitar and sitar-sorcerer straight off a Reddit forum for cosmic twang, and a drummer Julian Dorio on awho played like the ghost of Levon Helm had possessed him mid-gig.

“The Devil” was the song that started it all. Written at 3:30 a.m. after the death of his father, funded by a $333 life insurance cheque, it’s not just a track – it’s a resurrection. You could hear the cashing of grief into purpose in every note.

Later, “Father’s Son” turned the room into a shrine. Phones lit the air like votive candles. “I always introduce myself to strangers the same way, with my thesis which is ‘Hi, I’m Stephen Wilson Jr and I am my fathers son… My father passed away 6 years ago and I try to keep him alive through music” he said – and we believed him.

The kind of belief that makes you reach for your own memories and hold them close. With my own father’s anniversary looming, it hit like a freight train – but one driven by kindness and catharsis.

And then there were the covers. His take on “Stand By Me” wasn’t just a tribute, it was a total transfiguration. Imagine if Hozier and Chris Stapleton got drunk on empathy and decided to raise the spirit of Ben E. King for one more chorus. The crowd responded the only way Glaswegians know how: “Here we, here we, f*cking go! Steeeeveeee!”

His rendition of Something in the Way brought the ghost of Kurt Cobain to the ballroom – haunting, brittle, beautiful. Nirvana by way of Nashville, filtered through heartbreak and hope.

Then came the kiss-off love song for the skatepark romantics: “Year to Be Young 1994”. He told us he wrote it after meeting his girlfriend. “This is for anyone who’s ever gone teeth-first into a kiss,” he joked, and we howled because, let’s be honest, we’ve all been there.

The encore arrived reluctantly – the band didn’t want to leave, and we weren’t about to let them. They returned to foot-stamping adoration with “I’m a Song”, a meta anthem about being the art you make and surviving because of it. And finally, “Gary” – a track that plays like Bruce Springsteen sharing secrets with Father John Misty in a Waffle House at 2 a.m. It was wry, wounded, and weirdly joyful – a perfect closer.

As he left the stage, Stephen promised to return sooner next time. We believed him.

I came expecting a decent gig. I left feeling like I’d been to a wake and a wedding and a backwoods revival all at once. For a show built on grief, this was one of the most life-affirming nights I’ve experienced in years. In a world that often forgets how to feel, Stephen Wilson Jr. reminds us that music is still the best way we have to stitch ourselves back together – one bourbon-soaked ballad at a time.

Article: Angela Canavan

SWG3 has hosted many of my favourite bands but none have entered my heart as swiftly as the merry waltz that was Osees’ 2025 Glasgow stop. A headlong hurtle into the untamed future of rock and roll, powered by duelling drum kits and the unhinged howl of a man who sounds like he’s seen the end and decided to dance with it.

Opening act Container was a full on spectrum of effects pedals, glitchy midi input and analogue noise. The set reminded me of catching Peaches early in in her career but sans any lyrics and heapfuls of out and out noise.

The opener, “Withered Hand” (from 2015’s Mutilator Defeated At Last) skulked in on a riff like a wounded animal dreaming of Black Sabbath and Suicide’s lovechild. It was immediate: the band weren’t here to court you—they were here to conscript you. And I was first in line for the cult robes.

At the helm of this glorious sonic cult is John Dwyer—mad monk, ringmaster, and guitarist-as-shaman. His vocals swerved with chaotic grace from lullaby whispers to manic, jaw-snapping growls, like Bowie throwing punches in a haunted house. Every utterance teetered between nursery rhyme and nervous breakdown. His guitar—looped, loopier, and always feral—was less an instrument and more an interstellar lightning rod. Synth beside him like some relic from a lunar lab experiment. Noise sculpted as if with a Nobel-winning mind, bent on pure psychedelic mayhem.

Then came “Ticklish Warrior”, and the war drums kicked in. Dan Rincon and Paul Quattrone—the twin-engine rhythm section—do not play drums. They summon them. There’s a military precision in their madness, like two berserker generals hammering orders through the fog of sound. Their syncopated aggression in this track made the crowd bounce like jelly on a jet engine. You felt it in your chest cavity, in your sinuses, in your bloody DNA.

Tim Hellman, steady as a condemned man’s heartbeat, anchored the chaos with basslines as heavy as existential dread, while Tomas Dolas on synths and guitar swirled in and out like some trickster deity—delicate and devastating in the same breath.

By “The Daily Heavy,” Dwyer had completely dissolved into movement—leaping, kicking, spinning with the wild abandon of a B-movie kung-fu hero on a sugar high. This was not for the faint of heart or soft of shoe. This was primal, sweaty, unrepentant rock theatre.

And then, a surprise cover of “Final Solution” (yes, that Pere Ubu scorcher), reimagined like IDLES had picked up where Devo passed out. Frenetic, fractured, flammable. It bled post-punk energy into the concrete.

The late-set run—“Encrypted Bounce,” “Rogue Planet,” and “Web”—was a trifecta of unrelenting tension and glorious breakdown. The crowd? A maelstrom of limbs and liberation. With an veritable onslaught of bodies flying over the barrier during “Web” only to be bounced back into the audience by security seconds later. Someone shouted, “I AM WARRIOR!” and I swear to God the air changed temperature.

And then… “C.” A final track. Dwyer threw himself into the noise, bent his body like a human question mark, and unleashed a feedback storm that felt like it could level ten city blocks. It was over. We were ruined.

The Osees (OCS? Thee Oh Sees? Oh Sees? – what is a name to a beast that shifts its form with every moon?) are not a band. They are a musical shapeshifting hybrid, refusing to be static because they know the truth: stagnation is death. This tour, with its thunderclap rhythm section, effects pedal altar, and tightly honed chaos, is their most distilled form yet.

Article: Angela Canavan

If there’s one perk to concert photography, it’s the access to so many emerging and outstanding acts from across Scotland — and Dazed and Confused are surely one of them.

With a sound that evokes Kings of Leon or The Black Keys, they look and feel like they belong in a dive bar somewhere deep in Tennessee, rather than their hometown of Edinburgh. But under the lights of the iconic King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut — their debut appearance at the venue — the band felt right at home.

Frontman Callum O’Reilly, drummer Alfie Smith, bassist Archie Brewis, and guitarist Ruariadh Rattray each brought their own presence and personality to the stage, delivering a set that was both energetic and captivating.

As I waited for the show to begin, I watched the room fill with a mix of new faces and long-time fans. A couple of girls stopped to snap a photo of the band’s name written in pink chalk on the venue board. “I’m so proud of them,” one said. It’s clear these are just the first bricks in a much bigger following.

The setlist leaned into their recently released debut album, Rust, featuring tracks like “Snake Queen”, “Swamp Song”, and “Burn”, along with a teaser of new material like “Sacrificial Lamb”. It all fit seamlessly into their Americana-infused aesthetic — denim, cowboy hats, beers, and the road-trip rock soundtrack to a Route 66 daydream. And it works. For them, it feels natural.

What also works is the band’s chemistry — a real “band of brothers” energy. They set up their own gear, sold their own merch, and interacted with fans throughout the night. As I waited at the barrier, Archie, the bassist, came over, introduced himself, and thanked me for coming. That kind of openness is rare and refreshing.

Was there a single standout moment? Not quite — because the entire show felt like one solid, confident step forward. This was less a breakout and more a prelude to something bigger, and absolutely a band I’d recommend catching live the next time they roll through Glasgow.

I’ll definitely be there.

Article: Mona Montella

King Tut’s turned into a fever dream of feminine firepower at Girls Girls Girls, a night of live music and creative communion hosted by the ever-charismatic Riley Music, channelling her inner Graham Norton with razor wit and a bottomless glass of charm. Girls Girls Girls was reimagined for the King Tut’s stage by Ellen McEleney, Hannah Oman, and Caitlin Kurtto.

But beneath the laughs and glittering crowd was a deeply intentional mission: to connect creatives across the spectrum—photographers, performers, promoters, and dreamers—and to remind us all: you don’t have to play the boys’ game to win.

The night was split into two halves. The first halve was based around a panel discussion and the second half was an open mic style event where three up and coming performers had their chance to play on the infamous King Tut’s stage.

The heart of Girls Girls Girls beat hardest during the panel. This wasn’t just chit-chat—it was a masterclass in how to get in, stay in, and shake up the industry.

Emma Ross, a fiercely creative multitasker managing acts like LF Soundsystem and Lucia & the Best Boys, spoke with clarity and warmth about finding your niche—and holding it. She made being behind-the-scenes sound like the new rock star job.

Jenn Nimo Smith, head of press for SWG3 and founder of Electric Shores PR, laid down the real talk. She offered gold-dust insights on how to actually get noticed—no jargon, no fluff, just the kind of straight-up advice you wish you’d had ten years ago.

And then came Aarti Joshi, a coach, presenter, and marketing consultant with a voice like espresso and sunshine. She didn’t just uplift the room—she recharged it. Her message? Don’t give up. Make noise. Take space. It was the kind of speech that makes you sit up straighter and believe that maybe, just maybe, you’re not invisible after all.

After a quick turnaround the room was changed back into the gig venue we know and love.

First up was Sadie Fine, all the way from Nashville, brought an Americana glow to the stage with a voice like velvet dipped in bourbon. “Detox” was out highlight. Her songs teeter between vulnerability and steel. She sounds like a younger, steelier Kacey Musgraves with a soft twang and the kind of lyrics that stay with you long after the amp cuts.

Neave Marr brought that Glaswegian honesty wrapped in bedroom-pop production. She teased her upcoming EP—already drawing buzz online—with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing. Her track “It’s Cool I’m Fine” blends the edge of early Lorde with the softness of Phoebe Bridgers—aching and bright at once.

Then came Kenzie, joined by John on guitar—a duo that lit up the room with admittedly a much more stripped back version of their band Bottle Rockets we loved the track “Video Call.” Think PJ Harvey with emo and folk undercurrents: emotionally charged, slightly punky, always tender. Their closer, “Community Service,” was part confession, part anthem—the kind of song you want playing when the credits roll on your indie film.

The night ended with fun upbeat, bouncy electro tunes spun by DJ duo Scissor Salad.

As a woman working in photography and event promotion can often feel like the lone lens in a room (or photo pitt) full of boys club bravado—it felt radical to be in a space built by and for women and non-binary creatives.

Usually, I’m capturing someone else’s moment. At Girls Girls Girls, I felt more part of it. Just community, honesty, and ambition that didn’t come with an apology.

Girls Girls Girls is a movement in eyeliner and earworms. Riley’s hosting sparkles, the performances hit hard, and the panelists hand you the tools to make your own noise in a noisy world. Whether you’re a musician, photographer, designer, or someone still figuring it out, this is your invitation in.

If you’re looking to break into music, media, or marketing—and want to do it without shrinking yourself to fit someone else’s mold—Girls Girls Girls is where your next chapter begins.

Images: Mona Montella

Words: Angela Canavan

Since last Friday (the 6th of June), I’ve been listening to The Explorer, the new single released by Dora Jar. The song begins as an innocuous tune, which, after a couple of seconds, grabs your hand and draws you into a melancholic experience that is also full of hope. In The Explorer, Dora Jar’s vocals grow throughout the track and explode towards the end, bringing tears to your eyes and covering your whole body in goosebumps.

And just five days after its release, on the 10th of June 2025, there I was at St Luke’s in Glasgow for Dora Jar’s European Tour. The venue was already packed two hours before the main act, filled with fans taking photos of Dora in the hope of getting an autograph, many dressed as woodland fairies.

As a supporting act, Dora Jar brought with them Holdan Sutton, an indie artist from Los Angeles, who mesmerised St Luke’s with his “sad songs” (as described by Holdan himself during the set), accompanied by an acoustic guitar and incredible vocals.

But it was at 9pm that the venue truly came to life. Dora Jar appeared from the pulpit near the stage, opening with Timelapse from her album No Way To Relax When You Are On Fire, greeting the cheering crowd. She then jumped onto the stage, mesmerising the fans with her voice. Soon after, she began leaping all over the stage to the notes of She Loves Me, tossing her feathered jacket into the air and spinning and twirling around her band, kicking towards the lights.

Dora Jar carried the set with songs from her EPs, singles, and album. She looked completely at ease on stage, knowing exactly how and when to joke with the fans. It was clear she was having a great time—and wanted everyone around her to have one too. During Bumble Bee, one fan showed her two little crocheted bumble bees. For Puppet, she played with her band, dragging her guitarist first and then her bass player onto the floor, where they continued singing and playing for the entire song. And just before performing Lagoon, she brought Holdan Sutton back on stage for a magnificent duet where they danced and sang together.

Then she launched into The Explorer—and the venue erupted. Everyone in the crowd already knew the song and sang along to the very end of this beautiful tune.

Dora continued with hits like Ragdoll and Lucky, and returned for a much-needed encore with Behind The Curtain and No Way To Relax When You Are On Fire, during which the venue lit up with phones and bouncing fans.

I must admit, I never expected to have so much fun. I thought I’d find myself at a quiet gig—still good, obviously, but more mellow. I’ve been following Dora Jar since I missed her supporting Gracie Abrams last March at the OVO Hydro, and I’m convinced she’s on the path to something huge. Her latest single, along with Lucky, which also came out this year, is already a beautiful hint of what we can expect from her in the future.

Article : Marco Cornelli

Have you ever been in a car and then suddenly found yourself singing at the top of your voice as your favourite song comes on the radio? Somehow, the confines of the space allow you to forget that you are actually in public, and for a moment you exist without a care in the world and without any thought for those around you. The effect of seeing Waxahatchee live is not dissimilar… utterly engaging, hypnotic and intimate. You might well be surrounded by hundreds of people, but the eye-to-eye and heartfelt delivery of her songs stops you in your tracks, like a siren luring you in, drawing you closer. The enormity of Barrowlands is lost. The darkness forgotten as you tune in to the gritty, endless tales of a life lived – and at times endured.

The authenticity and sincerity of this artist may well be the reason that it is so easy to connect. Without gimmick, Katie Crutchfield AKA Waxahatchee is Alabama Country to the core, but she is almost punk in attitude. Everyone has a story to tell, and the universality of the themes presented must ring true to many attending tonight’s sold-out show. People are bewitched. Music isn’t, I suppose, something that you can actually touch, but you can feel it – physically and mentally… and that feeling can be profound.

Waxahatchee’s magnificent sixth album, Tigers Blood, is played in its entirety and interjected with past gems, most notably from the 2020 album Saint Cloud.

The first strains of Much Ado About Nothing and Right Back to It see the near-transfixed crowd erupt into grateful applause. These songs are huge, and they will no doubt grow to be milestones in Waxahatchee’s catalogue. At times, the vibe makes me think of Lucinda Williams, and at times Lone Justice-era Maria McKee. No-nonsense, straight-talking, shooting from the hip.

There is no yee-hawing or cowboy faux-antic box-ticking. Many touching moments and various dedications accent tonight’s performance, notably to a couple who had got married at Barrowlands a year before, and whose first dance had been to Waxahatchee.

This was a powerhouse, fire-in-the-blood performance by someone at the top of their game. Mesmerising, immersive, and over in the blink of an eye.

Words: Nick Tammer

Photo: Chris Hogge

Milange delivered a magnetic and emotionally charged performance at King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut in Glasgow, opening their set with what appeared to be new, unreleased songs—‘Front Row’ into ‘Night Keeper’, followed by ‘Greyhound’. From the very start, their theatrical energy and compelling presence captivated the crowd.

The band’s unique blend of spoken word elements and powerful, angsty lyrics cut deep, giving the performance a raw, expressive edge. A full, layered soundscape filled the venue, with violin, cello, and harp weaving through each track—adding striking depth and dramatic flair.

Highlights included the grungy guitar tones in ‘Man Like Me’, where gritty distortion clashed beautifully with the orchestral textures. The crowd was visibly entranced, held in rapt attention throughout. ‘Sing!’, a track from their EP released last year, was a clear favourite—eliciting an enthusiastic response.

The energy never dipped, with the band announcing they’ve been hard at work in the studio on new material, due out by the end of the year—something to look forward to, given the strength of tonight’s set. A standout guitar solo in the second-to-last track surged with intensity, building anticipation for the finale.

They closed with ‘On and On’, a dynamic piece that swung between sensual, atmospheric moments and explosive grungy punk choruses—evoking the layered ferocity of Deftones. A fitting end to a show that balanced emotion, artistry, and raw power with impressive finesse.

Article: Reanne McArthur

Who doesn’t need a blood-pumping BPM and bone-crushing bass that engulfs your body and teleports you to new dimensions in space and time? A hypnotic, euphoric frenzy of post-punk EDM—digitally modern, yet dripping with old-school familiarity—that triggers memories and causes involuntary movement in the body.

Sextile are back with a newfound maturity and clarity, wrapped in the shape of a killer fourth album. Yes, Please demonstrates a renewed confidence that draws influence from so many vital and fundamental dance pioneers… think Leftfield, The Chemical Brothers, and Hacienda-era Manchester. Fuse that with the snarl of Suicide and the shared modern Californian electro DNA of Automatic or System Exclusive, and you’ll have an idea. How such hard-hitting, darkly atmospheric music comes out of such a sunny part of the world is beyond me.

A simple scene of drums, keys and onstage swagger sees the total omission of guitars—leaving more room for onstage shenanigans. Almost like a boxing ring, Scaduto and Brady work the space as if bouncing off the ropes, pushing back and attacking with lyrics and fist pumps.

New songs feature heavily as the set oscillates and cowbells at an unrelenting pace, ducking and diving with an at times almost primordial, back-to-basics music: pulsating drums, modern-day mantras and infectious electro sounds. Imagine what The Cramps did for the old-school rock and roll ethic and aesthetic. No compromise… pure… unfiltered.

Everyone will have a favourite memory of tonight—but without a doubt, Resist and Women Respond to Bass are now seared into my mind. Never to be forgotten.

There weren’t meant to be any encores… there ended up being two.

I am thankful Sextile reformed and finally returned, and I am grateful for nights like tonight.

Words: NICK TAMMER

Photos: Chris Hogge