On 28th February, The Vaccines took to the stage at the O2 Academy in Glasgow to kick off their ‘What Did You Expect?’ tour, celebrating 15 years since the release of their 2011 debut album ‘What Did You Expect From The Vaccines?’.
With support from Chicago-based Brigitte Calls Me Baby, the night got off to a stylish start. The band, all dressed in black, had a cool, understated stage presence that mixed generations of musical influence.
When The Vaccines finally took their positions in the orange glow of their huge lit up backdrop, it wasn’t a moment too soon. This was a crowd who had grown up with the band, their albums providing a soundtrack to the ups and downs of teenage years into adulthood. From the opening bars of the first song, cheers erupted around the venue, a pattern that would repeat itself throughout the set. Glasgow clearly came ready to party, and the band was primed and ready to oblige.
Frontman Justin Young quickly established an easy rapport with the crowd. At one point he reflected on the band’s early days, recalling a show at Glasgow pub, the Captain’s Rest, in November 2010. Back then, he said, they could never have imagined that fifteen years later they’d be performing at the Academy. The audience responded with a huge cheer; a shared moment between band and fans who have grown up together.
The first half of the show had The Vaccines playing their debut album in its entirety. Song after song triggered waves of nostalgia. The opening riff of each track seemed to spark another roar, with the crowd singing along and steadily ramping up the atmosphere.
Highlights came thick and fast. When ‘If You Wanna’ kicked off, pure joy spread across the floor. In the song that followed, ‘Family Friend”Young held his microphone outwards and let the audience take over, their voices carrying the chorus without any help from Justin.
After the main set, the band left the stage to a storm of stamping, clapping and whistling. The demand for more was unmistakable, and when they returned the cheer that greeted them was deafening.
Young joked that starting a tour in Glasgow might be a mistake, “The worst thing about playing Glasgow first is that it’s all downhill from here.” The audience lapped it up (And for the record, he’s 100% correct – no city can beat a Glasgow crowd!).
He also revealed that the band had recently finished writing their seventh album. There was one particular song that had been rehearsed for the first time the previous day, and Glasgow would be the first audience to hear it. ‘Ten Years Too Far‘ clearly got the fans’ approval, and if their reaction was anything to go by, the new album will go down a storm.
Fifteen years after that tiny Glasgow gig, The Vaccines proved they still know exactly how to put on a show. With their talent and collective chemistry, as well as their loyal fans, the next fifteen years are shaping up to be just as exciting as the last.
The SEC Armadillo looks like the sort of building that might hatch if you left a pile of silver hubcaps alone too long. A gleaming, alien mollusc on the banks of the Clyde. And inside it tonight stands a man who, to some of us, might as well be responsible for inventing the nervous system itself: David Byrne.
I should probably explain how I got here, spiritually speaking…
Long before the Armadillo, before polite theatre seating and tasteful stage lighting, there were sticky-floored clubs where your shoes tried to escape your feet like prisoners tunnelling out of Alcatraz. My baptism into Talking Heads happened in those murky temples of indie sweat — most memorably Funhouse at Barfly (God rest its soul) back in the very early noughties, when the DJ’s job description was essentially “play Psycho Killer and watch the dancefloor convulse.”
And convulse it did.
Psycho Killer was my personal call to arms — or legs, at least. I’d dance to it like a malfunctioning robot: shoulders frozen, limbs jerking about as if I’d been assembled from spare Ikea parts and cheap lager. Around me were the usual indie club fauna: art students, eyeliner casualties, men who looked like they’d been crying into their Smiths records. But when that bassline kicked in, we were all temporarily united in twitchy funk.
From there the descent was inevitable. The back catalogue opened up like a particularly stylish rabbit hole. Soon I was devouring everything — the jittery paranoia, the grooves that sounded like they’d been smuggled out of a science lab.
The real tipping point came when I saw Stop Making Sense at Glasgow Film Theatre. Watching Byrne expand from lone nervous nerd in a big suit into a full-blown prophet of rhythm was like witnessing evolution in real time. After that, I was hooked. Completely.
I’d actually had the privilege of photographing Byrne before — the last time being when he played the Royal Concert Hall during the 2013 tour for Love This Giant, his glorious brass-heavy collaboration with St.Vincent. That show was its own kind of controlled chaos: Byrne and Annie Clark bouncing off each other like two art-school geniuses who’d discovered funk and decided to weaponise it.
So when Byrne walks out onto the stage at the Armadillo tonight — boilersuit immaculate, energy slightly mischievous — I have the strange, slightly embarrassing sensation that I’m standing in the presence of a god. Not one of those thunderbolt-chucking Greek ones, mind you. More like the patron saint of anxious dancing and intellectual groove.
The evening begins gently enough with Heaven, Byrne easing us into the set like a genial host guiding you through a particularly clever dinner party. The songs tumble out in a beautifully curated sequence — And She Was,Houses in Motion, (Nothing But) Flowers — each greeted like an old friend who’s aged suspiciously well.
Visually, it’s a knockout. Dressed in effortlessly cool electric-blue boiler suits, Byrne and his dancing troupe manoeuvre around the stage with the fluid precision of a troupe who’ve clearly rehearsed somewhere between a modern dance studio and a particularly funky laboratory. The genius of the staging is that everyone carries their own instruments, allowing them to strut the full width of the stage like a parade of rhythm scientists.
Guitars and basses hang from harnesses, snare drums are slung marching-band style, tambourines and hand percussion flash through the choreography, while keyboards, melodicas and portable synth rigs pop up like strange electronic wildlife. At various points you spot a trumpet, a trombone, auxiliary percussion and a clutch of rhythm gadgets that look like they’ve been borrowed from a particularly experimental school music cupboard.
The result is movement — constant, joyful movement. No one is rooted to the spot like a traditional band. They roam, dance, pivot, glide. The whole show breathes.
But the real joy is Byrne himself: part raconteur, part professor, part slightly eccentric uncle who once tried to explain postmodernism using fridge magnets.
At one point he launches into a story about being born in Dumbarton, which — in the grand scheme of mythology — is probably the least rock-star origin story imaginable. Not New York, not London. Dumbarton. Just up the road from Overtoun Bridge.
Yes, that bridge.
The haunted one.
The one where — as Byrne cheerfully reminds us — over fifty dogs have apparently hurled themselves into the void, as if seized by some unseen spectral command to embrace the afterlife. It’s not often that a pop icon casually segues from funk grooves into canine paranormal tragedy, but Byrne does it with such warmth that the story feels less like a ghost tale and more like a warm hug from a very clever, slightly spooky friend.
Good to know that David Byrne and I share a taste for the macabre.
Between songs, huge immersive visuals bloom across the stage — swirling graphics, photographs, fragments of memory. At one point Byrne shows pictures of his own flat during lockdown, talking about how home became a sanctuary when the outside world briefly turned into a dystopian theme park.
And suddenly it clicks.
Home.
It’s everywhere in the setlist if you think about it. This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) – my personal favourite , My Apartment is my Friend, Everybody’s Coming to My House — songs that circle around belonging, space, and the strange intimacy of the places we inhabit.
Even Once in a Lifetime, when it arrives, still feels like the ultimate existential house inspection: Well… how did I get here?
The crowd, by this point, are completely besotted.
When Psycho Killer finally drops, the Armadillo transforms into the world’s most polite nervous breakdown. Thousands of Glaswegians attempt Byrne-style choreography with varying levels of success. Somewhere inside me, the ghost of that early-noughties club kid reappears — still dancing like a robot penned in at my seat, still convinced this is the best song ever written about the joys of mild psychosis.
Then comes the glorious closing run: Life During Wartime, Once in a Lifetime, and an encore featuring Burning Down the House — which detonates like the world’s most intelligent fireworks display.
By the end, Byrne bows with the modesty of someone who seems genuinely surprised that thousands of people have turned up to celebrate his strange, brilliant brain.
Walking out into the Glasgow night, the Clyde glinting nearby, it strikes me that Byrne has always done something remarkable. He took anxiety, alienation, awkwardness — all the things most of us try desperately to hide — and turned them into groove.
Into joy.
Into community.
And somewhere deep in the Armadillo tonight, among the ghosts of dancing robots and haunted dogs from Dumbarton, it felt like home.
A sold out gig at King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut on 27th February proved that Glasgow five-piece Sister Madds’ rise has been gathering serious momentum since their 2025 SAMA award nomination. The release of their debut EP, ‘Are You Hungry?‘ on the same date made this headline gig doubly celebratory.
Kicking things off was alternative rockers Alcatraz who attracted a sizeable crowd, their popularity no doubt boosted by their win in the Tenement Trail x Belladrum Talent Search 2025. Their grungy sound was driven by powerful vocals and tight playing on the guitar, bass and drums. The band looked the part too, with shades of tartan and leopard print echoing the punk influence in their music. By the end of their set Eleanor, the singer, was practically in the crowd herself, her entrancing vocals on final song, ‘Nowhere Man‘, leaving the audience well and truly warmed up for what was to come.
Next up was Roller Disco Death Party, a duo that shifted the energy sharply toward electronic territory. With Amelia on the drums and Neal driving thick electronic beats on the synth, their set pulsed between pounding rhythms and more chilled moments. As they finished, the crowd was noticeably sweatier and anticipation for the headliners was building.
When Sister Madds finally took the stage, the response was immediate. Fierce and full of energy, the band delivered a set that drove the crowd wild. Their stage presence was undeniable, with frontwoman Maddie commanding the room from the outset. The band is well known on the Scottish live music circuit and their experience shone through in their performance.
Midway through the set, the pace shifted with ‘Summer Blues‘. Introduced as being a special song to Maddie, it created a moment of calm in the chaos as the crowd slowed down, their phone torches held aloft and glowing above them.
‘Split Ends‘ ramped up the energy again; after joking that some people in the audience needed a haircut (and noting that the guitarist’s maw is a hairdresser), Maddie charged straight into the crowd, security scrambling to manage the trailing mic cable as fans surged around her.
The chaos continued for ‘601‘ when the crowd were encouraged to crouch down before jumping up and going crazy.
As the night was coming to an end, the band refused to slow down as proven by the guitarist crowd surfing to the delight of the sweaty masses. He later said he fell on his arse and the audience saved him… #notallheroeswearcapes
The band ended the night with a cover of, ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun‘ which had the entire room singing along to the Cyndi Lauper classic. It was a euphoric finale to a triumphant evening for Sister Madds.
Psychedelic Porn Crumpets returned to SWG3Galvanisers with a set that was loud, relentless and packed with fan favourites from across their ever-growing colourful catalogue.
After their iconic dramatic Italian Opera “performance” by their tiny turtle mascot Rodney, they wasted no time getting started, opening strong with “Bills Mandolin” before launching into “Salsa Verde” from their newest album Pogo Rodeo, released in October last year. From the first few minutes it was clear the pace wouldn’t drop and it didn’t. The energy in the room was immediate, with crowd surfers appearing by the second song as the Glasgow audience matched the band’s intensity.
The Aussie Perth psych-rockers show no signs of slowing down creatively. Having released two albums last year alone — Pogo Rodeo and Carpe Diem, Moonman — and nearly one record every year since 2016, they seem to have a never-ending source of inspiration. That prolific output gives their live shows a dynamic edge, jumping between eras without missing a beat.
A major highlight of the night was “Found God In A Tomato” from their debut album High Visceral Pt. 1. The fan favourite took centre of the set, its sprawling, hypnotic sections drawing huge cheers and offering one of the most immersive moments of the evening.
Tracks like “HOT! HEAT! WOW! HOT!” and “Hymn For A Droid” kept the momentum high, the band locked in tight while the crowd surged and sang along. At one point it was mentioned that Glasgow crowds are always among the best on tour, something that felt undeniably true given the reception. It could also explain why they always make sure to grace the city with a visit.
They closed the main set with “Another Incarnation” from Carpe Diem, Moonman, ending on a powerful note before returning for an encore. The final stretch being “Terminus, The Creator,” “Incubator (V2000),” and “Cubensis Lenses” made sure no one left disappointed, wrapping up the 90 minute show that was high energy from start to finish.
Never doubt the ancestors – our musical forefathers were alive and well and clearly behind the decks.
Because when Fatboy Slim — born Norman Cook — rolled into the Barrowland Ballroom on the first of three sold-out nights of his Acid Ballroom tour, it felt less like a gig and more like a pagan rite conducted under a glitterball. Glasgow’s most beloved ballroom became a secular cathedral to bass, and 2,000 Glaswegians turned up ready to testify.
Cook, the Brighton beach-bum who’s been headlining festivals since half the crowd were in buggies (and before the other half were born), has always understood something the chin-strokers miss: dance music isn’t escapism, it’s evangelism. From Rio to Reykjavik, he’s flung beats across borders like confetti at a shotgun wedding. Technique — that muscular, piston-pumping hybrid of house, big beat and techno — was always about unity through velocity. On a freezing Thursday in Glasgow, it felt as revolutionary as ever.
He opened like a man who knows he owns the room — fog machines coughing out smoke, visuals snapping and fizzing behind him. Credit to the visual sorcerers — long-time collaborator Flat-e. Yes, some of it had that slightly AI-generated fever dream sheen, but in a room fuelled by strobe lights and serotonin, who’s checking the brushstrokes?
Each night on this tour boasts a different support, and tonight it was LoveFoxy — a lithe, high-octane warm-up whose set skimmed from acid house to cheeky electro edits, priming the Barras faithful like a glitter cannon being loaded. By the time Cook bounded on, the room was already simmering.
“Hi, my name is…”
The crowd: “FUNK SOUL BROTHER!”
And just like that, “The Rockafeller Skank” detonated. The Barrowlands floor — which has seen more historic sweat than a heavyweight’s gym towel — began to bounce in unison. If tectonic plates could grin, they’d look like this.
There are theatrical stunts, of course. This is Fatboy Slim, not a man hiding behind a laptop like a timid IT consultant at a wedding disco. At one point he coaxed 2,000 Glaswegian punters to sit down en masse before springing up for “Praise You” — a mass act of daft devotion that felt like performance art curated by Ned Kelly after three Red Stripes.
“I See You Baby” slinked in, shimmying its way through a teasing mash-up that nodded to David Byrne’s art-school twitch and the sleek, adrenalised remix instincts of Soulwax. It shouldn’t have worked. It absolutely did. Cook’s genius has always been this: he treats genres like distant cousins at a wedding and forces them into the same photo booth.
“Put Your Hands Up in the Air!” Is mixed in with a jungle leaning beat, and suddenly the room was a 1994 pirate radio flashback — junglists, indie kids, techno heads, office workers and wide-eyed teenagers all punching the same damp Glasgow air. Technique was born in the margins, but it’s always belonged to everyone.
“Eat, Sleep, Rave, Repeat” landed like a manifesto rather than a mere track. Then — because subtlety is for cowards — he lobbed in a delirious blend of “Mr Brightside” and “Born Slippy”, a union of indie disco angst and stadium-sized rave euphoria that could have curdled milk but instead turned the Barras into the happiest place on earth…
Through it all, Cook grinned like a benevolent trickster uncle who’s spiked the punch but promises you’ll thank him later. He brought Ibiza to the ballroom — not the VIP-lanyard version, but the democratic, sand-in-your-trainers spirit of it. No velvet ropes. No hierarchy. Just basslines acting as social glue.
And that’s the thing about Fatboy Slim. For three decades he’s been the pied piper of the post-tribal age, proving that dance music can dissolve class, creed, age and postcode into a single, euphoric organism. All ages were here — silver-haired ravers who remember the Hacienda, fresh-faced kids discovering the drop for the first time — united by four-to-the-floor and the promise of transcendence.
With “Funk Soul Brother” reprised like a victorious curtain call, the Barras didn’t miss a beat. Not one. The floor shook, the lights flared, and Glasgow — glorious, gallus Glasgow — reminded the rest of Britain that when it comes to communal joy, nobody does it better.
The ancestors delivered.
And Norman Cook, cult evangelist of the big beat, simply pressed play on their prophecy.
On a cold but dry February evening, fans welcomed the return of La Dispute to SWG3, with a long but patient queue arriving early doors. They eagerly filled the TV Studio, turning up in force for the two support acts, ‘PIJN’ and ‘Vs Self’.
Their new album, No One Was Driving the Car, focuses on relevant topics about the current state of the environment we are all living in and experiencing, exploring the looming apocalypse made worse by the advancement of technology. It was also partly inspired by the 2017 psychological thriller First Reformed.
La Dispute started the night as if you were listening to their new album from the beginning, with the first two songs being ‘I Shaved My Head’, followed by ‘Man with Hands and Ankles Bound’. This was received positively by the crowd, with cheers ringing out at the first beat.
The set contained some fan favourites from their ever-popular 2011 album Wildlife, including ‘The Most Beautiful Bitter Fruit’, with a highlight being ‘King Park’. The grief-ridden lyrics were felt deeply by the crowd as they sang along: “Can I still get into heaven if I kill myself…”.
They couldn’t play a set without including ‘Andria’ from mine — and many others’ — favourite album, Somewhere at the Bottom of the River Between Vega and Altair.
Frontman Jordan Dreyer gave it his all from the start, using all the space available on stage to jump back and forth, even climbing onto the bass drum at one point. This energy reverberated through the crowd, with many people crowd-surfing over the barrier. At one point between songs, he addressed the audience, speaking about the importance of inclusivity, being kinder to one another, and also “pushing back these fucking fascists”. This riled the crowd up, giving way to chants of “Free, free Palestine” and the Glasgow classic, “Here we, here we, here we fucking go!”.
They finished with the topical ‘No One Was Driving the Car’, the album’s title track. The song is about an article Dreyer read in which a driverless Tesla crashed, causing fatal damage — an odd event that highlights the lack of control we have in our own lives amidst advancing technology.
Overall, it was an affirming and enjoyable night, with the topical themes of La Dispute forever reminding us of the world around us.
Last Thursday at King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, Glasgow’s beloved sweatbox of broken dreams and brilliant noise, Die Spitz proved that hype is only irritating when it’s undeserved.
Founded in 2022, Die Spitz — Ava Schrobilgen (guitar/vocals), Ellie Livingston (guitar/vocals), Kate Halter (bass), and Chloe De St. Aubin (drums/vocals) — have made a name for themselves on pure, unfiltered volatility.
What started as childhood friends making a racket in Austin has mutated into one of the city’s most feral exports, their live shows defined by a weaponised wall of sound. Making noise together has evolved into one of Austin’s most vital live acts. Now firmly embedded in the city’s music scene, Die Spitz have pushed far beyond Texas state lines, joining national tours alongside kindred spirits such as Amyl and the Sniffers, Sleater-Kinney, and OFF!, proving their particular brand of volatility travels very well indeed.
At King Tut’s, that reputation arrived ahead of them like a storm warning. The sold out venue was packed to the rafters with notably, a few of the cities own finest musicians in attendance.
They opened without ceremony — straight into the jagged pulse of “I Hate When GIRLS Die” and “MonkeySong”— and suddenly the room felt two sizes too small. Sonically, they sit somewhere between the humid heft of Deftones and the serrated snarl of The Distillers, with flashes of Hole’s scorched-lip glamour and the confrontational stomp of modern punk’s brattier revivalists. But comparisons only get you so far; Die Spitz sound less like revivalists and more like they’ve mugged the past for parts and rebuilt it louder.
Up front, Ava Schrobilgen and Ellie Livingston share guitar and vocal duties like co-conspirators. Ava plays with a kind of controlled aggression — riffs that swing like a wrecking ball in comfy trainers — while Ellie’s guitar lines slice and shimmer, adding a wiry tension that keeps everything teetering deliciously on the brink. When their voices collide, it’s not harmony in the Sunday-best sense; it’s harmony like two sirens going off at once — urgent, thrilling, impossible to ignore.
On bass, Kate Halter is the band’s gravitational pull. She doesn’t just hold down the low end; she stalks it. Her tone is thick, muscular, faintly menacing — the kind that vibrates up through your ribs and sets up camp there. If the guitars are the fire, Kate is the heat that lingers after.
And then there’s Chloe De St. Aubin, part engine room, part instigator. From behind the kit she plays like she’s trying to outrun something — all pounding toms and snapping snare — but on the fifth track, “My Hot Piss,” she flipped the script entirely. Climbing out from the drums to take lead vocals, she left the kit momentarily in someone else’s hands and prowled the stage, voice raw and unvarnished. It wasn’t a gimmick; it was a gear change. The song took on a new, almost unhinged energy, as if the band had collectively decided to drive faster just to see what would happen.
Standout cuts came thick and fast. “American Porn” was all bile and brilliance, spat out with a grin that suggested both disgust and delight. “Down On It” swaggered with a loose-hipped confidence, while “Punishers” coiled and snapped, its dynamics stretching and recoiling like a muscle about to punch. Mid-set, a growled aside — “Fuck ICE, this shit is real, our people are being taken” — sliced through the distortion, a reminder that beneath the chaos there’s conviction. And that conviction is spreading solidarity – better we stand united. It’s a sentiment that is met with rapturous applause from the Glaswegian crowd.
By the time they barrelled into “Pop Punk Anthem,” baiting the crowd with a sarcastic “I wanna hear you shout ‘woop, woop!’”, the audience had surrendered happily. It was pop punk put through a shredder — hooks intact, edges sharpened. Think the punch of Amyl and the Sniffers with the bruised melodicism of Japanese Voyeur, all delivered with the communal snarl of a band that actually like each other enough to share the mic — and the mayhem.
The encore kicked off with “Hair of the Dog,” and the crowd erupted as the Ava stormed back onto the stage—this time dramatically crab-crawling across the floor, grinning wildly as the band launched into the riff. Part performance art, part house-party meltdown. It felt less like a gig’s tidy conclusion and more like the night had simply boiled over. It was chaotic, theatrical, and completely on brand.
They closed the night with their breakout lead single, “Through Yourself to the Sword,” from their debut album Something to Consume—a powerful finale that had the entire venue singing along, ending the show on a triumphant, unforgettable high.
In an era where too much guitar music feels algorithm-approved and emotionally focus-grouped, Die Spitz are thrillingly unhousebroken. Raised on the righteous noise of their forebears but unwilling to be museum pieces, they play like they’ve got something to prove — or maybe just something to purge.
From the moment I entered the BarrowlandBallroom, it was clear that Kaiser Chiefs are completely unafraid of making fun of themselves. The merch stand was stocked with slightly self-deprecating and hilarious Jurassic Park-themed T-shirts, and the band were introduced on stage by a similarly themed speech thanking cloning technology for bringing their debut album Employment back to life — the very album they’re playing track by track on this tour.
Perhaps it’s easier to poke fun at your age when it’s really a celebration of a long-standing career. After more than 20 years in the business, if you can still sell out tours with ease, give loyal fans a rocking night out, and maintain high energy while playing an entire LP plus additional tracks, comparing yourself to a “dinosaur” doesn’t sound so bad. If you age well, ageing isn’t bad at all.
The band are riding the wave of anniversary tours, where long-standing acts joyfully celebrate the records that made them famous. Similarly, The Vaccines are bringing What Did You Expect from The Vaccines? back to the stage later this month. The protagonist of this tour is Employment, the LP that introduced Kaiser Chiefs to the world — and to the charts — and gave us some of their most iconic tracks: “Everyday I Love You Less and Less”, “Modern Way” and “I Predict a Riot”. There is something extraordinary about watching a band be celebrated by their most loyal fans, who sing along to these songs with the same passion they had when they were first released.
But don’t get me wrong — the crowd was incredibly diverse in age, proving that quality music truly transcends generations. This was my second time seeing Kaiser Chiefs live, after accidentally crossing paths with them at a festival in Belgium. Once again, they brought electrifying energy and pure fun to a night out.
I first came across LA LOM while scrolling on Instagram. They stood out from the usual digital noise; the nostalgic sound and warm vintage aesthetic of their videos felt like I had discovered snippets from a lost Technicolor film. When I saw they were making their Glasgow debut at The Art School, I knew I had to be there.
So, on Wednesday 18th February 2026, the LA-based trio arrived for the final show of their “Euro Winter Tour” to deliver their signature blend of Mexican boleros and Peruvian chicha.
The set kicked off with the upbeat “Café Tropical”, instantly setting the tone for the night. From there, they slid straight into the hypnotic rhythms of “Lucia”, and then on to the surfy twang of “Angels Point”. Three tunes in and the Glasgow crowd were fully on board as the band moved through more of their Latin-inspired back catalogue, with “Alvarado”, “Alacrán” and “Figueroa” among the favourites.
It’s worth mentioning that there has been a notable surge in the popularity of instrumental bands lately, with groups like Khruangbin and Glass Beams carving out a space for music that doesn’t need words to connect with people. LA LOM have quickly proven they belong in the same bracket, offering that same transportive quality that makes this instrumental revival feel so fresh to modern audiences.
Musically, the night was a total masterclass. Zac Sokolow’s guitar work is top-tier, navigating the fretboard with ease and effortlessly moving between surf-rock riffs and cumbia rhythms. He’s backed up by Jake Faulkner on bass and Nicholas Baker on drums and percussion, who provide a steady yet energetic rhythm section that keeps the whole thing together.
The night reached its peak when the support act, Sam Shackleton, stepped back on to the stage to join the trio for a two-song cameo.
Now a fusion of Scottish folk and Latin grooves, the four musicians performed the traditional folk song “Cuckoo”. However, it was their second song — a rendition of American folk legend Woody Guthrie’s “All You Fascists (Bound to Lose)” — where the room’s energy noticeably shifted.
The defiant lyrics, sung over LA LOM’s Latin rhythms, made Guthrie’s song feel more relevant than ever in these turbulent times. There was a palpable sense of solidarity as the song ended to raucous applause — proof that music is a universal language that can bridge cultures and transcend borders.
If you ever get the chance to see them, don’t miss out; whether you’re a fan of Latin-inspired music or surf guitar tones, their live show is something you need to experience to truly understand the hype.
Before Toronto’s heartbreak Olympians took to the stage, Ireland’s own Dea Matrona primed the room with a set that felt like a shot of Bushmills chased with a Marshall stack. The Belfast band deal in riffs you could hang a coat on — thick, bluesy, gloriously retro without ever slipping into cosplay. Their harmonies have that familial tightness money can’t buy, and their guitars snarl and shimmer in equal measure. If The Beaches are the glittering afterparty, Dea Matrona are the smoky bar beforehand: all grit under the nails and choruses built for battered Converse and bad decisions. By the time they left the stage, the Barrowland was properly warmed — engines revved, pints sunk, hearts primed for demolition.
There are bands who play gigs and there are bands who stage emotional coups. The Beaches do the latter. Glasgow’s beloved holy ground, the Barrowland Ballroom, has seen saints, sinners and the second coming of several messiahs, but tonight it gets four Toronto women turning pop into both a weapon and a warm hug.
The Beaches have a thing for Scotland — former lovers, tales of T in the Park, Tennents, tattoos and the odd Highland Coo stuffed animal along for the ride, glimpsed through the hangover haze of a day off. It’s mutual. From the off, this is less gig, more group therapy with better lighting.
They open, fittingly, with “Last Girls at the Party” — less a song, more a manifesto. It struts in on a riff that feels like the sonic equivalent of reapplying mascara in the toilets and deciding, actually, you’re staying out. Glasgow obliges instantly. This is the sound of “girl dinner” in action: chaotic, communal, faintly feral.
Without pausing for breath, they slide into “Touch Myself” — bratty, bold, played with a wink rather than a nudge — before “Me & Me” sharpens the mood. The latter lands like a mirror held uncomfortably close: self-sabotage dressed up as a singalong. Already, you can tell this band understand dynamics the way master chefs understand salt. Too little and it’s bland. Too much and it’s inedible. The Beaches season perfectly.
At the centre is Jordan Miller (vocals/bass), roaming the stage like a gloriously wild banshee in a swampy black dress. She twirls so ferociously it’s a wonder she doesn’t career directly into the pit — but that brinkmanship is the point. Miller sings like she’s clawing back something owed, her voice equal parts sugar and switchblade.
Her sister Kylie Miller (lead guitar) brings the bite — she may look like a cherubic indie pixie but she plays as if she’s been touring since the 70’s.
Leandra Earl (keys/guitar) is all sharp lines and ice-cool poise, at one point resembling Trinity from The Matrix with better hooks, she adds shimmer and sheen, her synths turning songs into neon confessionals, while Eliza Enman-McDaniel (drums) hits like she’s settling scores for every woman who’s ever been told to calm down.
Mid-set comes the emotional sucker punch: a cover of “Silver Springs” by Fleetwood Mac. Introduced with a nod to a BBC session and a breakup that required serious Stevie-level witchcraft to survive, it’s less homage, more possession. Jordan doesn’t so much sing it as launch it skyward. When she spits the final refrain, you can practically see spectral exes evaporating in the stage lights. Somewhere, the ghost of Laurel Canyon nods approvingly.
Later, “Everything Is Boring” turns ennui into ecstasy — proof that apathy, when set to the right hook, becomes transcendence. And then the run-in begins.
“Edge of the Earth” arrives like open-road cinema: wide, yearning, built for arms-aloft communion. “Takes One to Know One” follows, its self-awareness worn like a badge of honour rather than a scarlet letter. Then comes “Blame Brett” — a pop grenade lobbed with a grin. Half a bottle of wine, one traumatising ex and an entire ballroom ready to chant his name like a pantomime villain. It is petty. It is perfect.
For the encore, they deliver the glittering kiss-off “I Wore You Better”, before closing on “Sorry for Your Loss” — dedicated with a sly, sympathetic nod: “Glasgow, will you do us one last honour and sing with us?” The Barrowland obliges, a real-life lighter held aloft, voices colliding in a chorus that feels half wake, half rebirth.
And just when you think it’s over, they reprise “Last Girls at the Party” — bringing the whole thing full circle. Because that’s the trick The Beaches pull off so effortlessly: they make chaos feel choreographed, heartbreak feel athletic, pop feel like a political act.
Bangles meets Breeders. Stevie Nicks with a group chat. Shower beers with stadium-sized hooks.
In lesser hands, it would be messy. In theirs, it’s magnificent.
The Golden Bough 