The unrelenting sun returns to Sunday’sTRNSMT, but the music switches it up, bringing a distinctly more country vibe to the occasion.
Returning for their third innings, The Lathums kick things off as Alex Moore takes to the stage with a cowboy hat and a grin. Typically a high-energy set, the bright mid-afternoon sun gives everything a more relaxed, almost lounge-music atmosphere, although Alex still gives the crowd 10/10 for enthusiasm.
After previously singing with Paul Heaton, Rianne Downey returns to TRNSMT with a solo set as we go full alt-country on the King Tut’s stage. She is twee and endearing, and the country theme is going down well with the crowd today. “We are going to get really Scottish now,” she says as she kicks off with a cover of Mountain Thyme (Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go).
“Quirky indie pop” act Dictator are up on the BBC Introducing stage. Lead singer Michael starts the set leaning into the camera and giving the middle finger, before immediately apologising to the nice photographer on the other end. They are energetic, tight, and have attracted a good number of superfans — it feels like the future bodes well for Dictator.
Back to the King Tut’s stage, Nina Nesbitt resumes the more relaxed folky vibe. A singer-songwriter with a powerful, hypnotising voice, she introduced each song with its origin story — from women supporting each other in bathrooms to being introverted. It was an emotional and personal set.
Brooke Combe was next up with her return to TRNSMT after the successful release of Dancing at the Edge of the World. The crowd very much appreciated her injection of “Glasgow Green” into the lyrics of the eponymous song.
Next, we head to the main stage to catch Myles Smith. “You might not know me yet, but by the end of the set I hope you do,” said the beaming singer — an earnest underestimation of how popular he already was, with the crowd singing along to the whole set of pure, uplifting folk-pop.
Shed Seven closed out the Tut’s stage, marking one of the more surprising recent comebacks. They jumped between the old classics and singles from their various recently released number-one albums, and unfamiliar listeners would have had a hard time telling them apart. Rick Witter was on top form, and there was something special and intimate about the Britpop set.
As the sun began to set, Snow Patrol came to close out the main stage. Gary Lightbody spoke about the band’s time in Glasgow (after forming in Dundee), and playing TRNSMT felt like coming home. The set was nostalgia on crack. Gary didn’t even need to finish the first line of Chasing Cars before every single person in the crowd took over singing duties. And yet, as much as Chasing Cars stole the limelight, it felt like almost every song was one of those forgotten punch-to-the-gut tracks that transported you back 20 years.
There is a band whose drummer is as cool as Ringo, yet as animated as Moon the Loon, and whose singer is the living reincarnation of Lux Interior, Ronnie Spector, and Poison Ivy rolled into one. Say hello to The Fabulous Courettes.
Hot off the heels of a debut Rebellion Festival performance, they arrive in the promised land for a 48-hour whirlwind of shows.
Guitar and arms raised high, The Courettes look out to the crowd, utterly still and silent. Demanding attention, inviting you to connect. The fuse is then lit and the night takes off with a humdinger of an opener, ‘You Woo Me.’
Authentic, take-no-prisoners garage punk meets the Wall of Sound. With an infectious and explosive performance that hits 100mph in the blink of an eye, this larger-than-life duo rip the place apart and hypnotise all those watching.
Despite the size of both MacArts and Slay, you get the feeling you could be in a juke joint in 1930s Mississippi… walls and bodies shaking to the beat that takes over every emotion, eyes fixated on the unfolding spectacle that seems never to end.
Hard to resist and impossible to ignore, The Courettes are an utterly engaging, riotous rock and roll machine. Flavia: a Brazilian firecracker, guitar-wielding ball of energy and crowd-surfing whirlwind of addictive fun. Martin: the Danish pounding heart of every song, who whistles and harmonises, cusses and sings, saluting his best mates and enjoying every sweat-drenched moment.
This ever-touring duo are as pure and hardcore as it gets. As dedicated to their chosen life as The Cramps were to theirs. You are drawn in, mesmerised from beginning to end. This is real. This is it. The 16-song set is over before you know it, leaving you to consider the brilliance of what you have just witnessed.
The next time I have a cocktail, I shall mix one part Brazilian cachaça with one part Danish akvavit and shake—not stir, shake! I will down it in one and salute the band that creates such heartfelt joy you wish their gigs were on constant repeat.
Nights like these remind you why you love music—maybe even life itself.
The Thumpasaurus live show in 2025 is less a gig and more a fever-dream carnival where funk, theatre, and existential comedy smash together into something gloriously unclassifiable. From the moment Lucas Tamaren bounds on stage—looking uncannily like a young Jack Nicholson, complete with the same unnerving grin and magnetic swagger—the band throw the audience into a world where rules don’t apply. There is short skit in the style of Star Wars (from The Book of Thump) where Lucas dressed in full Sith Lord costume lambasts the tech industry and giant vampiric corporations such as Live Nation.
“Today is the Greatest Day” fires the opening salvo. What should sound like militaristic instructions (left, right, stop!) instead collapses into a wobbling, joyous groove. Drummer Henry Was hits with the precision of a jazz tactician but the abandon of a man who’s already two pints deep, and bassist Logan Kane locks in with him, laying down a bassline so cocky it feels like the floor is strutting underneath you. Together they make a rhythm section that controls not just the beat, but the room’s pulse.
It quickly becomes clear that Thumpasaurus thrive on irreverence. Songs like “Alien” “I want to borrow this body because I like to party!” and “I Can’t Regulate” tumble out like half-remembered mantras from a night out that got completely out of hand. Lucas, ever the sardonic ringleader, delivers his vocals somewhere between stand-up set and soul sermon, spitting lines that are part invitation to dance, part parody of self-help sloganeering.
The humour doesn’t stay in the lyrics. Logan’s birthday turns into a centrepiece, with the band dragging the entire crowd into a rendition of “Happy Birthday” mid-set. Rather than stalling the energy, the bit becomes a communal exorcism of awkwardness—the audience howling the tune with a glee that only this band could summon. Later, a run of crowd-baiting numbers—“What’s a Guy Like Me Doing with a Girl Like You?,” and “I’m Single,” and Lucas’s mock-flirtatious crowd work— where he turns the gig into a dating show where he brings an audience member up in stage and basically tries to auction him off to the gathered crowd, where the saxophone flirts harder than anyone on stage. Henry Solomon’s horn lines are cheeky, louche, and surprisingly tender, swooping between punchline and heartbreak.
But Thumpasaurus aren’t just clowns in Hot Chip era boiler suits. The emotional centre of the night comes with a song dedicated to Lucas’s late grandfather, Frank, for whom their first gig years ago was played. Paul Cornish stretches the intro on keys into something cinematic and aching, a perfect canvas for Solomon’s sax to sob against.
Phones light up in place of candles, lighters sway, and the absurdist funk band suddenly reveal a depth of feeling that makes the comedy sharper, not softer. “Death such a strange idea… how’s the dancing in the afterlife?” Lucas asks, and the question hangs heavy in the air, before being answered in the only way they know how: through rhythm.
The contrast is part of what makes the band so unique. One minute they’re existential, the next they’re throwing down “Strutting,” their runaway viral hit, with lashings of cowbell and piano crescendos so theatrical they sound like Gershwin re-written for TikTok that veers into decadent synth-disco, Paul Cornish’s keys sashaying like a drag queen on glitter-fuelled autopilot. It’s playful, it’s camp, but it never tips into parody—the groove is simply too strong.
And then there’s the visuals. Ben Benjamin turns what could have been a funk revue into performance art, splattering the screen with PowerPoint-era graphics, meme stills, and cartoon detritus that look like they were designed by a caffeinated teenager. It shouldn’t work, but it does—fitting perfectly with the band’s ethos of silliness wrapped around serious musicianship. When “Space Barn” unfolds with this slideshow as backdrop, the audience isn’t just watching a gig; they’re trapped in a cosmic sketch show where the punchline is always dance.
By the end, tapped out and slightly dazed, the crowd is united in the band’s simple creed: “Let’s work it out through dance.” Thumpasaurus don’t just play funk, they weaponise it—turning grief into groove, jokes into joy, and chaos into communion. It’s absurd, it’s profound, and it might be the only show this year where you’ll cry, laugh, and grind your hips in the same five minutes.
Such a beautiful slow-burner of a gig, offering a musical groove and laid-back attack, fused with socio-political commentary that is almost poetry. Punk poetry.
The songs hot-dog between verse and prose that is as direct, revolutionary and complex as it is ambiguous and everyday. The majority of a Glasgow crowd may have no real understanding of life in a complex city like Washington DC, but then again, maybe you can also assume that there will be an empathy and understanding of individual struggle and community fragility that is universal, especially in this day and age.
D.C.-based Des Demonas have a sound that is difficult to pinpoint… and I shan’t try, but suffice to say that the sound waves created by the guitar and Farfisa-esque organ veer somewhere between The Doors and the Stooges via MC5. Younger members of the crowd may think Fontaines D.C. But then again, this may be totally off target. Their sound is so complex and formed from many illustrious individual parts and experiences that it combines and explodes into a night to behold.
It’s hard to put into words how important bands like Des Demonas are just now.
Slow-rapped, almost deadpan lyrics fused to an infectious musical swagger is an irresistible blend. You need to pay attention to fully grasp the message. Each lyric feels lived and endured, as opposed to imagined and made up.
Song titles such as The South Will Never Rise Again and Fascist Discotheque hint at the serious content lurking behind the infectious beat. Patti Smith does this so well, and yet this may be even better.
Tonight’s venue is a dark labyrinth in which I have had some of my best musical revelations. Thanks to promoters like Under the Wires and Pop Mutations, many unmissable US acts have been brought to Scotland to play to enthusiastic, appreciative, disbelieving audiences. Tonight is no exception.
Puppy Teeth launched the evening like a fairytale with fangs—lead singer Anna, a pint-sized Emma Watson reborn with a guitar. Her thick accent turned every lyric in “Blood” into an ethereal whisper, like confessions behind a veil of distortion. The effect was unmistakable: soft violence in audio form, a kiss that bleeds and leaves you trembling. Their opening salvo set the tone—whooping crowd, nervous heart, and a sense that innocence had just become something slightly dangerous.
Edinburgh’s own National Playboys strutted onstage in kilts, part ironic student-union chaos, part tartan-clad punk with messages scrawled across calves that said, “Fuck the Tories” looking like a subversive tattoo more than a slogan.
What they delivered was visceral: Joy Division–deep mood with the drunken, snorting impatience of early Idles. Kilts, snarls, and the kind of raw swagger that makes you want to both vomit and dance and dance we did.
Stand out tracks for us where; “Red Spy”, “Black Gloves” and “Fragments”
There was theatrics aplenty weather that was the frontman singing from the crush barrier, middle of the mosh pit or instead they were asking the audience to hunker down and then dance in an explosion of pogoing – the band had the audience suitably primed for action.
Then came Apologies, the sonic equivalent of saying sorry—before launching into your worst heartbreak. Their set was full of regret-soaked guitars and hi-hat-lit choruses. Jagged, bittersweet, and emotionally dangerous—you felt like someone greased the stage with tears. Thier songs felt like half-forgotten memories from the Emo era – somwhere between sorrow and revelation, with restraint weaponized as much as charm.
At last, the headliners: PVC—a five-piece on the cusp of trimming to a quartet when Forrest takes her final bow before heading back to academia.
Opening tonight’s set with “Hastle Castle” their lo-fi garage punk is instantly charming.
“Red Stars” and “Cara’s Song” followed.
Forrest’s exit from the band came midway through, delivering the fourth song “Black Seeds” which sees the soon to be Dr. Take centre stage singing a farewell masquerading as a sing-along. The group, still a quintet but soon to be four, didn’t lose any bite—just got sharper.
Their single “Lucky Kennels” was released on 25 July 2025, just a couple of weeks ago, serves as their penultimate song. It’s heartbreak set to tambourine and four-part harmonies—like collapsing on a park bench under neon lights. Their set was a siren song of big bangles, sheer blouses, pixie haircuts, and dreamy guitar loops—equal parts saccharine and post-punk grit.
They closed the night with “The Pit”, and by then the audience were chanting “PVC” so hard it felt like a benediction—or a curse you’d gladly never seen coming.
It’s been said many times already but, my god, how hot it was on the second day of TRNSMT at Glasgow Green!
It’s not often Scotland is graced with such weather – which might also mean climate change is trying its hardest to reach us, and on those three TRNSMT days it really went for it.
Even after Friday 11th July’s warm opener, Saturday was scorching. In the media area, the air was thick with the smell of sunscreen being reapplied over and over, only to be sweated off again. Outside, folk were already “taps aff” in front of the main stage before midday.
Right – enough about the weather.
Saturday had been billed as the best day on paper, despite Police Scotland’s disgraceful removal of Kneecap from the line-up over some supposed “fear of riots” and similar nonsense. But honestly – what is music if it doesn’t provoke emotion and commotion? What are words if they don’t move something inside us? And what is art if it doesn’t create both communities and frictions within them?
Despite Kneecap’s absence, plenty of artists stepped in to fill the void and brought to the stage some of the words that were missing. Several appeared with Palestinian flags and spoke in support of the Palestinian people. Out in the crowd, flags and banners calling for freedom were impossible to miss. So, checkmate, authorities – you can’t silence us.
My second day began with Lucia & The Best Boys opening the main stage. It was my second time seeing them this year, and as always, they were a pleasure.
We then headed to the King Tut’s stage for Chloe Quisha, whose dramatic pop drew the crowd in with witty, tongue-in-cheek songs like Sex, Drugs & Exist.
Next, Alessi Rose lit up the main stage with her catchy pop melodies, full of self-awareness and relatable moments. My highlight was Everything Anything.
From there, it was back to King Tut’s for the grunge-punk of Hot Wax. It felt like coming home – the band tore up the stage under the blazing sun with Drop, Rip It Out, and One More Reason (from their debut album Hot Shock). They’ve definitely earned a main stage slot next time.
We then wandered to the King Tut’s stage for Brògeal – a Scottish band from Falkirk blending folk with punk energy. Tracks like Girl From NYC and Tuesday Paper Club (the title track of their upcoming debut album) had the crowd bouncing.
A quick interruption – on the way back to the main stage for Sigrid’s set, we spotted Fontaines D.C. stepping out of their vans. Known for their love of poetry and literature, I wasn’t expecting to see one of them carrying Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. For those unfamiliar, it’s a hefty slab of metafiction exploring addiction, toxic love, mental health, politics, sport, and media influence. For me, it’s like an old friend – so seeing it in the hands of someone who makes such incredible music was oddly moving. I imagined the band flanked by the ghosts of the Incandenza brothers, Don Gately, and Madame Psychosis.
Back to business: Sigrid brought a burst of pure fun to the main stage, bounding about and getting the crowd involved with tracks like Don’t Kill My Vibe and Jellyfish.
She was followed by Miles Kane, stepping in to replace Wunderhorse. His leopard-print guitar set and matching jacket didn’t last long in the heat – the jacket was ditched almost instantly.
Over at King Tut’s, Irish folk trio Amble charmed the audience with their harmonies. Then it was time for one of the day’s most anticipated moments – Inhaler. From the first note, the Dublin rockers had Glasgow Green in full eruption. Elijah Hewson’s chilled yet electric presence had fans singing every word.
More Irish representation came from Biig Piig, who turned the King Tut’s stage into a dance floor, leaping into the crowd without missing a note.
Another interruption – Saturday had a secret set. A “Miss Rock ‘n’ Roll” was scheduled for a small stage in the late afternoon, but everyone already had their suspicions. Sure enough, it was Amy Macdonald. For me, she’s the same Amy who used to buy birthday cakes in the shop where I worked – but for everyone else, she’s a star. She packed a sweltering tent with tracks from her new album Is This What You’ve Been Waiting For?, ahead of her European tour in November.
We cooled down a little at the BBC Introducing stage with Chloe Slater, whose indie-rock and alt-pop tracks (Sucker, Tiny Screen) skewered modern life. Then it was James Marriott’s turn – and his beaming smile (which never left his face) might have been even more infectious than his music.
And then – the moment of the day. Entering the photo pit to the sound of In the Modern World felt almost transcendental. Chills, goosebumps – the lot. Even in the heatwave, I felt cold. The crowd screamed every lyric, tears mixing with sweat. Fontaines D.C. didn’t just play; they hypnotised. I barely remember taking any photos – my camera was overheating, my head was somewhere else entirely. There was a message for a free Palestine, there was despair and hope, there was Grian Chatten’s deep voice in the air, and somewhere among it all, the ghosts of Infinite Jest’s characters. It felt sacred.
It took the raw energy of Glasgow’s own Vlure to keep the bar high, blasting the BBC Introducing stage with their post-punk and electronic fury – a set that deserved a much bigger stage.
By the time Biffy Clyro closed the main stage and Underworld wrapped up the day with the Scottish anthem Born Slippy, we photographers were shattered. I honestly can’t remember much of those last two sets or how I even made it home – but, man, what a day. I was broken the next morning heading back for TRNSMT’s final day, but it was worth every second.
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.
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.
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.
SWG3 has hosted many of my favourite bands but none have entered my heart as swiftly as the merry waltz that was Osees’ 2025Glasgow 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.
The Golden Bough 