The Golden Bough

There is something quite otherworldly stepping into Summerhall’s main beer garden area where instantly artists and patrons are mingling with each other laughing over beer and pizza. It’s a niche vibe for a micro festival and it works incredibly well in the hodgepodge remnants of the old surgical school.

First up we head to the Main Hall where Linzi Clark, hailing from Edinburgh, unveils her set like an old Polaroid dissolving at the edges—her voice a gelid cascade of theatrical rustle and cello-polish, soaked in Kate Bush drama but with a tender, modern Americana undercurrent. When she conjured “Woot Woo,” the lone word looping in the vaulted space felt like some half-remembered lullaby suddenly lodged in your ear for eternity, the evening’s unofficial anthem of spectral heartbreak.

At Queen’s Hall, South London’s Honeyglaze turned the packed auditorium inside-out with lo-fi reverie and math-rock pulse, anchoring their sound in haiku-minimalism and post-punk scrawl. Their trio—Anouska Sokolow, Tim Curtis, Yuri Shibuichi—construct melodies that wobble like dominoes of emotion, melodic yet fractured, echoing English Teacher’s absurdity through a warped fun-house mirror. When their track “Pretty Girls” unfurled, that neon-tinged hook slithered through the crowd like honey laced with cyanide.

In the claustrophobic electro-scent of Summerhall’s Dissection Room, Crocodiles—San Diego’s murky psych-surf envoys—surfaced jagged, caramel-coated feedback that sounded like The Jesus and Mary Chain tripping on sun-bleached lounger cushions, closing the set with their raucous Plastic Bertrand cover in an act both mocking and affectionate. “Mirrors,” drove a sense of warped nostalgia-soft serve that never quits your ear.

Heartworms followed at Queen’s Hall, the audience packed out the former church, conjuring a set that sounded like a haunted boarding school cassette recorder run through a ghost-factory—drum machines pulsating through spectral synth fog, the closer arriving like the last boss in a 90s video game—unsettling but utterly hypnotic. Not to mention some of the coolest playing of a theremin we’ve ever witnessed utterly spectacular. This combined with the spontaneous shadow dancing made for quite a dreamy show our favourite track was, “Jacked”

Swiss Portrait, rooted in Edinburgh, trod onto Summerhall’s Main Hall stage one member short—fresh from a baby’s birthing suite—but still managed to burn with the precision of barn-clockwork, each note wound tight and exact, even under duress; their simplicity felt defiant, like minimalism pushing back against chaos. With whimsical simplicity they held the crowd in the palms of their hands with each note. “Cassette” was our favourite track.

Over in the Dissection Room, Do Nothing appeared fifteen minutes late on stage after struggling to get their vocals amped up to the desired levels and rightly so as bands playing previously at times came across as barely audible. As if waiting for their moment to align with the room’s humidity, then unleashed a powerful set em yes with gritty new tracks like “Stars” and “Act Natural,” two new-wave shards polished until they gleamed like neon constellations reflected in rain-slick cobbles, affirming that standing your ground sometimes breeds brilliance.

Getdown Services— burst on stage and firmly planted in the Queen’s Hall psyche—ushered in a (in the words of our friend” a “Butlins-style romp through some DMA’s sound at The Hacienda,” and the image nails it: plastered-bang-on-acid house riffs meet psych-pop swirl. Satire at its best tracks like; “Dog Dribble” it sounds like graffiti-bright, sticky-floored joy.

Then Deadletter exploded the night into fragments—frontman Zac Lawrence hurled himself shirt-bare into the crowd as though publicly jettisoning shame, turning the set into sweaty performance-art feral grandeur, like someone rewiring glam-rock with industrial sledgehammers. We’ve had our eyes on these North Yorkshire buys for some time but this performance is by far one of our standouts of the day. Tracks like “Mere Mortal” and “Madge’s Declaration” are strung out epistles on modern life and the grit of everyday grind.

Twenty minutes later, we forced our way into Sneaky Pete’s for Glasgow’s own Cowboy Hunters, a two-piece punk dynamo (Megan Pollock and Desmond Johnston) raised on snark, slash-pop wrath, and pub-riot momentum. Their most-streamed Spotify thumper “Mating Calls” felt like a sideways punch—fiery, hilarious, impossible to shake—and when they launched into it live, the packed room convulsed with primal glee.

Finally, La Sécurité closed us out at The Mash House with a French-tinged hush that felt like drifting into a jazz-noir reverie. They carried off continental cool like a whispered poem in velvet night, their understated elegance the perfect punctuation to a day that swaggered, stumbled, and burned brightest when it was most beautifully askew.

As the echoes of the Edinburgh Psych Festival fade and we head for the train back to Glasgow what lingers is not just the music but the reminder of how vital independent venues like Summerhall are to the cultural fabric of the city. These spaces do more than host gigs—they nurture creativity, take risks on emerging artists, and give independent bands the chance to find new audiences. In an era where grassroots venues face increasing pressure, their role in sustaining scenes like this is not only invaluable but essential to keeping music vibrant, diverse, and alive.

Article: Angela Canavan @ zombiefang_

LA Sunshine Punk at its best.

Milk teeth have been shed and it is obvious that since recording their last album, The Linda Lindas have matured into a West Coast Punk phenomenon with razor-sharp teeth. A real take-no-prisoners live act that can mix it with the greatest on earth.

As diminutive as they may be, their presence is huge. Catchy, almost familiar songs, mixed with a frenetic energy and breathless banter, unite to create an uplifting, seamless feeling of joy.

Apart from coming on stage to the strains of Ozzy Osbourne they perform without fanfare or fairy tale backdrops. The Linda Lindas are an endless, authentic, kinetic ball of infectious energy.

They are cool and relaxed, humble and inquisitive, and not afraid to laugh at themselves. There is an obvious paradox between the band and the content of the songs and their titles, but isn’t that the nature of growing up? The mind-bending transition from teen to adult. All In My Head, Racist Sexist Boy, Growing Up and set opener No Obligation are the greatest examples of this.

It is possibly down to the shared vocals and lack of an absolute front person that makes the continual vocal exchanges between the band and the audience so personable. It is incredibly difficult not to join in. Yes, it’s true that Glasgow is in the vicinity of Spain … if you are going that way … and to Americans it may seem ‘just down the road!’ The novelty of rain to The Linda Lindas makes everyone laugh, and the laughter continues when someone has to explain that the chant ‘Here We F’ing Go’ is a term of ultimate affection and not the opposite.

The Linda Lindas are without doubt The Go-Go’s, The Runaways, Paramore, Rage Against the Machine and Motörhead rolled into one explosive unit – and that’s a good thing. The floor in Tut’s bounced tonight … more than I have ever felt Barrowlands bounce … much more!

It is impossible to know what the future holds for them. They chat fondly about songs only five years old, and to hear OH! live was an absolute highlight. The band already has so much experience under their belts and yet they are only in their mid-teens. It is obvious they are having the time of their lives, and we were lucky to be a part of that tonight.

Exuberance, beauty and positivity personified.

They are not brilliant because of their age or gender.

They just are brilliant. They got The Beat.

Words: Nick Tamer

Photos: Chris Hogge

Sofia Isella doesn’t so much enter a room as she colonises it — like Boudica with better eyeliner and a microphone instead of a chariot. At SWG3 in Glasgow, her first Scottish headline show felt less like a debut and more like a declaration: the kind of night that makes you believe you’ll be bragging in ten years about seeing her “back when she was still playing clubs.”

She began with “Hot Gum”, a pop sucker-punch that fizzes like a mouthful of sherbet and bites like broken glass. It’s the sort of song that makes the walls sweat, and the crowd screamed as though it were already a greatest hit. Later, when she returned to it for the encore — literally swallowed by her audience, singing fully submerged in their arms — it was transformed from a playful opener into a victory lap, a ritual re-birth.

Isella knows when to strip everything back. “Josephine” arrived in an almost-whisper, a cowboy hat and guitar perched like props from another century. The hush she conjured felt borrowed from folk clubs long gone, but with a distinctly modern twitch — Lana Del Rey if she weren’t addicted to irony, Cat Power if she’d grown up scrolling rather than chain-smoking.

That quiet was shattered by “Dogs Diner”, snarling and sleazy, her voice oscillating between coo and curse.

By the time she slid to the piano for an unreleased ballad, drawn from the darker waters of “Numbers 31:17–18”, had her piano, wringing beauty out of Biblical carnage. It was the sort of moment that reminded me of early Tori Amos — but if Amos had been raised on TikTok, Roe v. Wade rage and a diet of feminist zines.

Isella doesn’t tiptoe around politics; she confessed that, as a teenager, she was told to stay quiet to avoid “dividing an audience.” Then Roe was overturned, and she realised silence was complicity. Cue a generation-defining battle hymn whispered by 500 Glaswegians as though in a single conspiratorial breath. She mined biblical carnage for something fragile and furious, her voice arcing from pin-drop to possession.

She’s still new enough to blush about asking fans to follow her on Instagram — “I added people to invite them to my first shows” — but already adored with the kind of feverish devotion you’d expect for a Beatle, or at least a Bieber. From the front rows came banshee screams and posters begging her to fling so much as a T-shirt their way; if Sofia spat out her chewing gum mid-set, there’d be a riot to catch it.

And then, chaos: “Crowd Caffeine”, a song as manic as its title suggests, Isella used a Bugs Bunny metaphor to instruct the crowd how high she wanted the m to sing the chorus. “Louder!” she ordered, orchestrating the audience as though they were instruments she’d invented, wringing roars from their throats until the floor felt like it might buckle.

When she played “The Well”, she admitted it was the first time she’d heard her own words sung back to her. That small confession lit the room — suddenly 500 Glaswegians became co-conspirators, crooning her diary lines like hymns.

But reverence doesn’t last long in Sophia Izella’s world. “The Doll People” had her crawling and staggering as if possessed, witchy and unhinged, the crowd locked into her trance. If Florence Welch is a pagan priestess, Izella is the exorcist’s nightmare: joyous, grotesque, impossible to look away from. And with “Sex Concept,” she left the stage altogether, carried aloft by her audience in a great circle, saint and siren all at once, rewriting the rules of what a pop star’s body can do in the hands of her believers.

The night closed on “Future”, its last bars dissolving into the fever of an encore. And then “Hot Gum” again, but louder, bigger, messier, her voice rising above a mass of bodies that seemed ready to tear the ceiling off.

Sofia Izella isn’t waiting patiently for her coronation. She’s already here, devouring stages with a sound that flickers between the whisper of a matchstick and the snarl of a swamp witch. At SWG3, she proved she can hold an audience like a secret — or like a hostage. Either way, they’ll follow her anywhere.

Words & Pictures: Angela Canavan @ zombiefang_

The unrelenting sun returns to Sunday’s TRNSMT, 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.

Words: Dale Harvey

Dale Harvey Gallery:

Angela Canavan Gallery:

MacArts Galashiels & Slay Glasgow

15/16-08-25

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.

Words: Nick Tamer

Images: Chris Hogge

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.

Words & Images: Angela Canavan

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.

Assume nothing. Question everything.

Words: Nick Tamer

Images: Chris Hogge

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.

Words: Angela Canavan

Images: Angela Canavan

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.

Words: Marco Cornelli

Images: Angela Canavan

Marco Cornelli Gallery:

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