Returning to the legendary ballroom 25 years after they first headlined, Idlewild’s performance was a triumphant climax to a stellar year for the band.
The band’s fondness for the moment was clearly visible as they took to the stage with big smiles, opening with Roseability.
Their live sound is as good as it’s ever been. The current lineup of the band with the rhythm section of Andrew Mitchell on bass and Colin Newton on drums is solid and deep, allowing guitarists Allan Stewart and Rod Jones to create a gnarly melodic thrash on top. The addition of keyboards from Luciano Rossi in this latest incarnation of the band adds extra sonic depth whilst the powerful voice of Roddy Woomble remains the ever constant.
The setlist seemed eager to please with the majority of cuts from the fan favourite eras of 100 Broken Windows and The Remote Part. Songs from the new record slotted in nicely as the band cranked out hit after hit. The reaction from the crowd was ecstatic, particularly during the fierce encore of Everyone Says You’re So Fragile, A Modern Way of Letting Go, A Film for the Future and In Remote Part/Scottish Fiction.
For a band that has been slightly overlooked in recent years this was a victorious return – a perfect blend of nostalgia and new ideas.
Under the iridescent green lights of the iconic King Tut’s, Humour confidently showcased the full extent of their talent. I picked up this gig based on the overwhelming number of positive comments circulating within the local music scene, and, as expected, the audience was filled with familiar faces I’ve seen around gigs both on and off stage throughout the year.
Their blend of post-punk and post-hardcore has been described as unpredictable, improvised, and wild — a statement I can absolutely support after a night spent at their Glasgow soirée. At first impact, I felt disoriented by the abrasive, harsh, half-screamed lyrics, which I believe is entirely the point: disorientation as an aesthetic, a deliberate jolt to the system.
The night opened with Aphid, from their latest album Learning Greek — a smart, nae, brilliant reflection on the absurdity of existence — and closed with Plagiarist, a piece centred on the tremendous pressure of creativity when it feels as though everything meaningful has already been created before your time. Yet everything I witnessed during my time at King Tut’s felt new and original in a way that demands time to fully absorb.
Nonetheless, they remain a perfectly imperfect example of the talent still emerging from Scotland, and of a willingness to avoid bending or compromising one’s creative vision. It might not click immediately if you’re not into noise-heavy, loud-guitar-driven music, but there is a purity and honesty in their work that transcends genre-specific tastes — something audiences can support and appreciate beyond the music itself: the bravery of going out there and doing your own thing.
If you could bottle shenanigans and sell them in neon-lit corner shops across Britain, Jamiroquai would have the patent. From the moment Jay Kay bounced onstage at the Hydro—strutting, high-kicking, moonwalking and pirouetting like a man determined to prove that the laws of physics are for civilians—it felt like being shot out of a glitter cannon straight back into the 90s. And not the drab Britpop-hangover 90s, but the fantasy 90s: the one where we all wore silver trousers, danced like no one sensible was watching, and believed the future might actually be fun.
The audience was a glorious 50/50 cocktail of Glaswegians and Geordies—two tribes united by a shared ability to create chaos at will. They bathed in visuals that slipped from outer space to rainforest to under the sea, as though someone had handed Attenborough a disco ball and told him to go wild. No ecosystem was spared the cosmic stardust trail of the man himself.
Jay Kay arrived armed with three soul singers—Rankin Johns, Hazel Fernandez and Fabio GolIeeeera—each in star-studded jumpsuits, plus two full drum kits (because of course), a jungle of percussion, Mat Johnson on keys, a synth sorceress also in star-threads, Michael Harrison keeping the guitar deliciously funky, and Paul Turner on bass: possibly the hardest-working wah-wah merchant this side of the Milky Way. Derrick McKenzie on drums held the whole starship together.
From the opening bars of “(Don’t) Give Hate a Chance”, the Hydro was transported to the utopian era of Nokia bricks, tribal tattoos and CDs that cost £12.99. “Little L” followed, bouncing with that Italo-disco DNA—glossy, skittish, irresistible—like Chic had a love child with a glitter-covered pinball machine. “Alright” erupted into a mass singalong, the kind that makes your eardrums throb and your heart swell.
Jay Kay paused to congratulate Glasgow on their World Cup qualification performance—a comment that landed like a warm smack of civic pride across the arena.
Outfit changes arrived thick and fast. For “Tahlulah” Jay emerged in a white coat and purple-brimmed hat, looking like a flamboyant space-pimp lost on his way to the MOBOs.
Mid-song, Jay vanished, only to reappear minutes later sporting a cosmic-warrior headdress and fresh tracksuit, like a man who’d nipped backstage to fight off interstellar intruders before returning to finish his own show.
“Disco Stays the Same” fired lasers in every direction, a Tron-esque riot of colour and nostalgia. A brand-new track from next year’s album, “Shadow in the Night”, throbbed with bongo-laced scat and midnight swagger—a promise that Jamiroquai still has whole galaxies left to explore.
And then the home stretch: “Canned Heat”, “Cosmic Girl”, “Love Foolosophy”—hit after hit, Scotland screaming with the joy of a nation that absolutely believes “No Scotland, No Party” should be a constitutional clause.
He ran right over the 11 p.m. curfew, reportedly incurring a fine—because of course he did. Jay Kay has never met a rule he didn’t treat as a dancefloor.
The encore, “Virtual Insanity,” felt like time travel: a reminder of how a man in a moving room once took over the world, and might well do it again if given half a chance.
By the time you read this, I may have just recovered from this double whammy of Hives-induced euphoric excess. May being the operative word. Some experiences don’t release their grip easily.
Night One. St Luke’s.
A gig almost too visceral to process, too perfect to believe — and everyone there knew it was an “I was there” moment.
With nowhere to hide and no support act, the anticipation of what was to come was almost physical — touchable, electric. No room for unnecessary fluff, not even space on stage for the usual production you’d expect. Just raw, undiluted intention.
A step back in time: The Hives, stripped bare to the bone. Garage punk ready to rewind and explode.
Howlin’ Pelle’s opening salvo of “Everyone’s a F*ing Little Bitch and I’m Getting Sick and Tired of It” strikes hard and connects directly to the feeling of many in the room. The effect is immediate and devastating: explosive. The band so close, so dangerously accessible, you could hear the backline bleeding over the PA — raw, unfiltered, gloriously chaotic.
Pelle and Niklas combine — frantic and psyched — continually engaging, attacking, diving into the pit, repeatedly playing to and with the crowd in a communion of sweat and sound. A transcendent transference of power from stage to floor and back again in an endless, intoxicating loop.
Pelle has such a magnetic way about him that it’s impossible not to be sucked in, seduced, brought willingly onside. Humorous, humble, and yet unapologetically bombastic — a contradiction that somehow makes perfect sense in the moment. He knows how devastatingly good he and the band are, and he knows you know, and plays with it. The intensity is relentless, energising the crowd, who are, in many ways, still disbelieving.
Right now, The Hives are probably at the absolute zenith of their powers, promoting one of their best albums to date and proving — as they will gleefully, arrogantly, correctly tell you — that they are “The Best Band in the World.” Few in St Luke’s would have argued, and many walked out smiling, chatting… convinced they’d just witnessed one of the best gigs ever.
But what was the following night to bring? Could lightning strike twice?
Night Two. O2 Academy.
The previous night had caused quite a stir on social media, and as I entered the venue, a Hives crew member I was chatting to very much felt that the O2 crowd was really “up for it.” The vibe from the floor affirmed it tenfold. I never thought the euphoria of St Luke’s could be surpassed, but the collective mind at the O2 had a different plan altogether.
As the lights dimmed to total darkness, The Hives walked on, lit up by the trim on their suits. The crowd erupted into the now-familiar chant: “Here we… Here we… Here we F*ing go!” The touch paper is lit, the pin is pulled, and the place erupts. Literally erupts.
The mix of old and new songs merges seamlessly, creating a ceaseless, glorious stream of sonic assault. Old favourites like “Main Offender” and “Hate to Say I Told You So” have huge sections of the crowd pogoing, arms raised — a seething mass of connected energy and shared ecstasy.
I’ve seen some monumental punk bands at the O2, but I’ve never quite witnessed this audience reaction — this total, beautiful abandon, this collective loss of control.
“Tick Tick Boom” sees Pelle literally dividing the crowd like the Red Sea as he wanders into the throng, becoming one with the masses. Everyone involved, everyone craning their necks, standing on tiptoes, desperate not to miss a single second. I saw men losing it in fervent — maybe slightly over-the-top — adoration. Imagine the effect of the Fab Four in the early sixties, then think again. This is now. This is not retro.
The Hives cut to the pure essence of rock and roll. Loud, wild, and unforgettable.
This is pure electric zeitgeist in human form.
This is Hivesmania, and resistance is futile.
Words: Nick Tamer
Images: Chris Hogge
Eternal thanks to Chaline, Tam at St Luke’s, and Kate, Hannah and Breagha for making all of this possible.
Glasgow on a cold night always feels like a dare, and Stereo answered it by packing itself to the rafters with a sold-out crowd hungry for something loud, something messy, something alive. The BelAir Lip Bombs — Melbourne’s suburban surf-punk sweethearts with a knack for turning heartbreak into a contact sport — obliged with unbothered aplomb. With Kneecap wreaking havoc elsewhere in the city, it was left to this Frankston four-piece to bring the chaos underground, and they did so with a grin you could practically hear.
Opening tonight was Trout aka Cesca who is the solo artist armed with a loud Roland drum machine and a Fender Mustang and they have come to earn many nods of approval from the crowd. Stand out track for us was “T.V” and we highly recommend checking out their latest e.p. “Colourpicker” out now on Chess Club Records.
The BellAir LipBombs cracked open the set with “Again and Again,” which hit like someone switching the lights on in your bedroom at 6 a.m. — rude, honest, and impossible to ignore. The guitars did that shimmering-snarl thing the band does better than anyone, while Maisie Everett sang as though she were whispering a secret into your mouth. The song’s relentlessness — that glorious surge that never quite peaks, never quite settles — felt like being shoved into the deep end by someone who insists it’s good for you.
Maisie Everett — formerly the bass-wielding bruiser in Clamm, and yes, I did once see her tearing it up across the road in the didn’t miss a beat, they tore straight into “If You’ve Got Time,” a track that swaggered out of the speakers with the lazy confidence of someone who knows you’ll wait for them. It’s a song built on restraint — tight drums, bass thick enough to chew — and Maisie’s voice floating over the top, a half-sigh, half-challenge. In lesser hands, it would be a placeholder; here, it sounded like a manifesto. Time is the one thing this band refuses to waste.
From there, the set rollicked along in a glorious mess of riffs and rhythms, the kind that remind you why bands formed in suburban garages always sound better than anything birthed in a factory-sterile studio. Maisie stalked between guitar and keys, the crowd roaring every time she switched — Scotland loves a multitasker — and Mike Bradvica’s guitar jangled like it had been wired directly to his bloodstream. Jimmy Droughton’s bass remained the hero of the night, rolling thick and warm under every melody like a lover who refuses to let go. Daniel Devlin kept it all stitched together, drumming with the clipped authority of someone who knows that if he stops, the entire building will collapse.
Mid-set came “You Look the Part,” which strutted in like a runway model who knows the audience isn’t worthy. It’s one of those songs that belongs in a coming-of-age film — the moment the protagonist realises all the cool kids are faking it. Live, it turned into a sneer dipped in velvet. Maisie’s delivery was pure deadpan grunge, undercut with a smirk, while the rest of the band revved behind her like an engine redlining on the freeway. Glasgow lapped it up.
Later, as promised, the band eased into material from their brand-new album Again, introduced with the kind of modesty only Australians can get away with. They talked about loving Scotland, about this feeling like a “hometown gig,” and for a moment the room went soft around the edges. “Burning Up,” “Cinema,” and the keyboard-led moments felt bigger, more ambitious — as though the band had stepped onto a wider emotional canvas and decided to paint with neon instead of charcoal.
The crowd responded accordingly: “Say My Name” descended into a miniature mosh pit, which looked half ecstatic, half confused, but fully committed. A couple at the front took a selfie mid-chaos, the flash popping like a tiny explosion of narcissism in a sea of sweaty sincerity. It was perfect.
By the time the set moved toward its finale, the band had the room eating out of their hands. They closed with “Smiling” — which does that exquisite BelAir thing of sounding joyful and devastating in the same breath — and “Don’t Let Them,” a track that feels like a rallying cry for every misfit who ever wanted to kick the door down rather than knock politely. The jam at the end stretched luxuriously, defiantly, as if the band couldn’t bear to sever the connection just yet.
Maisie announced that Mike had broken his foot, so they couldn’t do the traditional encore exit-and-return routine, but frankly, no one cared. The audience didn’t want theatre; they wanted truth, noise, and heart — and they’d been given all three in obscene abundance.
Walking out into the Glasgow night, I felt that familiar tug — the sharp ache of missing Melbourne where I once lived. The place that births bands like this, nurtured by community radio, held together by duct tape, caffeine, and blind faith. A city where ambition grows wild like weeds and kids with three chords and a borrowed pedal believe, beautifully, that it’s enough. And watching BelAir Lip Bombs tonight — all sweat and spark and suburban mythology — I believed it too.
My first exposure to HENGE was a friend’s cool T-shirt depicting a solemn, wizard-like figure, several lizardy aliens and a planetary eclipse. I assumed it was from some forgotten ’80s sci-fi space opera – it looked both familiar and epic. When he told me they were a band, a band who were still touring, I didn’t need to hear their music to know I wanted to see them…
And so it was that I found myself in the atmospheric surroundings of St Luke’s on a cold Sunday night in November as the lights flickered and electronic feedback rang out. A robotic voice warned us that there was an “unidentified return signal detected”, and we were treated to the unusual spectacle of HENGE taking the stage.
Despite having travelled across the cosmos, they looked fresh and energetic, led by their leader Zpor, the aforementioned wizard-like figure dressed in mad robes with a pulsing plasma globe embedded in his headgear, who claims to hail from Agricular in Cosmos Redshift 7. It’s hard to capture just what an unhinged presence he is – think David Harbour cast as an avuncular, slightly deranged children’s TV presenter (who thinks he’s an alien), replete with plummy accent and overblown facial tics. When he’s not blinking and sticking his tongue out, he engages the crowd (“a fine selection of lifeforms”) in zany banter (“Do we have any non-humanoids here?”, prompting shouts of “Mancunian” and “Aberdonian”) and waves his arms around in vaguely messianic fashion.
He’s flanked by Sol, a slightly fey “humanoid” with long blond hair and robes, who the band apparently found wandering aimlessly and enlisted to play synth. Then there’s Goo on guitar, a somewhat taciturn green man who takes centre stage singing in his native tongue on The Great Venusian Apocalypse, but otherwise mostly keeps his own counsel. And lastly there’s Nom, another green man with lots of facial tentacles (a beard?), who puts in what must have been a seriously sweaty shift on the drums.
But is the music any good? Surprisingly, yes! Their four albums to date have been almost as varied as more celebrated bands like King Gizzard, at points resembling surf-rock psychedelia on Slingshot, then veering into ravey electronica. Wanderlust and Get a Wriggle On (the latter an urgent plea to stop wrecking the planet) both could be themes to forgotten ’80s children’s TV shows or video games.
If this all sounds vaguely ridiculous, it is! There’s more than a whiff of Galaxy Quest to their endeavours. But much like that movie, they are tremendous fun and impossible not to get swept along with.
And despite the wackiness of their stage show, the strong underlying message about taking care of this planet really resonates and hits home.
After an hour-long set Zpor sadly informed the audience that they would need to “blast off”. They closed with a rousing version of Demilitarise – with Sol holding up flashcards and the crowd bellowing out the refrain:
“We demand that the weapons of war are manufactured no more –Demilitarise.”
They may be mad and rather comical, but it’s a genuinely powerful song. Somehow they manage to be both hilarious and heartfelt, a difficult balance to strike.
They are certainly a tough act to follow, a task which falls to Gong, the classic psychedelic band whose roots date all the way back to the ’60s. An indication of Gong’s almost mythic status comes on the way to the gig – my friend popped into Vinyl for a pint and was informed by the excited barman (apparently a Gong fan) that Jimi Hendrix once gave a guitar to one of their founder members. I can’t vouch for the veracity of this claim, but their sound does feature some wonderful psychedelic guitars.
After a short intermission, a loud gong was rung (of course!) and the band appeared onstage: a drummer, a saxophone player and three guitarists including their charismatic leader Kavus Torabi, all wild, wiry hair and wide-eyed excitement.
Over the past 50-plus years there have been multiple changes in both personnel and name, but the current line-up has been together for 12 years and it shows – their playing is incredibly tight. It is a very different experience to the first half of the gig, but no less engrossing, with several songs building and building to spectacular crescendos. It would feel almost solemn if Kavus wasn’t such an effusive presence, chatting to the crowd between songs.
The set list includes My Guitar is a Spaceship,Kapital, All the Clocks Reset, Choose Your Goddess and Stars in Heaven, before a closing medley ends with the inevitable Master Builder. I’m only slightly familiar with their back catalogue (Riley and Coe are fans and play them on 6 Music) and yet I’m swept up, almost hypnotised by the end – a spell which even the presence of that stray saxophone can’t break.
When the lights come up everyone else seems to be similarly bewitched, and it takes a while to come round to our senses and shuffle through to the bar for a final (unwise) nightcap.
All in all, a fabulous night, with my only regret being not making it to the merch stand to get myself one of those cool T-shirts.
Lambrini Girls delivered a night of political engagement and queer joy at La Belle Angele. The Brighton rock duo took Edinburgh by storm with their hard-edged sound and punchy political lyrics—a mix that resonated powerfully with their audience, composed mainly, though not exclusively, of young and rightfully angry women.
They opened the night strong with Bad Apple, Company Culture, and the fan favourite Help Me I’m Gay. Each track was intertwined with pointed messaging and an unrelenting, unapologetic commitment to their beliefs—beliefs that are easy to rally behind. New generations are determined to land on the right side of history.
Their music speaks to a generation unafraid to be bold, loud, and unapologetically “cunty”, to borrow the internet slang echoed in one of the night’s highlights: Cuntology 101. The track plays like a fast-paced crash course in being yourself, caring for yourself, and setting boundaries in a world that seems to make all of that increasingly difficult.
The band’s interaction with the crowd made for some memorable moments, especially when lead singer Phoebe Lunny encouraged a mosh pit and later dove in herself, singing directly to the fans. The crowd was vibrant, joyful, and louder than ever—a pleasure to witness.
Lambrini Girls were a step outside my comfort zone, but one that left me pleasantly surprised—and hopeful. If this is where the next generation of musicians is headed, bold enough to speak up for what they believe in, then the future looks exciting.
If Wet Leg are a pop band, then pop is having the most delicious identity crisis of its life—and sign me up for the breakdown. On the second sold-out night at the O2 Academy, the Isle of Wight quintet strode onstage through a fog machine belching enough crimson haze to suggest a bonfire built exclusively from ex-boyfriends’ tote bags.
Before a note was struck, the whole room felt like the prelude to a séance: strobe lights twitching like they were trying to contact the spirits of Riot Grrrls Past, and Rhian Teasdale swishing her strawberry-blonde hair with the casual menace of a witch who’s just learned the hex for “mansplain.”
Opening with “Catch These Fists,” which landed like a slap of cold water—urgent, bratty, instantly destabilising.
Then “Wet Dream” slunk in, that rubbery bassline strutting around the Academy like it had been double-parked on Sauchiehall Street and didn’t care. Teasdale’s outfit—football socks, micro-shorts, sporty top and a determined knee support—made her look like a Little League star possessed by the ghost of Poly Styrene. A demonic PE lesson in the best possible way.
Center stage, a Palestine flag draped over a monitor drew a roar from the crowd—simple, unshowy, and defiant.
Each member of Wet Leg seems essential to the strange, joyful machinery of their sound.
Rhian Teasdale, feather-light voice sharpened with sarcasm, is the band’s chaotic narrator. Hester Chambers, calm and deadpan on guitar, brings the melodic intelligence—her playing is all unshowy precision, the ballast to Rhian’s theatrical chaos. Henry Holmes on drums adds the backbone: punchy, unfussy rhythms with a post-punk snap that keeps even their silliest lyrics grounded. Ellis Durand on bass is the sly engine of the whole thing, giving their songs that propulsive bounce—lean, elastic, and just a little mischievous. Josh Omead Mobaraki, switching between guitar and keyboards, adds the atmospheric glue: shoegaze shimmer one moment, synth weirdness the next.
Together they sound like the accidental lovechild of Elastica, The Breeders, and early Yeah Yeah Yeahs—spiked with the knowing wink of Chicks on Speed and the polka-dotted mischief of Le Tigre. There’s a wiry, indie-sleaze agility to their playing, but the delivery is pure 2020s hyper-self-awareness.
“Oh No” jittered with the anxious brightness that Wet Leg do so well, somewhere between caffeinated surf-rock and a garage band having a collective existential wobble.
The red haze deepened during “Liquidize” and “Jennifer’s Body,” underscoring the darker mood that seems to have settled into their newer performances. Less breezy, more deliberate—like the band have found the low end of their own humour and decided to live there for a while.
Mid-set, the now-famous scream moment of “Ur Mum” plunged the room into darkness. Then the howl began. Two thousand Glaswegians bellowing for so long it passed through catharsis into comedy and back again. When the band finally crashed back in, it felt like a pressure valve releasing.
“U and Me at Home” was soft-footed and sweetly off-kilter—like slow-dancing with a friend you didn’t realise you missed. “Davina McCall” and “11:21” showed their knack for blending slacker charm with emotional precision, and “Pillow Talk” hit heavier than expected, a reminder that Wet Leg’s punchlines don’t dull their ability to be loud, muscular, and strangely moving.
The standout moment came during “Too Late Now,” when bubbles drifted across the stage—tiny, iridescent ghosts catching in the lights. It wasn’t whimsical so much as disarmingly vulnerable, a soft moment in a set full of winks and barbs.
They closed with “Angelica” and “Chaise Longue,” the double-whammy everyone knew was coming and still screamed for. “Angelica” shimmered with grown-up melancholy; “Chaise Longue” swaggered with its usual surreal confidence, still sounding like a private joke shouted across a dancefloor that the whole world accidentally overheard.
But it was “Mangetout” that ultimately finished the night—stranger, moodier, and more muscular than anything before it. Live, the song felt like Wet Leg tipping their hand, revealing a heavier, more atmospheric future lurking beneath the cheeky surface. Its closing chords hung in the room like the aftershock of something bigger than a punchline—less wink, more warning.
By the end, Wet Leg had turned the O2 Academy into a messy, ecstatic altar to millennial neurosis and post-pandemic swagger. They’re pop. They’re punk. They’re performance-art gremlins with guitars. Whatever they are, they’re getting sharper—darker around the edges, brighter in the centre.
And if this is pop?
Then we should all be so lucky to drown in its bubbles.
Wet Leg play Concert in the Gardens at Edinburgh’s Hogmanay on 31st December 2025, in West Princes Street Gardens with support from Hamish Hawk and Lucia & the Best Boys. Tickets via www.edinburghshogmanay.com
The stage at Glasgow’s QMU is suitably dark and smoky before The Horrors descend upon it tonight. Stepping out to the sound of synth drones and ambient guitar, the band have decidedly set the tone for the evening before the first song even begins.
For a band with such a powerful atmospheric element to their music, it’s only right that The Horrors bring this to their live performances. Their most recent release, Night Life, achieves this more so than anything that came before it. With the addition of new members Amelia Sinclair-Kidd (formerly of Glasgow’s own The Ninth Wave), and John Victor (of Gengahr), The Horrors have enlisted their very own post-punk special forces, armed with an array of synthesisers and effects pedals, cultivating a sound that is equally eerie and unsettling as it is melodic.
With twenty years of music-making behind them, The Horrors by now have a broad back catalogue to draw from. Tonight’s setlist sees them whirl through tracks from throughout their career, all fully revamped and given an even darker edge by the band’s new lineup. Tracks from latest release Night Life are well-represented, which in spite of the name marks a new dawn for the band, with the expert fusion of dissonant guitars with pulsing, often groove-heavy synth and bass flowing beneath it all, reminiscent of the likes of Nine Inch Nails and Depeche Mode. Frontman Faris Badwan appears like Lux Interior from hell, with all the twisted charm of The Cramps’ lead singer. Evidently well-rehearsed, The Horrors performance is incredibly tight, yet never compromises on its mood or emotion. So many of the bands’ songs feel like they’d be right at home on a film soundtrack, with a cinematic scope that the light design and performance only serve to bring further to life.
Mercury Prize winners English Teacher brought their distinctive blend of sharp lyricism and atmospheric indie rock to Glasgow’s iconic Barrowland Ballroom, delivering a performance that felt both intimate and electric. Playing to a mixed-age crowd that filled the venue with warmth and anticipation, the band quickly established a sense of connection that grew stronger as the night went on.
One of the most memorable moments came when they dedicated “Nearly Daffodils” to the Scottish national football team. The gesture prompted a massive cheer from the still-elated crowd, followed by enthusiastic clapping and whistles as they matched the band’s energy beat for beat.
The main set closed with a stunning rendition of “Albert Road” sung with striking control and emotion, it built towards a spine-tingling crescendo from vocalist Lily Fontaine that held the audience captive. Once the band left the stage, the room erupted into a rhythmic chant of “one more song”, growing louder and faster until the band had little choice but to return.
Their encore began with a surprise: a stellar cover of Billie Eilish’s “Birds of a Feather.” They made the song their own, with an intense performance that filled the room with emotion. Finally, they closed the night with “A55,” a high-energy finale that left the Barrowlands buzzing. It was the perfect ending to a spellbinding gig; one that showcased English Teacher’s musicianship, charisma, and ever-growing command of a live audience.
The Golden Bough 