glasvegas

Appropriately lit in a crimson haze, Glasvegas are a heart ripping avalanche of emotionally fuelled rock enveloped in ‘oohs’ and reverb pedals. And for the first ten minutes this high intensity aura is enough to maintain people’s focus, ‘My Own Cheating Heart That Makes Me Cry’ sounding compelling in the post-valentines comedown. The stoney, drained feeling, is only aided by James’ regionalised and impassioned singing. This group have the worn look of having already played a thousand back end boozers, and this sets them immediately at odds with their onlookers. Taking offence at the ‘disrespectful’ throwing of glowsticks, the band promptly refer to a 14 year old in the front row as a ‘wee cunt’ after the first song. Making friends was never going to be easy. Glasvegas have honed the spirit of Orange Juice but stripped it of uptempo jollity, preferring instead a heavily wallowing wall of sound that berates tonight’s crowd with it’s spectral colossus. ‘Be My Baby’ rings out as the cry of a man whose Dirty Dancing VHS has been destroyed in addition to being dumped. It’s an impressive cover, but one that on the tail end of such a draining set is lost in their milieu. These are the new bigger boys in town throwing their weight around, and given that the majority of the audience are pre-pubescent boppers the reception is mixed.