Glenn Hughes - Dirty Hard Rock Burdened by Sorrow - Church, Leeds, 01.02.17.

The diminishing returns of an aged rock vocalist is a well-trodden path in the annals of music. Bob Dylan, Roger Daltrey, Debbie Harry of Blondie, to name but a few, have found their idiosyncratic voices ravaged by the march of time. Whilst some older statesmen continue to defy expectations live, most others have succumbed to the passage of the years. Ian Gillan and David Coverdale are not excluded from this latter cohort; so you could be forgiven for thinking that Glenn Hughes would complete a set of Purple frontmen past their absolute prime.

Glenn Hughes performing live in Newcastle, UK, in
2015. (Credit to David Wala.)

On the contrary, he is on impressive form. Elfin and lissom at sixty-five, like a Burton-esque caricature in purple and black, Hughes still possesses an elastic range and claims full ownership of it over ninety-five minutes of rock and roll. Under a mop of dark hair and aviator shades, he bounces between husky baritone and shrieking falsetto on Muscle and Blood with an enviable ease, and brings impressive acrobatics to the gospel-funk drama of You Keep On Moving. On the groove metal tracks culled from new record Resonate, he sound appropriately heavy, a low-slung gritty menace colouring his tone, in particular on the funk-tinged Flow.

Yet this is a performance encumbered by a quiet mourning, dirty hard rock burdened by sorrow. Hughes’ mother Sheila passed away earlier in the week and the typically charismatic frontman struggles to articulate himself between songs. His stage patter often falls flat and, struck by a cold, he cuts a lonely, hurting figure between songs as he gives treatises about “the human condition”. There is something outré about this assemblage of hard rock in a disused church; for Hughes, it is a fitting mausoleum in which to channel his pain, the setting and mood appropriately sombre.

It is testament then, to his will, that he still delivers a complete performance, warts and all. Hughes spins on a dime when the music starts, heroically gurning like a pantomime villain as he vamps his way across the stage. His bass work is impeccable and virtuosic – on the nagging, alluring Getting’ Tighter, he takes an extended solo spot where he mixes popping and a wah-wah peddle to mind-boggling effect. For the party-starter number of Soul Mover, his nimble bejewelled fingers on the fretboard resemble more a lead guitar; his tight three-piece band mostly form the foundations on which their bandleader can expand upon his position of rock doyen.

Glenn Hughes performing live in Newcastle, UK, in 2015.
(Credit to David Wala.)

The mood whiplash and extended mid-section however, where the group fall into a jejune rhythm of extended jams, threaten to derail their efforts at points, with the slow blues of Medusa proving particularly monotonous. But Hughes calls upon the sagacious experience of forty-plus years on the road to finish strong, dispatching Purple classic and signature tune Burn with the sheer sound force of a volcanic eruption. “Hold your mamas close,” he implores as the lights dim, with proclamations of support and love echoed back to him; a man left frail by tragedy, but determined to soldier on.

St. Paul and the Broken Bones - A Celebratory Cocktail of Soul Played with Exuberant Ease - Leeds Irish Centre, Leeds, 31.01.17.

When singer Paul Janeway and bassist Jesse Phillips met in 2012 to start a musical project together, they both viewed it as “a last hurrah” before quitting the musical scene. Almost five years on, Alabama’s St. Paul and the Broken Bones have put out two records, play a televised slot at last year’s Glastonbury Festival and open for The Rolling Stones across America. As a final roll-of-the-dice goes, this one keeps on tumbling.

St. Paul and the Broken Bones performing live at Austin City
Limits Festival, 2016. (Credit to Austin Music Source.)

Their sold-out Leeds show – upgraded from the Brudenell Social Club to the near-double capacity Irish Centre – is part of a celebratory lap supporting sophomore LP Sea of Noise, an exuberant, heady cocktail of soul, jazz and blues. The onus of this multitude of musical veins being opened lies with the seven-piece Broken Bones, who showcase a lean versatility throughout proceedings. Across a ninety-five minute set, they cross-pollinate genres with an exuberant ease, from the Southern gothic of I’ll Be Your Woman to the beefy, brassy funk of Like a Mighty River, with driving, disco-tinged covers of Van Morrison, Sam Cooke and Radiohead throwing enjoyable curveballs into the mix.

Janeway is the magnetic presence that anchors it all though, oozing sex and spirituality behind his gold microphone. Voice rich and mellifluous, with the depth of the Marianas Trench, he bellows his way through the church-parade gospel of Waves and Brain Matter with a lithe vitality, thriving above the horn-and-organ bedrock. On All I Ever Wonder, he jives his way across the stage from left to right, glittered animal-print jacket catching the lights like tiny diamonds. During I’m Torn Up, brow profusely sweating, he undulates wildly as he howls pained, lonely sentiments, a preacher exorcising demons through the impassioned roar of his own soul.

For the tender ballad Broken Bones and Pocket Change, he makes his way through the crowd to the padded benches behind the sound desk that separate the two levels of the venue, where he croons and hollers to appreciative fans whilst the band on-stage vamp it up. He loses his right shoe, a gold brogue, whilst clambering up; on his return to the stage, he holds it aloft, like an ostentatious lamp guiding this intrepid explorer through the forest of bodies. Part-minister, part-master of ceremonies, Janeway commands all of the space afforded him; when slipping between the falsetto croon of Flow With It (You Got Me Feeling Like) and the sultry smooth of Midnight on the Earth, his credentials are impeccably authentic, his showmanship freighted with unfiltered desire.

St. Paul and the Broken Bones performing live at Austin City
Limits Festival, 2016. (Credit to Getty Images.)

Stripped of the burnished strings on record, some of the Broken Bones’ newest material loses an elegiac grandeur; but in turn, it is traded out for a physical heft, with material like Tears in the Diamond buoyed by woozy keyboard flourishes. Chicken-scratch guitar roughs up old cut Half the City; and with the slow sermon-like Burning Rome storming to a dynamic crescendo, the group cap off an infectiously feel-good performance triumphantly. Janeway and company’s “last hurrah” as they put it is, rightfully, not so final after all.

Black Sabbath - Metal Pioneers Take A Triumphant Final Bow - Manchester Arena, Manchester, 22.01.17.

“How the fuck are you?” hollers Ozzy Osbourne, clad in glittery black and smudged kohl from behind his microphone, over the distorted fretwork of Fairies Wear Boots. The Prince of Darkness has seen better days – nearing seventy, the lines on his face are more pronounced, his posture more shrunken and frail – but with several thousand cheering acolytes in front of him, he strikes an oddly defiant pose. To his left, guitarist Tony Iommi, resplendent in velvet, is methodically statesmanlike as he concisely conjures stormy licks; to his right, the shaggy Geezer Butler franticly strums his bass with all four fingers like a man possessed. It is high pantomime, crushingly heavy and joyously booming.

Ozzy Osbourne of Black Sabbath performing live at
Download Festival 2016. (Credit to Birmingham Mail.)

Few bands can match the longevity of Black Sabbath in terms of critical and commercial success. Though a revolving-door cast of members have played in the group throughout their forty-nine year career, including the late, legendary Ronnie James Dio, the classic lineup of Osbourne, Iommi and Butler are forever the definitive core trio of the band. Together, they are icons, architects of doom, sludge and stoner metal, with an early back catalogue of stone-cold classics that remain the genesis of heavy metal to this day.

It’s from their first four records that all but one track is culled from in this celebratory farewell lap of a tour, aptly named The End. Over a hundred minutes, Osbourne and company forgo a mawkish send-off in favour of dispatching gloriously camp and dark renditions of their signature songs. From the foreboding, inverted tritone riff of Black Sabbath, thrilling in its chilling execution, to the crunching blues of N.I.B., aided by Butler’s psychedelic bass-work, Sabbath serve up slices of definitive metal with a workmanlike efficiency, backed up impressively by touring drummer Tommy Clufetos.

Arguably the biggest surprise is Osbourne himself, notoriously unreliable as a vocalist on stage. Despite his advanced years and reputation, he is near-perfect across the first half of the show, with Under the Sun and Into the Void impressive highlights. Though it wavers later in the night, there is more good than bad with the Madman’s performance. The same can be said for Iommi, who deploys exquisite solos on Hand of Doom and a low-slung Dirty Women, but plays the seminal Iron Man in a key different from the rest of the band. Clufetos too suffers from a touch of overindulgence; during Rat Salad, his ten-minute drum solo could easily have given way to another song or two.

Ozzy Osbourne and Tony Iommi of Black Sabbath performing
live at Download Festival 2016. (Credit to Birmingham Mail.)

But these are small gripes with an otherwise well-polished, warmly received show. And when the hits come – an electrifying War Pigs, a bruising Children of the Grave – they outweigh the cost of mistakes. “One more song!” chants Osbourne, clinging to the side of an amp as the lights go down again, and duly, his wish is granted with a blistering Paranoid, still as scorching as it was nearly five decades ago. Black Sabbath may have reached The End; but undoubtedly, their legacy will live on long after their final bow.

The Dillinger Escape Plan - Mathcore Veterans Bow Out with Abrupt Nihilism - Manchester Academy 2, Manchester, 20.01.17.

As The Dillinger Escape Plan wind down their penultimate track of the night, fan favourite Sunshine the Werewolf, their anarchic wall of sound hits the emergency breaks, Greg Puciato breaks off from his hoarse vocal screams to suddenly wave frantically at security. It transpires that a fan has suffered a seizure at the barrier, spotted by the frontman in a small gap nestled at the front of the sell-out crowd at Manchester Academy. As medics swarm the front-of-stage area, Puciato implores the audience to step back, and that the show is likely over. It’s an abrupt finish to a band known for abrupt finishes, on what is ostensibly their final European headline tour.

The Dillinger Escape Plan, performing live at Leeds Festival
2016. (Credit to Ben Gibson.)

Is it really the end for The Dillinger Escape Plan though? New Jersey’s experimental mathcore veterans – arguably pioneers of the scene – have flip-flopped between the terms hiatus and break-up over their impending departure, twenty years after they first emerged. After six acclaimed albums, TDEP are bowing out; and unlike other dissolutions, there is the foreboding sense that this is final.

They certainly intend to leave an impression though. Under hellish red and moody blue lighting, with constant strobing, Dillinger set about delivering a nihilistic set of genre-bending metal that threatens to blow all the doors out, such is its intensity. Leaning heavily on 2016’s Dissociation, they hurtle through Limerent Death and Panasonic Youth with a barely-restrained aura of violence, aided by the antics of Puciato, guitarists Ben Weinman and Kevin Antreassian and bass player Liam Wilson, as they clamber over speakers and incite countless, brutal circle pits. It is a feral, ferocious performance that captivates with its raw brutality.

TDEP are a musically-diverse entity however; new track Symptom of Terminal Illness is a swirling, stormy plea of a track; the punk balladry of One of Us is the Killer highlights their tender side. The soaring alt-metal of Milk Lizard is also ecstatically welcomed, and when the scatter-jazz piano of Mouth of Ghosts opens the encore, a hushed appreciation falls over the venue. All are built upon the excellent drum work of Billy Rymer, whose ability to flick between swing and common time is a skill somewhat unheralded in the shadow of his vocalist.

The Dillinger Escape Plan, performing live at Leeds Festival
2016. (Credit to Ben Gibson.)

With good reason too. Puciato remains one of metal’s most electrifying frontmen, bleeding a visceral passion, if not blood too in his performance. It is his vocals that elevate Dillinger’s material live, from the raw-throated war cry of Hero of the Soviet Union, to the spindly falsetto he spits on the strident Black Bubblegum. For the closing one-two punch of Farewell, Mona Lisa and the animalistic Prancer, he launches himself from amp to amp, climbing up them like a demented monkey. Yet, when he sees the distress late on, he dives in to help the medics in a show-ending act that still speaks volumes about his ability to connect. TDEP are not a sentimental band; but with their final acts, they signify that they remain a thrilling live beast, drenched in a sweaty humanity.

Status Quo - Three-Chord Stalwarts Sign Off With a Wallop - First Direct Arena, Leeds, 17.12.16.

Four songs in, and Francis Rossi, the sharply dressed frontman of Status Quo, is already removing his waistcoat, wiping firstly his brow and then his crotch with the garment in question. He looks at it for a moment, then shrugs and throws it over his shoulder. “I’ve got that feeling of going too far,” he quips. When a member of the audience heckles him, his response is succinct and good-natured: “Shut yer gob!”

Status Quo performing live in London in December
2016. (Credit to Andrew Fosker.)

Succinct and good-natured is a pretty good way to describe the Quo. The three-chord stalwarts have made a half-century long career out of music that is direct and to the point; no-nonsense, in-your-face, chunky rock-and-roll, with all the fat shaved off. Thirty-two albums in, and they show no sign of stopping, though ostensibly, they are slowing down. Their show at the First Direct Arena in Leeds is part of what is being billed as an electric full-band farewell tour, with Rossi having announced that the group will switch to acoustic shows only. Indeed, with Rossi the only original member left following Rick Parfitt’s retirement after a heart attack in the summer, the question lingers whether Quo have a future beyond their immediate slate of dates.

Rossi obviously hasn’t got the memo about signing off quietly; from the ferocious Caroline to the driving, pounding Something ‘Bout You Baby I Like, Quo’s lead guitarist delivers brusque, taut riffs that shake the foundations around him. His voice remains in excellent shape, fifty years on – and in Parfitt’s absence, long-term bassist John “Rhino” Edwards and keyboard player Andy Brown ably fill his vocal cues. Indeed, Rossi does not even mention his founding partner all night; and touring replacement Richie Malone, referred to as “Paddy” by the frontman, ably fills the big guitar licks required on songs such as The Wanderer and Rain.

Their staging is spartan and their lighting old-school; a sharp contrast to the modern arena spectacle on offer. And when all five, including drummer Leon Cave – with a “cocktail kit” as Rossi terms it – decamp to the front for a cheeky Gerdundula, there’s a wonderfully intimate feel to proceedings. But it’s the thunderous rock and roll they serve that truly captures attention, from the roaring Beginning of the End to the snappy Roll Over Lay Down. They even roll five or six of their hits up into a fast-paced medley; though the snapshot nature does feel somewhat lacking.

Status Quo performing live in Nottingham in December
2016. (Credit to Kevin Cooper.)

But the hits do keep coming; a burbling In the Army Now, the bouncy Whatever You Want, the booming, singalong Rockin’ All Over the World that bursts with anthemic passion. When they return, after a brief break, for the encore, they turn out fan favourite and latter-day hit Burning Bridges (On and Off and On Again), famously the basis for a football chant and hit single by Manchester United. As they wrap up with Chuck Berry’s Rock and Roll Music, Rossi sketches a quick bow. Status Quo may be going out – but they’re rolling home with a wallop, not a whisper.

Red Hot Chili Peppers - Ageless Funk Unit Remain Gloriously Outlandish - Manchester Arena, Manchester, 14.12.16

“I was just about to play the wrong song,” announces Michael Balzary, or Flea as he is better known, to raucous laughter. “The one thing you do if you’ve been in the Red Hot Chili Peppers for thirty-five years is consistently embarrass yourself,” he adds as singer Anthony Kiedis chuckles at him. “You get used to it.” Behind them, large screens depict band members being decapitated in cartoon form as well as fetishized imagery of female buttocks. It’s shamelessly juvenile and gloriously outlandish, snuff in technicolour that aims to titillate, rudely and crudely.

Red Hot Chili Peppers performing live in Birmingham
in 2016. (Credit to Andy Shaw.)

The ageless LA funk unit, mercifully bereft of cock-socks, are not known for their deeper insights. Indeed, their odes to sex and drugs border on the fantastically dumb on occasions – but their absurdity and audacity has always worked thanks to an urgent high-spiritedness and their superb musical credentials. Their first stop of two in Manchester on their UK tour is in support of eleventh album The Getaway; and after a summer of festivals, it gives them a chance to dig deep and showcase their skills.

Flea, hair dyed cornflower yellow, is the cornerstone of RHCP’s sound, a genuine bass virtuoso. Dressed like a Jackson Pollock painting viewed on acid, he gurns and slaps hard through muscular versions of Around the World and The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie. When matched with guitarist Josh Klinghoffer and drummer Chad Smith, the three are thrilling, from the feedback-drenched finale of Don’t Forget Me to the thrilling punk racket of Nobody Weird Like Me, on which support act Babymetal make a fleeting cameo. “Who were those mystical Japanese girls who came up here flying out of control?” the bassist quips with a manic smile, clearly having a ball.

He’s matched in the crowd-pleasing stakes by singer Kiedis, clad in biker shorts, snapback and porno-tache, whose way with a lyric is amusingly filthy. When describing a sexual act on the propulsive disco-tinged Go Robot, there’s a dirty grin stretched across his face, like a schoolboy discovering a swearword for the first time. On the hard-rocking Higher Ground, he throbs with a primal energy, prowling and spinning across the stage like a lecherous pterodactyl. Yet when he slows it down for the heart-to-heart cries of Otherside, he is equally watchable, an enthralling presence with near-impeccable vocals and an undefined magnetic charisma.

Anthony Kiedis of Red Hot Chili Peppers performing live
in Birmingham in 2016. (Credit to Birmingham Mail.)

Aided by a spectacular light-show that utilises Chinese Lantern-style strips on wires, it is a slick, tight performance, a sharp cry from the pedestrian nature of their Reading and Leeds slots in August. From the gorgeous Snow ((Hey Oh)) to the riotous By the Way, RHCP look once more like they’re having a good time. Though they skip over several of their biggest hits, no-one feels short-changed; and by the time Smith hurls his drumsticks into the crowd after a visceral Give It Away, the Chilis have confidently reasserted their live credentials. As Flea handstands his way across the stage, he raises his feet in triumph. Fortune faded? Thankfully, not quite yet.

James - Indie-Pop Rockers Cap Off a Fine Renaissance - O2 Academy Sheffield, Sheffield, 09.12.16

Only three numbers have passed at the O2 Academy in Sheffield before Tim Booth has fallen into the arms of the waiting crowd during a boisterous Surfer’s Song. The Yorkshireman – whose shining pate, trimmed goatee and erratic dancing gives the impression of a seventies adult actor transported to the twenty-first century – returns to the safety of the stage with a small grin. “There’s a big sign somewhere here saying that crowdsurfers will be ejected,” he quips, before he holds out his hands in mock-surrender to security policing the barrier, as if waiting to be handcuffed.

Tim Booth of James performing live in Leeds in 2016.
(Credit to Danny Payne Photography.)

He has reason to be cheeful. 2016 may go down in notoriety, but for James, the seminal Madchester-era band, it has been their most successful year since their reunion almost a decade ago. With a hit album in Girl At the End of the World and an acclaimed slot at this year’s Glastonbury Festival, they have made a triumphant, well-deserved return to the top flight of British music. Their appearance in Sheffield is their penultimate date of the year, amongst a handful of thank-you shows, a victory lap in all but name.

Expectation would be to trot out the hits, one after the other here. Instead, James subvert this notion with a setlist spanning over thirty years, heavy on deep cuts and fan favourites. Under dark blue lighting, they open with 2014’s Walk Like You, before an energetic dash through Ring The Bells. They dust off Hymn from a Village for the first time this year, and throw in fan favourite Five-O for good measure. It is a near-career-retrospective, a whistle-stop tour of lesser-renown moments that showcases the group’s versatility.

It’s hard to fathom how good Booth sounds at fifty-six too. On the synth-drenched To My Surprise, he flows silkily between exclamation and exhumation with smooth ease. For 10 Below, played live for only the second known time, he creates dissonant noise through a megaphone, whipping up frenzied soundscapes. The rest are no slouches either; bassist Jim Glennie, drummer David Baynton-Power, guitarist Saul Davies, keyboard player Mark Hunter and Andy Diagram on trumpet, plus touring member Adrian Oxaal. Together, they deliver some thrilling renditions of classic songs; Waltzing Along is an unruly bass-heavy blast whilst the ethereal Vervaceous is heady and intoxicating in equal measure.

Tim Booth of James performing live in Manchester in 2016.
(Credit to Sean Hansford.)

At times, the sound mix fluctuates badly, drowning out Diagram often, and the setlist often feels a step too far for casual fans, oddly paced at points. But when the hits eventually come, they do so thick and fast. A driving Getting Away With It (All Messed Up) and the baggy Come Home are dispatched with a gleeful abandon, triggering mass outbreaks of beery singalongs and dad dancing. A superb Sometimes build on the party atmosphere, and when they close with the strident Nothing But Love, it threatens to make Sheffield burst with unbridled joy. Renaissances don’t often come around in pop music – but James are the special kind of band who are more than deserving of a second wind.

Rod Stewart - A Bona-Fide National Treasure in Vegas Trappings - First Direct Arena, Leeds, 06.12.16.

“Enjoy yourselves, ladies and gentlemen,” Rod Stewart announces to the First Direct Arena in Leeds, dressed in a black sequinned shirt, skinny jeans and trainers. “It’s later than you think.” It’s an off-the-cuff joke underscored by a foreboding note of truth. Stewart is no spring chicken – he turns 72 in January – and after a year of music icons passing onto the great gig in the sky, it’s hard to not feel a slight chill in his quip. It vanishes quickly though as he gets the party started; one big NYE-style celebration delivered via Vegas schmaltz and trappings by a bona-fide national treasure.

Rod Stewart performing live in Dublin in November,
2016. (Credit to Dan Butler Photography.)

Entering to the Champions League theme, Rod the Mod proclaims that he will “be here for two hours”. He only plays one and a half but only a curmudgeon would feel short-changed by the festive bonanza provided. From the Gaelic jig of new track Love Is to the R&B-drenched Havin’ A Party, and all the way back to Ooh La La, from his time in the Faces, his band leave no stone unturned in delivering an unashamed greatest hits show. It has a wonderful jukebox feel, complimented by the retro-dinner style chequerboard pattern that lines the stage and curtains.

Stewart’s distinctive rasp is still husky, but time has withered the power and range behind it. On some of his most iconic tracks, such as the cheesy synthpop anthem Baby Jane, he lowers his register to compensate for such shortcomings. Such tremulous edges render other tracks more wistful; Downtown Train is earthly, Sailing fragile. It wobbles early on – on Robert Palmer tribute Some Guys Have All the Luck and the sweeping Tonight’s the Night (Gonna Be Alright) – but mostly, it is good, especially for a septuagenarian recovering from strep throat.

“Now we’re all going to sit down at the front and pretend we’re the Eagles,” Stewart wisecracks as he perches on a stool. It’s in this more intimate setting that he shines best; stripped of the showbiz sheen, the acoustic working of several classics – Handbags and Gladrags, The First Cut is the Deepest, I Don’t Want to Talk About It – are superb high points, allowing the singer’s gravelly tones space to breathe. He even works in videos of his beloved Celtic FC to You’re In My Heart (The Final Acclaim) to warm laughter from a partisan Yorkshire crowd.

Rod Stewart performing live in Dublin in November,
2016. (Credit to Dan Butler Photography.)

There are indulgences; an extended drum battle in the middle of a striding Forever Young, and a backing vocalist cover of Tina Turner’s River Deep – Mountain High. But these discrepancies can be forgiven, thanks to the sheer fun factor. By the time Maggie May is giddily dispatched and Stay With Me has brought the audience to their feet, it is infectiously joyous as footballs are punted into the crowd to the disco-stomp of Da Ya Think I’m Sexy? Stewart may be not the force he once was, but he remains an excellent showman; and above all, knows how to have a jolly good time. Sir Rod, you wear it well indeed.

Biffy Clyro - Scottish Rockers Reassert Immaculate Live Credentials - First Direct Arena, Leeds, 04.12.16

“It’s always wonderful when we come to Leeds,” Simon Neil gushes, midway through Biffy Clyro’s two-hour-plus set at the First Direct Arena in the city. “But it’s a nice change to not be in a muddy field.” His quip alludes to the rarity of an indoor show in Yorkshire for the Scottish hard-rock outfit; their last two major shows in the county saw them headline the Bramham Park leg of Reading and Leeds Festivals, both this year and in 2013. New record Ellipsis hasn’t caught fire the way their previous outings have however – and with curtains draped across several cavernous seating blocks in the venue, questions can be asked whether Ayrshire’s most famous sons are still at the top of the game.

Simon Neil of Biffy Clyro performing live at Reading
Festival 2016. (Courtesy of Emma Swan.)

They answer their critics with a resounding yes, in terms of performance, power and energy; within the span of the first song, the trio – guitarist Neil and brothers James and Ben Johnston – reassert their immaculate live credentials as one of Britain’s most thrilling acts on a stage. Juggling new material and fan favourites in an expertly balanced setlist, they deliver a bruising opening salvo that includes the ferocious Wolves of Winter and the math-rock edged Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies, before dropping power-ballad Biblical to deafening screams and a sea of handheld phone lights. The sheer heft, the wall of sound produced, is blindly exhilarating.

It helps that all three members are intensely charismatic characters and vocalists in their own rights. Neil, initially dressed in a flowing white cassock before disrobing to join his topless bandmates in semi-nakedness, is at turns a primal force of aggression and an oddly coquettish individual with an incredible dextrous voice, both baleful and bashful. He beams in obviously genuine pleasure when the crowd laps up early debut album cut Justboy, and profusely thanks the crowd after every song, a man for whom the experience of playing before thousands is still a treasured thrill. James, on the bass, skips and scampers across the stage in high pantomime, impressing on the stoner-rock-rush of Bubbles and permanently sporting a mile-wide grin. Ben, behind the drums, gets less of a chance to show off compared to the other two – but his soaring backing vocals on Puzzle number Folding Stars give it an aching quality that haunts behind the crashing fretwork and twinkling synths.

Their new material translates well to the stage too, and is better received than perhaps expected. Howl is played at a frantic pace, kinetic and driving, whilst new single Re-arrange, a Taylor Swift-esque country pop ballad, is met by arms aloft and sighing couples embracing throughout its duration. Only the somewhat drippy People is underwhelming; and even then, that is a minor gripe at the best. They are aided by a typical laser-guided light show that is elevated by the unusual staging – a four-tiered stage, encircled by large square frames of increasing sizes that pulse with the background visuals, creating various optical illusions. Angry red hues are conjured for new song In the Name of the Wee Man; monochrome flashes are rolled out aptly for Black Chandelier. Combined, both band and added effects are rather OTT and all the more enjoyable for it.

James Johnston of Biffy Clyro performing live at Reading
Festival 2016. (Courtesy of Emma Swan.)

But it’s the older material that truly lifts the show into top gear, be it the doff of the cap to the old-school fans with Infinity Land deep cut Wave Upon Wave Upon Wave, or the delightful pleasure of Different People’s reverb-drenched organ heralding mass pit activity. When they drop a particularly brutal rendition of That Golden Rule, there’s a moment where the churning ocean of bodies in front of the stage threatens to spill past the barriers, such is the alacrity with which fans throw themselves around. They roll out the biggest hits near the close of the main set – a roaring Mountains, a triumphant Many of Horror, a beautiful solo acoustic rendition of Machines that leaves shivers and goosebumps in its wake – before capping off proceedings with an encore including the soaring anthemics of The Captain. “Thank you so much, Leeds,” Neil snarls with a smile before they close with Stingin’ Belle. “We are Biffy. Fucking. Clyro.” Mon the Biff, they say. Mon the Biff indeed.

The Cure - Gothic Rock Stalwarts Rattle Off Hit-Heavy Show - Manchester Arena, Manchester, 29.11.16

“Hello Manchester, it’s been a long time,” Robert Smith, draped in black and smudged in kohl, hurriedly mumbles into the microphone as he switches guitars. It isn’t a curt greeting, but rather one born of nervous habits; Smith has never been the most comfortable man in the world when it comes to stage patter. What he lacks in apparent social confidence is made up for considerably in his talent as a musician, lyricist and conductor of some of the finest gothic rock material ever to come out of the movement, a curator of frozen pop gems and giddy heartbreak anthems. The Cure, for all its members, is driven by Smith and his angst-ridden melodies, and behind a microphone, he has not lost his touch for deft introspection and rousing melodrama.

Simon Gallup and Robert Smith of The Cure, live in
New Zealand, 2016. (Courtesy of thecuremexico).

The last time The Cure played mainland Britain, they turned out a trio of Christmas shows at London’s famed Hammersmith Apollo, each exceeding forty songs and three hours in length, an exquisitely crafted showcase of deep cuts and celebrated ditties that rewarded the hardcore follower. This outing – a positively breezy twenty-three song, two hour show – still takes time to tip its hat to the core fanbase, but otherwise skews towards the more casual devotee with the group cramming it full with some of their biggest hits.

Entering to Shake Dog Shake, taken from 1984’s The Top, Smith and company – including long-time bassist Simon Gallup, keyboardist Roger O’Donnell, drummer Jason Cooper and ex-Tin Machine guitarist Reeves Gabrels – are unsurprisingly tight after several years on the road together, but still find pleasing ways to freshen up compositions and performances. Flanked by a misshapen collection of amps and Reading F.C. flags, and backed by five horizontal strip screens, they experiment sonically across the multitude of genres that they encompass, embellishing A Night Like This with bluesy riffing and The Walk with disco-rhythm flourishes. On the relatively poppy Push, they take a heavier line, underpinned by swinging drums and a scuzzy lick or two from the fretboard.

The step back into arenas brings out hidden strengths to their performance, but also serves as an Achilles heel at points. The visual spectacle is impressive; during the springy In Between Days, the band are bathed in sharp, rainbow colours that gives the impression the normally dark-clad band have been involved in a paint factory explosion. Later on, for the punishing One Hundred Years, quick image flashes of the Somme, Auschwitz, Vietnam, Cambodia and Iraq – now all rendered in monochrome – appear behind the wall of noise the band creates, forming part of a hellish sensory overload.

At times however, the arena sound system undercuts what is a brilliant, thrilling show. During the beautiful, slinky lovelorn Pictures of You, Smith’s plaintive wail is buried under a messy mix that threatens to swallow him whole. On the driving Primary, Gallup’s bass blots out every other noise in the venue. But the band power through these technical gremlins to deliver some truly gorgeous renditions of Lovesong and Just Like Heaven, exquisite in presentation and reception. The warning shriek of Want is a high point, building to a noise-rock drenched crescendo, whilst Sinking, perhaps the rarest cut, culled from The Head on The Door, is a ghostly ethereal exercise in conjuring moody atmospherics, all echoing soundscapes that float on the breeze. It is gloriously gothic, superbly executed.

Robert Smith and Jason Cooper of The Cure, performing live at
Bestival in 2016. (Courtesy of Red Bull).

They return for a clutch of encores, which pivot from the bass-driven, post punk staple of A Forest to the rarer, industrial nihilism of Burn, their contribution to the soundtrack of The Crow. But it’s the final stretch that truly gets Manchester bouncing as they trade off the chiming, ethereal riff of Lullaby for the giddy, sun-kissed singalong of Friday I’m In Love, before backing it up with a bouncy rendition of early single Boys Don’t Cry. The sparse Close to Me is blown up by the mass singalong that erupts around it, whilst the high camp, joyous dance-pop of Why Can’t I Be You? releases a final wave of euphoria that lingers long after the lights come up. “Thank you,” Smith cries out, hand clutched to his heart. “We’ll be back.” Somehow, it seems unlikely there will be complaints if that’s anytime soon.

The Japanese House - Bewitching Dream Pop Outfit Channel Power-Trio Dynamics - The Wardrobe, Leeds, 04.11.16

“What up?” Amber Bain poses to the near-capacity crowd at The Wardrobe in Leeds as she saunters onstage. Shadowed under blue and purple spotlights, she cuts a polite, if reserved figure. Backed by a drummer and bassist/keyboard player, she is The Japanese House, a curator of a curious collection of bewitching ambient dream pop stacked with the kind of vocal harmonies Jeff Lynne would applaud. Her brand of off-kilter indietronica is featherweight in sound and execution, and matches the androgynous moniker she has taken, low-pitched look, baggy look and all.

Amber Bain of The Japanese House, live at Manchester
O2 Apollo in 2016. (Credit to Trust a Fox Photography.)

Her gig in Yorkshire’s biggest city – a stop on a headline tour to promote her third EP Swim Against the Tide – may only be a brisk fifty-five minutes, but she crams all her released material, and then some, into it. Opening with Clean, The Japanese House weave a hypnotic tapestry of reverb-drenched vocals and staccato guitar licks over floating, airy synths that runs through all twelve songs showcased. Bain is often shy and a touch flustered, a demeanour influenced by historic stage-fright, and as such, she keeps dialogue to a minimum. “Thanks very much,” she murmurs, whip-quick after the first song. “I can tell this is going to be a fun show.”

In a way, The Japanese House are a twenty-first century answer to a power-trio. As they drop woozy fretwork over club-like ambience on Teeth, there’s an instinctive primal thrill that manifests itself in the recesses, yet remains reined in. Pools to Bathe In sees roaring, windswept flourishes underscore the looping guitar figure draped languidly across the track whilst they find a rare strut on the shoegaze-esque Good Side In, the tumble of tom-toms scattered freely across its body. There’s a loosely coiled tension that permeates their sound; a friction that is almost unnoticeable in the way that the material lulls with trance-like refrains.

It’s a shame then that the atmosphere lacks at points. Dream-pop is not the most invigorating of soundscapes and the constant ebb and flow often creates spells where Bain can’t hold the crowd. Newer songs such as the Caribbean-tinged Swim Against the Tide and the aching Letter By the Water are diminished by a disinterest fostered through gentleness. She does capture them back at points – the Bondian piano chords that kick off Sugar Pill bring much needed drama – but the lushly-stacked work on show proves a little too relaxed for some.

Amber Bain of The Japanese House performing live in
Los Angeles in 2016. (Credit to Mallory Turner.)

But Bain still has some aces as she finishes off; new single Face Like Thunder, perhaps her most direct stab at mainstream pop yet, is a gloriously pulsating slice of synthpop, whilst closer Still packs an emotional punch, built upon echoing synth drops that ripple like a vast ocean. “We’ll be over by the merch stand after,” she says, with a mischievous smile, indicating the aforementioned table. “Come say hi.” The Japanese House have something great in their musical DNA and have honed it well so far – now though, they have to shake it up a bit to keep their fans on their toes. 

High Tyde - Brighton Boys' Tropical-Pop Thrills in a Familiar Way - The Wardrobe, Leeds, 25.10.16

“Leeds, it’s been a while,” announces Cody Thomas-Matthews as he shrugs off his denim jacket to excitable teenage screams, two songs into High Tyde’s brisk forty-five minute headline show at The Wardrobe. In fact, it’s only been two months since they played the BBC Introducing Stage up the road in Bramham Park – but as that’s technically Wetherby, it’s a toss-up. “How are we all doing tonight?” he asks the intimate crowd, whose response is to make as much noise as possible. He contemplates nodding, then shrugs and hits up the first notes of Safe on his Korg synthesizer.

High Tyde performing live in Leeds in 2016.
(Credit to Hullfire Radio).

The band – formed in Brighton by four school friends – are a distinctly British indie outfit and very much product of the obvious influences. There’s a touch of public-school about them at first glance – three members have double-barrelled surnames for good measure – and in drawing from the same musical well as Bombay Bicycle Club, they’ve done little to disabuse the notion. They may take their name from a lyric in a Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds track, but their output is far more chardonnay-chic than lager-lout, the type of music that carries itself with a melodic grace rather than a first to the face. It is palmtree-shaded pop, served upon a plate of indie dance-rock that has encapsulated the genre for the last decade or so.

Just because it’s familiar though doesn’t mean that it’s lacking in the odd spark of superb originality; rather, High Tyde’s output feels like a fresh take on a genre at risk of losing its identity. Entering to the dissonant rumble of deep-bass techno, with guitarist Spencer Tobias-Williams clad in an outrageously loud shirt, they tear into recent single One Bullet with a ferocity belayed by many of their influences, burying it under some good, old-fashioned riffage. It’s pleasingly heavy – perhaps a nod towards Foals’ What Went Down in its execution – but it differs by trading out brute strength for a vein of tropical-rock courtesy of Tobias-Williams that almost dances between the beefier bass of Thomas-Matthews and the rhythmic scuzz of Connor Cheetham’s fretwork. Follow-up Talk to Frank throws out staccato, siren-like guitar squeals, but contrasts them with a hip-hop drumbeat, courtesy of Louis Semlekan-Faith at the back. They even dabble in post-punk, through the juddering Feeling the Vibes, showing an impressive understanding of genre knowledge, if not an innate command of it through skill.

Such touches require fine musicianship, and for the most part, they deliver; High Tyde are a competent outfit, tight and well-honed. Thomas-Matthews and Cheetham both add sigh-brushed soundscapes to the choppy, angular Feel it, whilst Semlekan-Faith is the bedrock behind the propulsive Gold, all arena-size fills and whoa-oh singalongs. Indeed, the band’s mere presence creates a palpable atmosphere of giddy delirium amongst the predominantly college-aged crowd, who mosh furiously at any given opportunity to the bounce-along pop fare they are served. When Thomas-Matthews asks for a “singalong if you know it” on Do What You Want, the aural response is as equally deafening as the music. It’s unlikely to match teen-pop hysteria at its peak – but there is no denying that the band have their fans wrapped around their finger before a chord is even strum.

High Tyde performing live in Brighton in 2013.
(Credit to pianoslug.com).

Gripes could be made about the show length and choice of cuts; in a twelve-song set, the band exclude much of their earlier material, and the inclusion of tracks such as the technicolour burst of Karibu and the cacophonous Mustang Japan would have further widened their palate. And indeed, much of the set can feel oddly repetitive; the band are yet to mature their sound past the most obvious heart-on-sleeve acknowledgements, and it shows often throughout. But they are minor complaints with a well-executed performance by a band with a rapidly rising star. “Leeds, you’ve set the bar high tonight,” a sweaty Thomas-Matthews says after Speak. “We’ve got one more – you’ve been amazing.” And with that, they propel themselves into Dark Love, their most delicious melding of clarion-call guitars and scuzzy backing in their catalogue. With a sixth EP due imminently, High Tyde are dead-set on going places in the indie-pop world; and with this assured confidence about them, their sights are going to be pretty high.

Mark Morriss - Wryly-Delivered Acoustics from a Darkly Comic Raconteur - The Fulford Arms, York, 16.10.16

As Mark Morriss sheds his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his check-shirt at the dawn of his solo set in York, he gamely calls out for requests, before being immediately inundated by several shouts, including one who backs their choice with a whoop. “We’ve got a woo!” he cries, before enquiring for the song. “After Hours?” He shrugs. “Can’t play it, I’m afraid.” A mock boo. “Oh yeah? Well, you can take your woo and shove it!”

Mark Morriss performs in Frankfurt in 2014.
(Credit to regioactive.de)

It’s a throwaway response that sets the tone for this acoustic shindig. Morriss, fresh from the return of his Britpop hitmakers The Bluetones, cuts a dry-witted, sharp-tongued figure with a salt-and-pepper beard and a tendency to crack filthy one-liners. Over the course of a ninety-five-minute set, he displays a maverick skill as both storyteller and entertainer, crafting a narrative of kitchen-sink-drama music that is interspersed with tongue-in-cheek cover versions. He ribs the audience as much as he self-deprecates; though wary initially to his humour, he wins them over with his earthly waggishness.

The intimate surroundings of the Fulford Arms lend themselves to proceedings too, with fifty or sixty people crammed into a pub room. Morriss relishes the proximity, calling for drinks from the bar and accepting a bag of crisps from a fan after a jokey request. “It’s not a cardigan gig, is it?” he states during Digging a Hole whilst audience members divest themselves of jumpers. Later, he calls his voice “a little bit Bonnie Tyler” after a husky rendition of It’s Hard to Be Good All the Time. When he plays Bluetonic, he bemoans the cheer it receives. “Dear diary,” he monologues in a faux-Etonian accent. “It happened again.”

There’s always been a wry realism to the songs Morriss has crafted, snapshots of the humdrum. Such sentiments appear often throughout – Marblehead Johnson is recast in a more desolate manner, and Mockingbirds is painfully beautiful. When he scuffs up on Teenage Fanclub’s Alcoholiday, it endears the emotional highlight even further. To balance the dourness, Morriss alleviates it with stage patter that becomes increasingly inappropriate. When he delivers a quip about Yorkshire’s most infamous son, it earns belly laughs. He is a darkly comic raconteur who balances the bleak with the blackly funny, a spoonful of sugar to help the bitterest pill.

Mark Morriss performs in Inverness in 2015.
(Credit to Inverness Gigs.)

His secret weapon is his left-field cover choices though, which threaten to steal the show. A punchy take on Elton John’s Bennie and the Jets comes first; later, he bursts into a rendition of Duran Duran’s Rio that peters out into light-hearted observations about its lyrical qualities as a song. They are unexpected and gloriously camp, but Morriss makes them his own with well-worn ease. Sandwiched between Slight Return and Sleaze Bed Track, they help close a show high on humour and high on heart. As he packs up and gives his handwritten setlist to a fan, he thanks the owner for putting him on tonight. Based on his grin, that very well may be sooner rather than later.

Elton John - Rocket Man Packs In the Hits for Whistle-Stop Show - Hyde Park, London, 11.09.16

“Hyde Park!” shouts Reginald Kenneth Dwight – or rather, Sir Elton John– to the crunching sound of The Bitch Is Back’s opening riff. He climbs onto his stool – at almost seventy, jumping up is out of the question – and seats himself atop the grand piano, where he mugs for the cameras cheekily, a dazzling white perma-grin illuminated under bright lights. There can be no doubting the man’s showman credentials – one, after all, does not play a decade-spanning residency in Las Vegas to over a million and a half people without knowing how to play a crowd – and for this type of performance, a festival show for the BBC, live on air, such effortless gestures serve to reinforce the knowledge that arguably Britain’s greatest export of the past forty-five years is a born entertainer.

Elton John performs live in Hyde Park in
2016. (Credit to Alan D West Photography.)

Following in the footsteps of Rod Stewart and a reformed Electric Light Orchestra, John has his work cut out for himself headlining Radio 2’s urban Festival in a Day, a rather sedate, pleasant and slightly schmaltzy affair slap bang in the middle of the capital. Restricted to a ninety-minute set, the Rocket Man has to find time to cram in all his hits, tip his hat to his new album Wonderful Crazy Night and pay lip service to the station putting him up in one of London’s most prestigious open-air venues (illness forced him to cancel a show in 2013 as part of the British Summer Time festival).

In John, the station has found the perfect artist for such an event and he rewards their faith with his easy-going approach and charismatic performance. Like a warm cup of tea, he is innately part of the country’s musical furniture, a national treasure. His songs are as iconic as fish and chips, or the Queen. When he plays Philadelphia Freedom, set to a background image of a gently-waving US flag, it’s almost disappointing that the Union Jack isn’t flying instead (though on the anniversary of 9/11, it probably would be insensitive). Upon producing a stirring rendition of I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues, the hairs on arms involuntarily stand up before he even sings a word. His timeless classics are so ingrained into popular culture, they are practically state property. Even his new stuff – Looking Up and A Good Heart, dispatched early on– slot seamlessly into his vast catalogue of copper-bottomed hits.

John himself hasn’t aged as well as his songs however, his range hampered somewhat by throat surgery in 1987. He still makes a good fist of it – the husky deepness he infuses into Your Song transforms it from beautifully lovelorn to something more primitive and despairing – but on tracks such as Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, he strains painfully and still falls below the notes required. He is not helped by a typically hit-and-miss festival soundmix either – sludgy and quiet at points, in keeping with the Hyde Park noise curfew. It renders the nuances of Bennie and the Jets pointless, lost in reverberating echo. And some of his song choices leave a little to be desired – in an hour-and-a-half set, is there really time for a ten-minute rendition of Levon, particularly with the absence of hits such as Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word and Candle in the Wind?

Elton John performs live in Hyde Park in
2016. (Credit to Alan D West Photography.)

But the fabulous musicianship of his band – including veterans Nigel Olsson and Ray Cooper – more than compensate, particularly on spellbinding takes on Rocket Man and Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me, their gentle flourishes fleshing out John’s piano work. He ramps up the party atmosphere for the finale – a bombastic I’m Still Standing and rollicking rendition of Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting. At its conclusion, John consults with a stage-hand and discovers he only has two and a half minutes left. “It’s been a blast,” he shouts, “And I love you!”, before he tears into a rapid-fire rendition of glam-stomper Crocodile Rock, played at a breakneck pace, and evading the curfew by a mere second. He may not retain the power and range to command songs as he once did – but it’s undoubtable that John can still command audiences and deliver a feel-good blast six decades on. Long may he continue to do so.

RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW - Depeche Mode - Synth Masters Still Deliver an Animalistic Thrill - First Direct Arena, Leeds, 13.11.13

There’s something idiosyncratic about Depeche Mode’s encore of their show at Leeds’s First Direct Arena when, from the midst of gothic, dark electropop, they throw out the bouncy, gloriously technicolour synth-fun of Just Can’t Get Enough. It’s almost a mood whiplash, a one-eighty turn – but the delirious outpouring of screaming women and dad dancing that suddenly erupt feel like a positively sunny form of cathartic release. Basildon’s finest may have made an international name as proprietors of sexually-charged dance rock at the dawn of the nineties – but before then, they knew their way around a pop hook or four.

Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode, performing live
in Leeds in 2013. (Courtesy of Gigwise.)

The band are touring behind their thirteenth record Delta Machine tonight, and their show in Leeds is the first in the city for thirty years. Their club days are long gone – exclusively a stadium act in mainland Europe – and with it, they’ve honed a vein of alternative music that has influenced everyone from girl group The Saturdays to German metallers Rammstein. Once a foursome, now a trio, they have survived drug addiction, in-fighting and all the typical big band issues, without ever really troubling the tabloids either. They’ve appealed to the critics and to the fans, the snobs and the weirdos; Depeche Mode are the odd breed of band whose appeal transcends most boundaries.

In part, that success can be laid at the feet of Dave Gahan, their charismatic frontman. The 51-year-old is magnetic, in every sense; from the slow, hypnotic doom-laden synths of opener Welcome to My World, he struts, twists and pirouettes like a coiled spring and a restrained tiger across the stage, a compelling presence that draws the eye. Partially bare, with a black vest, he exudes a seductive, seedy charm, a rambunctious devil-like figure who charms with howls and whispers. It helps that he still possesses a fabulous voice; during the darkwave of Black Celebration, his baritone is exquisitely measured, tempering the animalistic hunger that threatens to spring loose and devour the ecstatic crowd. On A Pain That I’m Used To, he snarls like a wounded beast, and slowly grinds his hips against his microphone stand. It’s an astonishing tour-de-force frontman performance that is exhilarating dirty.

In sharp contrast, the band’s other two key members – Martin Gore and Andy Fletcher – are relatively low key and all the better for it, aided by an additional keyboard player and drummer. Out of the limelight they may be, but behind Gahan, they deliver a frantic performance, transforming synth-heavy songs into primitive hard industrial rock, Gore coaxing out nuanced riffs and melodies out of his sparkling guitar. Depeche Mode have always had the influence of the blues in their veins but here, it shines through, the figures intertwined with yearning vocal lines. Gore – dressed in a silver kilt – bleeds his fretboard dry on the rapturously received Walking in My Shoes, and performs similar histrionics on a punchy Policy of Truth. Behind him, Fletcher presides over proceedings with the air of an elder statesmen, a priest of sound; his delivers foreboding flourishes on Precious, whilst on Enjoy the Silence, he brings an orchestral grandeur to proceedings. Behind the group, the large screens flash images at odds with the music; dilapidated wheelbarrows rusting in a farmhouse, innocent puppies and, most disturbingly, various naked women crushed together in anatomically impossible positions. It’s immersive, dark sensory overload – and it succeeds in enrapturing the crowd.

Martin Gore and Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode,
performing live in Leeds in 2013. (Courtesy of Gigwise.)

Twice in the night, Gore takes the spotlight from Gahan to recasts versions of Judas and Shake the Disease in a beautiful solo-acoustic format – and offers an intriguing glimpse of what Depeche Mode could have been without their lion-chested frontman. But when Gahan returns to power through a sleazy Personal Jesus, there is the undeniable knowledge that he is irreplaceable; he is one of a kind. There are only minor gripes about the show – no real early hits outside of Just Can’t Get Enough Feature – but by the time a roaring, blues-and-thunder take on Never Let Me Down Again concludes proceedings, they’re forgotten in the haze of euphoria. Depeche Mode may have left their days of light, fabulous pop behind them a long time ago – but when they still sound this deliciously dark and sexy, that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Goo Goo Dolls - Buffalo Balladeers Serve Up Fist-Pumping Pop Joy - O2 Academy Leeds, Leeds, 09.10.16

“We’ve gotta come back to the UK sometime soon so we can watch QI again,” the eternally youthful Goo Goo Dolls frontman John Rzeznik states to a chorus of high, throaty laughs and deep chuckles that ripple through the near-two thousand people before him. “It used to be drugs and women – and now it’s just Stephen Fry.” It’s refreshing patter from the man, a step away from the somewhat banal and cliché lines enjoyed by many vocalists, and he visibly delights in the oddity and quirkiness he evokes with such comments.

John Rzeznik of the Goo Goo Dolls, performing live
in 2016. (Courtesy of chicagoconcertreviews.com)

This six-date UK tour – of which the O2 Academy in Leeds is the second stop – is pretty much the band’s only touring commitment behind latest effort Boxes that sees them venture outside North America. It’s curious how they’ve never broken the UK the way they did the US – though few post-grunge bands ever made huge waves here in the era of Cool Britannia. It’s arguably more surprising that they didn’t break through afterwards though – from their roots, the Buffalo band shifted to alt-rock balladeers in the mid-nineties, before their change to chart-humping pop rock in the last decade. They sound commercial and hungry – yet they remain an act known to the wider European public as somewhat of a one-hit wonder, which is rather a shame.

Their show tonight roughly splits three ways and touches upon all the key musical iterations of the band, with particular emphasis on Boxes and 2013's previous record Magnetic (the two albums contribute over a third of the setlist between them). From the hand-clap-heavy piano-pop of So Alive, to the scuzzy snarl of guitar on Long Way Down to the soft rock strumming of Black Balloon, Rzeznik and bassist Robby Takac (the only other permanent band member and co-founder thirty years ago) steer their set through an uplifting and joyful hundred minutes, mining a richly melodic vein in their songcraft. Opener Over and Over takes an echoing soundscape of chords over a violently percussive bass approach and marries it with a fist-pumping stadium-sized chorus. Rebel Beat is a slice of equally defiant power-pop that encourages arms aloft by the dozens.

Rzeznik is no fool either, and doesn’t overreach in pursuit of high range; he lowers his register for several older tracks, most notably on grungy-highlight Naked, and ably sidesteps any potential bum notes. Takac gamely takes lead vocals twice in the evening too; the highlight the first time is a well-worn version of classic track Smash, all sharp angst and sweaty spirit, whilst later on, it’s his tribute to the late Prince with a cover of I Could Never Take The Place of Your Man (recorded on their third album Hold Me Up) that is the show-stealer, featuring some scintillating guitar fretwork from Rzeznik. The pair, plus touring musicians Brad Fernquist, Korel Tunador and Craig Macintyre, are a slick unit too; they deliver fully-realised performances of Souls in the Machine, with its folksy, Midwestern strut, and are equally comfortable with the band’s biggest charting hit stateside, the gorgeous ballad Name, a song that brings a tear to the eye of several ladies (and a few men) in the house.

Robby Takac of the Goo Goo Dolls performing live
in 2016. (Courtesy of  Las Vegas Informer.)

It’s a testament to the band that their show doesn’t feel like an extended build-up to that ubiquitous number that made their name in Britain. Still, after rousing performances of pop-rockers The Pin and Stay With You, and to delirious screams, Iris is duly delivered. It’s worthy of the hype too – Rzeznik’s crowning songwriting achievement transcends its live setting as the crowd holler back the iconic refrain at him and Takac. It’s a beautiful moment, and perhaps it would have been better to finish the show right there, rather than rolling out two more tracks in the aftermath of the communal, emotional high. Still, Broadway goes down a storm, and encore Long Way Home reaffirms their singalong-songwriting chops. As Rzeznik and Takac say their goodnights and vanish quickly as the house lights pop up, they leave a few thousand devoted acolytes sated and satisfied. It’s a shame that the Goo Goo Dolls aren’t bigger in Britain, yes; but from their energetic performance here, they’ll remain America’s top pop-rock export and best-kept secret for a while yet.