It’s Saturday...and I begrudgingly wake up to the sweet song of seagulls outside my hotel window at roughly too early in the morning. The view from which is spectacular by the way...I’m overlooking the adjacent shopping precinct, so I get a wonderful look at the roof from an angle that aspiring scaffolders can only dream of. The seagulls mock me. I’m not hungover though which is a good thing (I think), so I have a quick shower and decide that, if I’m to cover a full day of bands today, I will need sustenance other than alcohol. Wetherspoons it is! I jest...I have my Michelin-Scarred breakfast and chill out until the 2pm doors at The Alhambra. 

There is a small queue of committed, early Goths formed on the street corner where The Alhambra is situated on the seafront...and in the sunshine, with people walking their dogs, joggers, general townsfolk going about their day...it’s a bizarre visual for a Saturday afternoon I have to admit, and I’m in the bloody queue! Nevertheless, we head in, find a table spot where there are again complimentary Haribo’s and other sweets (Listen, Goth’s like Gummy Bears too OK!) and we get our first drinks in, ready for our first band of the day...but it’s a slow start... 

The first band in question is ART GALLERY [2] who sadly suffer for several things...the first being the time. It’s 2pm and the weather is ACTUALLY nice, so the huge windows at the front of the building are letting all of the sunlight in. I’m wearing a fishnet shirt; I don’t want to explain THAT tan at the day job. Also, while we’re not REALLY vampires, the Sun doesn’t make us turn into dust, it DOES kill a Gothic atmosphere pretty quickly. Just close the bloody curtains! The vibe is well-off before we even start!

Secondly...it’s a motivational thing, and I’ll use my love of pro-wrestling as an example here. Typically...you want your first match of the night to be short, sharp, energetic and entertaining to rile up the crowd; get them settled and invested for a good time, which is why WCW succeeded with its Cruiserweight division. Gigs are the same...it doesn’t matter what genre you’re dealing with, have the opening act bring some fun, bring some energy and gear up the audience. Art Gallery don’t do that. An actual art gallery would be more audibly entertaining. They’re like a library for someone who can’t read. Just shut up and look at the pictures, all of which are black & white. Ironically Cathy went to a gallery yesterday that was disappointingly only half open, and that was still better. Cathy is now canon in Morecambe content... 
Songs like “Dandelions” utilise elements of post-punk, indie and shoegaze for an incredibly dreary number. Post-Surrealist apparently. Sometimes plants are pretty, sometimes plants are weeds, flowers or not...this is a weed of a song. There is some nostalgic Vox Continental instrumentation akin to THE ANIMALS or THE DOORS giving a sense of old-school authenticity but it’s rather drab. “On The Factory Floor” highlights industrial, working-class roots of the community and culture, which is applaudable, while “C’est La Vie” which translates as “Such Is Life” sums up the set. It happened; it’s a thing. The singer goes on a rant about how a bug flew into his mouth or throat, or something, and it nearly stopped him being able to perform for us today...it was just awkward between-track banter that made me wish the bug was Megaguirus.  

Our second band come accompanied by our 3rd pint of Detention, which is some guest ale, and it feels like I’m being punished with detention as DRAVE [3] hit the stage. There is a sluggish, stoner / grunge quality to the Indie rock they present, and it reminds me why I have zero intention of ever going to see a band like SLEAFORD MODS live. Or dead, either one. The practically spoken delivery of “White Whine” which sounds like the theme for some early 2000’s Channel 4 late-night show is uninspiring...while “Drave”...yes they named one of their songs after themselves...not a self-titled album...a song...and my first thoughts of the word are, oh it must be a play on words, like, a dreary rave, tongue in cheek type deal, like my own name. No. Drave is an archaic term for drive, as in to be forced or impelled. Well, I am forced to listen to this and impelled to tell you to not really bother with this lot. I mean you can, but don’t. I rambled there...lost my point...crap song. 

More weak pints of ale later because even though we improved the Dracula cocktails, they are still very sweet and not worth it, it’s time for band number three, IAMIMPERFECT [6] who at least bring some tunes despite their honesty. Tracks like “Static & Feeling” embrace a very alt. electronic, pre-programmed approach that you can compare to artists like CELLDWELLER or SCANDROID etc. They sound like they would genuinely be at home on the FiXT roster to be fair which is an honest endorsement. “Inside Of Me” has a softer vocal approach generally but it’s similar, and credit to them they produce some catchy noise. Easily the first highlight of the day. 

Who do we have next? SUBATOMIC STRANGERS [6] have travelled from Belgium to Morecambe and I'm personally grateful of that, as vocalist Sharon Braye has a fantastic set of pipes on her. Only two albums into their career, she projects herself like a seasoned veteran and really carries the group, who peddle more synth-driven emotionally tinged indie-rock. “What Goes Around” is a funk-driven, light guitar piece with a decent hook, while “Air” harbours more of a ballad quality; being crooned away nicely to their credit. The primary highlight however comes from “Ashes Of The Past”, as we get our first bout of crowd-interaction and sing-along participation. The simple yet melodic “Whoa-oh’s” give light IRON MAIDEN chorus vibes and it’s fun to see a room full of Goth’s have a bit of a sing song. They don’t blow you away, but they are enjoyable, despite not quite fitting the aesthetic as you’d imagine. 

Speaking of, we have our next band, THE EDDIES [6] who take the post out of post-punk. Yes, the Scottish ensemble are a straight-up punk band, and while there is absolutely nothing wrong with that, there was a nagging thought in the back of my mind that they would be like PRETTY ADDICTED from 2025. Fine on paper and in principle but presented with the finesse of a coat-hanger abortion. What? That’s exactly what she sounded like! Luckily The Eddies don’t have that issue as despite the punk-by-numbers sound, they are vibrant and provide a welcomed dose of energy at the halfway point. They’ve been asked to play before, but scheduling conflicts prevented it until now, and I’m glad it came when it did. Tracks like “Control” off of the album “Unfinished Business” just deliver simple, no-nonsense punk rock, and the crowd are moving. What more could you ask for? Food...that is the answer...and luckily, it’s half-time. 

​The little kitchen area opens, and once again they have some hearty vegetable curry with rice and naan, and also the option of cheesy nacho’s with salsa, hot dogs and burgers. It’s a welcome respite from the so-far generally uninspiring line-up, and while the sound-quality has been OK, the sounds themselves pack as much punch as these pints of Detention. It’s barely beer flavoured water really and I’ve been to the toilet about eleventeen hundred times already...time for some red wine before I detox! Mind you, a plastic wine glass? Of course...where is Marcel Lucont when you need his vitriolic verbiage towards such heinous crimes. Sacre bleu!  

Dinner is over, and we’re on the final stretch as the last couple of bands are ready to round-off Corrosion 2026...as next up we have SEEKERS ARE LOVERS [2]. It might as well have been a death row meal as these died a death. The German outfit combine electronic inspired early post-punk with wailing and screeching guitar licks more akin to thrash and glam metal in places, yet have the stage presence of that failed Trump assassination. I mean they tried but, it was a bit embarrassing, and a bit of a failure, and the only things hurt are our ears. Even the mic stand gave up, falling over at least three times. The universe sends its hints. Tracks like “Hunting A Ghost” have more mood and atmosphere but overall, the best thing about this band was the bassist. I wholeheartedly apologise for any notion of sexism or misogyny but, to be fair, she was pretty. Doesn’t say much for the band when that is your only honest highlight. Actually I take that back...the highlight was the fact they DIDN’T play their cover of “Smalltown Boy”...merciful god... 

Next, we have our penultimate band and thank the ever-loving fuck for MANUSKRIPT [10]. EASILY, not only the best band of the night but of the entire weekend and I’m so glad they have been booked here today! These Nottingham based rockers have been on Mike and Donna’s radar for a while, so seeing the glee on Mike’s face when he introduced them on stage, saying he remembers seeing them so many years ago, it was another reminder that, this is at its heart, a community. There are your regulars, your relatives near and far, neighbours, new friends, old acquaintances, and this is what we live for. The dance floor is packed as these veterans absolutely OWN the stage.  

They coincidentally open with MORECAMBE & WISE hit “Bring Me Sunshine”, which I used to introduce part one of my review, great minds think alike! Their new single “Doomscrolling” does more than show there’s life in these veterans yet, as they have a satirical socio-political stab at the world, but they are so jovial in general! There is an idiot at the front with a damn Glastonbury style Manuskript flag, waving it around like Hulk Hogan at WrestleMania VII, ready to defend some sort of honour. You are indoors...put the flag away...Nottingham they are from not Normandy...fucking hell.  

Tracks like “Natural High” and “No Reprise” really showcase the bands tendencies of bridging 90’s Brit-pop aesthetics with more traditional 80’s synth-rich proto-Goth ideas musically, and it’s a fantastic combination, while the unexpected cover of PET SHOP BOYS classic “It’s A Sin” harbours a wonderfully gleeful sing-along. Now I’ll be honest...Manuskript are a real example of a band’s band...and I say that as, I went into this weekend only really checking out some tracks on Spotify to get a gauge of their style and sound...and on paper they were alright...but on stage? They rewrote the script. The between song banter, the camaraderie between the members, the noticeable, genuine fun the guys were having on stage, the crowd interaction...these guys SHOULD have headlined the weekend in all honesty...but we still have one more band to come... 

On first listen, Canada’s TRAITRS [7] should be on par performance wise, as they have been entrusted with closing the weekend, and have a decent enough back catalogue to pluck from, but, they somehow manage to fall a little flat. Opening track “Oh, Ballerina” starts slowly, teasing atmosphere and anticipation, before growing into this energetic, proto-Goth plume of nostalgia. The pace of the percussion here drives this track with an impatience, as it dances desperately around The Alhambra.  

Tracks like “The Suffering Of Spiders” channel the likes of THE CURE, especially with Shawn Tucker’s vocals, being delivered with a pained drone amidst the light, melodic and synth-backed guitars and prominent bassline. “Mouth Poisons” sounds like a term Danhausen would diagnose you with for telling lies before cursing you, but it’s a catchy enough, melodic piece of post-punk. Early cuts like “Youth Cults” house THE SMITHS elements and overall, the band sound like an amalgamation of iconic early influences with a modern production budget and software.  

As decent as these are, I still believe Manuskript should have been the ones to close the show this weekend as they clearly had the biggest following and reception, but truthfully this Saturday as a whole, has been a little underwhelming. A lot of the bands are new or simply have very little material to play with for numerous reasons, and while it is genuinely fantastic that they are given a chance, and a platform through weekends such as this, it’s a hell of a trip out of your way to Morecambe with expenses, to take a gamble on a sadly shallow line-up.  

On one hand sure, we turn up regardless because at the end of the day it IS about friends and community, we enjoy the company, the reunion and the celebration of Goth subculture... but on the other hand, we are still there for a weekend line-up of bands by the by and, for the most part this weekend, Saturday mainly, the bands are just a bit...boring. I leave The Alhambra, full of weak ale, cold in the seaside March air, appreciating the community and grateful for working alongside some truly wonderful people, staying as positive as I can ahead of a 200+ mile trip home on a Sunday. Has this line-up put me off future events? Hell no... I’ll be around...just as I purchased a Morecambe FC shirt on this visit, I will support the Shrimps and cockle pickers (Damnit we were so close!) of the Alhambra team and continue to give my honest feedback and try to encourage more people to attend future events. Embrace a little West-coast adventure. September see’s the return of BATS IN THE ATTIC...a week after I’m in Helsinki, Finland, for THE 69 EYES...I'm going to be absolutely knackered... watch this space...I’m going to need stronger beer than Detention that's for sure!

​“Bring me sunshine...in your smile. Bring me laughter...all the while. In this world where we live, there should be more happiness. So much joy you can give, to each brand-new bright tomorrow”... Such positive, inspirational and heart-warming lyricism from British TV comedy royalty, Morecambe & Wise...which, admittedly I am now going to absolutely, brutally contradict by once again, returning to Morecambe town. Already my third consecutive Gothic weekender...time flies when you wish you were having fun...I jest. Happiness is subjective; it’s a grey area...a bit like Morecambe’s weather front...or is it? 

Yes, it’s time for CORROSION FEST 2026, and we have another splendid couple of nights to look forward to at the Alhambra, where we celebrate multicultural subculture as bands from the UK, Europe and beyond champion some things synthy, plenty of things post-punky and generally all things Goth coated.  Join me on another adventure north, as we hope the bands play all of the right notes, but actually in the right order... 

The journey up to Morecambe on Thursday isn’t as gruelling this time around, as I bit the bullet and got the train from Cardiff instead of the coach, which I can estimate saved me around 3-5 business days travel time. The coach maybe cheaper, but it’s honestly on par with expecting a parcel from EVRI...delivery estimated between 1pm Thursday and November 25th 2029.  

Last March, Morecambe seemed like a ghost town as I've previously stated, but...to my utter disbelief, the sun was out, and the little seaside town had a buzz of activity! There were people sat outside Wetherspoons chattering away, there were kids in the little skatepark, bunking off school given the time of day...people walking dogs along the seafront...it was...warm! I half expected to see Judith Chalmers Zimmer-framing it across the bay! Anyway, quick beverage, check into my hotel, bite to eat, meet up with Donna, Mike and the early bird crew for evening drinks, redeem myself at pool at Davy Jones Locker (Sorry Cathy) and look forward to another wonderful weekend of live music. Sleep is well overdue.

Friday as always only has the 4-band evening line-up, so I have a day to explore and chill ahead of opening night. The obligatory fridge magnets and tea-towels were purchased, but this time I went on an extra side-quest. I’m a football fan, and my team is Man United...as unpleasant as that has been in the last decade...but I also have soft spots for some neutral teams. My Grandad used to play for Portsmouth back in the day, so I follow their results...and there are others like Merthyr Town, Fulham or HJK Helsinki for example. All those aside, I had a wander around town to visit the Mazuma Stadium, because with Morecambe FC struggling in the relegation zone of the National League...I wanted to visit the gift shop and support the club.  

The lady at the counter wasn’t expecting anyone to be fair, as she was deep throating a croissant and not prepared to serve a random Welsh customer not long after opening! Wiping the pastry crumbs off my receipt, with my new Morecambe FC home shirt and wrist bands...I felt part of a seaside community. What cost me £30 for a shirt...didn’t cost me my life, unlike some certain cockle pickers... (DAMNIT GAV YOU DID IT AGAIN! FFS! WE’RE OVER THIS!) 

Let’s get back on track, shall we? Yes? Good. After a brief delay at doors, we’re back at The Alhambra, my first Jack & Coke is purchased, and we’re ready for our opening act; SCHEITAN [5]. The Swedish duo are a pleasant enough introduction to the weekends line-up, with their subtle blend of synthy rock, which you’ll be interested to know is a complete departure from their 1996 origins. While initially black metal inspired, after an incredibly lengthy hiatus, they returned with a far more melodic, post-punk aesthetic and it’s a far mellower, accessible shift in direction. Tracks like “Heaven Tonight” are wonderfully light, airy and electronically tinged, while “A Kiss Of Death” and “Love ‘N Death” round off the promotion of the album “Wine For A Tormented Soul”.  

I could do with some of that frankly, the Jack & Coke tastes off. Trust me I should know. There is a simplicity here that harks back to early 2000’s THE 69 EYES, where they first truly embraced an almost-baritone, Gothic rock approach as opposed to their garage glam roots, and it works here too. Tracks like “Hearse” from “Songs For The Gothic People” remind us that we’re all here to embrace the community, as you only live once and these moments are to be appreciated. A solid first band, but being openers on day one, we’re not exactly at capacity just yet, but they go down well. 

Next up we have my first highlight of the weekend, as we welcome DARKWAYS [8] from Barcelona, Spain. The last time I was in Spain I was a young teenager, really just getting into rock and metal...and for the life of me I can’t recall ever seeing anyone of an alternative disposition, bar one record store in Tossa De Mar where I bought “Untouchables” by KORN (The best Korn album IMO) while on holiday...so to have a post-punk/darkwave band from Spain get to also witness the depression that is this seaside town is beautiful. 

Tracks like “Ash Maker” blend post-punk qualities with New-Romantic vibes for a catchy little number with some distinct, almost nasally vocals, and while dark in its own right, it’s got plenty of pop hooks, resulting in a dance-floor filler. “Leaves No Trace Behind”, with its up-tempo delivery, completes the promotion of “Rust” but disappointingly they don’t play “Rust” itself which I find annoying. They do however round things up with a fantastic rendition of “I Like The Night (And The Night Likes Me)” which again, is a rallying cry for all in attendance, to embrace their true selves, which is what these events are for. 

DER HIMMEL [5] are up next and I have to admit...I’m giving them a neutral score because I was otherwise engaged. Sorry guys. Sure, the German sounding Italian’s performed well enough, and one can assume they played “Sweet Dancing Butterfly”, which gives off SISTERS OF MERCY vibes, going off background noise alone, but I was off getting a signed vinyl from DARWKWAYS and correcting the cocktails at the bar. They had a special on...”Dracula’s Kiss”...which was cherry vodka and coke. Incredibly tart. Me and Cathy were like...do us a favour, make that but chuck some Amaretto in there as well. The barmaid complies...and et voila...you’ve gone from “Dracula’s Kiss” to “Dracula’s Battenberg”. You are welcome. Der Himmel might have played “White Dream” as well...I don’t know. I’m assuming at this point, but as far as background noise goes, it’s alright. 

Finally, then, we get Friday’s headliner’s, MOTEL TRANSYLVANIA [8] who bring a whole new rock ‘n’ roll aura to proceedings. Despite only having the one album under their belt, they carry themselves with a certain swagger and self-assured confidence befitting Bonafide rock stars, and these Italian’s are here to have fun. With their harder rock and metal intensity, coupled with light industrial elements, they remind of SOUTH OF SALEM mixed with DOPE STARS INC. in places and I’m sure both sets of fans would appreciate these, with tracks like “Plastic World” and “Burning Lust”. There is a lot of cussing, effing and blinding and you get the idea they are enjoying every living second of being rock stars headlining tonight...but we have to remember they are one album deep into their career, they aren’t exactly LIMP BIZKIT right now...so the swearing does come across as a bit cringe after a while. Cunts. Jokes aside, the band manage to get dancers on stage to really hammer home the party/celebratory atmosphere and coupled with GOTHZILLA’s Tim Jarvis joining them for an incredible rendition of “Children Of The Dark”...this set is nothing short of triumphant.  They came to have fun and boy did they. 
Corrosion night one is always a brief affair, but it perfectly sets a mood and tone for the weekend as a whole. Everyone is dressed up, the tunes and beers flow in harmony, people are dancing, people are catching up from either BITA or last year's Corrosion, and it really does feel like a family gathering. Most festivals are sold on the popularity of the headliners or the line-up as a whole...that’s an afterthought at best in Morecambe...I mean you’ve got Italian and Spanish alternative and darkwave bands playing an English seaside town famous for comedy in the 1970’s...and it’s not done for laughs. This is community driven...and the support is abundant. Whitby might be celebrated but it’s also compromised...if you like to take part in a Gothic Comicon then by all means, but if you appreciate the music, the subculture and the community without the bells and whistles; if you want to discover new bands...go West...and I don’t mean John West...no cockles there...GODDAMNIT! Look just check out Morecambe...please. This was just night one. Words: Gavin Griffiths

Dealing with all of these first world problems I forget momentarily that there is in fact another band to play, and I’m not about to complain because D-A-D [8] are fucking good to be fair. While I might not appreciate Portuguese gig etiquette or manners on this first experience I can sure as hell enjoy a good band, who to zero surprise, deliver a superb set. They open up with the classic “Jihad” which see’s tonight’s crowd finally come to life. There may be no fuel left for the pilgrims, but Portugal has seemingly been saving energy for these Dane’s and it’s fascinating to see different cultures appreciate different bands. it was 2019 D-A-D last played in the UK...but they are adored here! 

That 1989 record seemingly strikes a chord with this crowd as “Girl Nation” and ESPECIALLY “Point Of View” get rapturous sing-along moments of sheer joy. This is wonderfully insane to me as the majority of punters are dressed like Lisboa Ao Vivo is a library not a venue...and any sense of subculture visually is an afterthought. The crowd here really are giving it their all for D-A-D and it’s frankly educational. 

 ICE NINE KILLS at the Hydro in Glasgow felt like going through a haunted house I'd already been dragged through a dozen times, only this time the walls smelled faintly of vape juice and overpriced nachos. The night opened with a tape of NICK CAVE's "Red Right Hand" bleeding out of the PA-a warning I should have listened to, rather than trying to act brave in front of people twice my size. Glasgow crowds don't scare easily, but I do-so naturally, the band kicked things off with "Meat & Greet", all meat, very little greeting, and enough theatrics to remind me I probably should've updated my will.
 
I'll give them this much: it must have been a very expensive production. Fog machines were coughing up more smoke than I ever managed in my teenage bedroom, and somewhere around "Funeral Derangements", I remembered these guys treat horror tropes like sacred scripture. The audience roared. I flinched. My drink was trembling like we were in Jurassic Park, only with more eyeliner and fewer scientific credentials.
 
But as the setlist grew, I did start to wonder if maybe I should be by "Hip To Be Scared". There's something unnerving about a band so committed to murder ballads that you start checking the exits. I kept thinking some masked extra might leap out and slash ticket holders for "immersion." No such luck. Probably cut for budget.
 
At the beginning of "Stabbing In The Dark", I got a sharp poke in the ribs - turns out that was just someone trying to get past me to film, on their phone. Terrifying either way. "Wurst Vacation", predictably, made me hungry rather than horrified which I doubt was the intended response. Maybe I'm desensitized or maybe horror-core metal just needs more actual risk these days. Something real, like malfunctioning pyros or, a reasonable bar price.
 
And then, because irony is a performance art, they segued into a cover of KATRINA & THE WAVES hit single "Walking On Sunshine" (Taken from the "American Psycho" soundtrack album). I didn't know whether to laugh or run. The Hydro briefly morphed into a horror-themed wedding reception before sliding back into "Rainy Day" like nothing weird had happened.
 
The middle stretch included “The Great Unknown”, “Ex-Mørtis” and a heartfelt BOSSTONES cover (“The Impression That I Get”). At this point in the set, my initial nerves had eased up a bit, and I was able to enjoy things more. Clearly the band loves its costume changes, and I can appreciate the effort—though standing for two hours isn’t necessarily my favourite thing in the world. The crowd seemed to be having a generally good time, and that’s enough.
 
Things picked up again with "A Grave Mistake", either the title of a song or my internal monologue for attending. By "The Laugh Track", though, I was anything but laughing, though the theatrics tried hard-fake blood, stage screams, the usual metal Halloween carnival. Somewhere around "The Shower Scene", I caught myself actually enjoying the melodrama; it annoyed me deeply.

"Welcome to Horrorwood" came across like a blockbuster movie trailer I'd seen one too many times: all glossy and loud, before "IT Is The End" wrapped the main set in a bow soaked with nostalgia, gore, and theatrical camp. The crowd loved it.
Of course, for the encore, we got "The American Nightmare", plus "A Work Of Art" featuring Hannah Greenwood (From main support band CREEPER), who was goth-charming enough to make me forget that I'm supposed to be unimpressed. I shrugged, pretended I'd seen better, and tried not to look emotionally touched in public.
 
As the audience were leaving the venue, there were cries of "THAT WAS KILLER!" Maybe it was. I'm numb. I scare easy, but nothing seems to get under my skin anymore. Maybe that's the real horror-you can blast me with chainsaws, costumes, and blood-splatter theatrics, and all I can think of is how long it's going to take to get a taxi in the rain. Words: Matt Denny.

When THE BIRTHDAY MASSACRE played La Belle Angele on Sunday 26th October 2025, Edinburgh had worked hard to freeze and soak us all into submission. The title of the venue "the beautiful angel"—was a snarky let-down as goths shuffled in the door, dripping eyeliner and despair. One guy's perfectly coiffed hair had been pushed down by the savage harshness of Scottish weather. Another was cinching their velvet jacket in like a filthy rag. This is what religion tastes like at 7 PM on Sunday when you're fifty two and your knees hurt. In here, though, the club shone like a dream preserved in a space between a Hot Topic and a weird dollhouse.

The bar was doing great business in gin, the unofficial drink of people who've long since forgotten lying to themselves about needing to "loosen up" for a concert. THE BIRTHDAY MASSACRE are less a group and more a time capsule that never really got lost. They've been doing this for over twenty years now—this fizzy-splotched, synth-saturated melodrama of broken hearts—and it continues to work because they understand the force of myth. Everyone else from the mid-2000s tried to rebrand themselves as ironic fathers or crypto-interested podcasters, TBM doubled down. Same aesthetic, same dedication to emotional overstatement, same refusal to pretend like you outgrow it. The issue with nostalgia, however, is that it's embarrassing. We're supposed to roll our eyes at our teens, erase the LiveJournal posts, act like we never stood for three hours mastering winged eyeliner to see a band play in a club that smelled of Red Bull spilled and shattered dreams.

The Birthday Massacre began with "Night Shift", which thudded like a neon requiem—half candyfloss, half corpse makeup. The synthesizers burbled like smoke machines full of existential horror. "Sleep Tonight" interrupted later, its chorus washing over the audience like some collective breath of all who have known what it is to feel things honestly.

The audience had melted into one, flowing mass by "Sleepwalking" and "Superstition"—middle-aged goths singing along as teenagers again in EVANESCENCE-poster-filled rooms and bad poetry. The woman next to me was crying. Not crying—just cold-hard, plain tears, the sort that demand this has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with what the music represents. Maybe it's the version of her she'd imagined herself to be. Maybe it's the friends who'd all stopped answering calls when they'd all gotten "real jobs." There was also a marriage proposal which caused more tears. This time, tears of joy mixed with the running of freshly applied mascara.

This is the band for all of the freaks who still get this strange pang of nostalgia when they hear the words "LiveJournal," that mourns the return to the way MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE made existential crisis sound like a halftime show. My Chemical Toilet (Sorry, Romance) gave the game's introduction to a whole generation of kids who had to ask permission before they could possibly be allowed big feelings out there in the world. MCR, though, had that melodramatic detachment, that comic book mythos, that being-in-character thing. Gerard Way wore his heart on his sleeve, sure, but the sleeve was a costume. It was safe because it was in disguise. By "Kill The Lights", I finally understood that TBM are what MCR would have been had they abandoned their leather jackets and lost whatever sense of saving anyone.

But TBM sing to the same children in their twenties, having bought a house they can ill afford and discovered their fear to have no prejudice against eyeliner.

It's a subtle but essential one: MCR wanted to save your soul; TBM only want to give it a comfortable home in which to live. There is something nearly obscene in seeing a cohort of adult men and women in their thirties and their forties bending to this kind of sincerity. We can do better than this. We're supposed to listen to murder podcasts and bob our heads up and down in agreement to whatever algorithmic playlist Spotify determines is right for our "vibe." But there we all were, shoulder to shoulder in a decidedly über-capacity space, bobbing our heads to tunes of melancholy and darkness as if 2006 and anything else was once more possible.

Chibi, the ghost ringmaster of all time, has that kind of charm that can turn even mannered Scottish goths into cult acolytes. She grins like a ghost remembering human existence. You don't often get a front woman who can survey a horizon of PVC corsets and black lipstick and make everyone feel spied upon and not scrutinized.

She could have sold us all a coffin and we would have loved the regard. There's a commerciality to her stage that teeters on the edge of the uncomfortable. No congratulatory theatrics, no pretences of modesty, she’s merely a woman in her own space, acutely conscious that every single individual in this room has paid money for the privilege of sitting in on something polite society is otherwise well-trained to button up. She wields that sensitivity as a scalpel. With "The Vanishing Game" and "Lovers End", however, the band had it nailed, with just a touch of self-awareness to see how dorky it is. The bassist looked like someone who'd been playing that long he'd at last achieved some sort of zen plateau.

The guitarist's fingers bore the muscle memory of a player who plays these songs so many times that they become second nature to him.

This is what artistry is like when it has been sharpened to the point of almost spiritual fervour. At one point, someone beside me exclaimed, "I love you, Chibi!" with the sort of arid seriousness that only the gin and tonics and ten years of repressed despair can allow. The audience laughed—not at him, but because we've all been that guy. Some of us still are.

"Destroyer" exploded in heroic peril; "Under Your Spell" swayed with agonizing suffering. And then "Pins and Needles"--still the best synth-goth tune ever dreamed up—hit, and the room literally bounced up off the floor. Everybody screamed the song out, off-tune and completely sincere. You could sense the overall feeling of catharsis in the room: irony was actually dead, and nobody cared. This is something they don't teach you when you're growing up: you don't actually grow out of the things that saved you. You learn to be ashamed of them.

You learn to giggle first, before everyone else. You learn to insert the words "guilty pleasure" into your vocabulary, rather than just "pleasure," to excuse the things that make you live. But here, in such places as this one, the apologetic squinch is abandoned. No apologies are offered. Nobody is guilty. By the time they reached "Happy Birthday", it was catharsis in plain sight—a hymn that imbues sentiment and mourning with a kind of religious fervour. Chibi delivered it with an unusual euphoria, half-teasing, half-mourning innocence. It's the only hymn that comes to mind that employs "happy" as an illness. Everyone was crying in earnest now, and no one cared who noticed. What is armour for if you never take it off?

The charm of The Birthday Massacre is that they've finally figured it out, something that most bands will spend the rest of their careers attempting to find: they know who they are and who they're playing it for. And then "Red Stars" and "Blue"—two songs that're literally an epilogue to this perpetual puberty.

In a world in which the truth is employed as a punchline, in which it's more popular to be talking about the fact that you don't care about something than not caring about anything at all, perhaps that is the punkiest thing that's left. They're not here to save the world. They're not here to save you. They're just creating room for the part of you that never did learn how to do normalcy very, very well. The part that still appreciates the fog machines and purple lights. The part that gets it, deep within its heart of hearts, that becoming grown-up was always a charade.

MCR would quote that teens scare the wits out of everyone. But The Birthday Massacre? They're here when those teens grow up—and terrorize themselves. When they're at home and the phone is ringing. When they look in the mirror and their parent's faces stare back, but the music remains unchanged. And on a genuine note? That's scarier than anything Gerard Way ever wrote.

We scattered out into the October darkness, satisfied and dressed in black, already anticipating the next chance to meet up and revel in our common fate. Some accompanied us to the local chip shop, because even existential terror cannot do without proper fuel. Whilst others went on to the Cowgate's establishments, hoping to extend the evening's fellowship with the dark through the ageless Scottish ritual of drinking. until great ideas come or oblivion sets in (whichever comes first).

THE BIRTHDAY MASSACRE, undoubtedly, packed up their equipment with the same weary professionalism that all road musicians have to possess in order to be ready to decamp to the next town, the next venue, the next set of devotees clamouring for their daily dose of cultured despair. It's an odd existence, really, to travel the world warning folks that life is sad by nature, but at least it sounds pretty nice. Words: Matt Denny.

There is a musician—uneven, almost mythic in our debased era—who steps out into the stage bearing the burdens of the road itself. JACK J HUTCHINSON is such a being. Here, on this Edinburgh evening in October, in this small and sacred space of the world famous Bannerman;s, he stood over us not as diversion but as testament. Not as singer of songs, but as medium through whom the real burden of living bears witness. One could almost hear the universe exhale, "Don't worry—your life's suffering now has a soundtrack."

The fedora was a vagabond crown, pride of the unsettled. It was sitting on something far more solid, however. What it was notable to mention was the charged atmosphere in the room as he stepped onto that stage. What it was notable to mention was the recognition, immediate and genuine, that we were witnessing something that cannot be reproduced again, cannot be manufactured in any studio or factory of our highly industrialized desolation. I mean, mass-producing.

His bearing commanded but not demanding. No art inclining into attitude, no thoughtful turning of attitude. There was a man who had lived correctly, and had elected to translate that living into music. The difference is important. Most artists paint self-portraits. Hutchinson painted an account, a confession, an accounting. If the severe accountant of life ever makes an appearance, he'd take his lead from Hutchinson.

Nothing was measured but sound, and the truth pouring black wine-like out of that guitar. Each note an agony, each line a confession yanked out of the bowels of experience. The instrument itself an extension not of talent but of vision. This is hard metaphor's language; this is explanations for what happened in that room. And yes, some of those individuals will have you wanting death to be easier.

He spoke of suffering borne. Of a liberty's requirement. Of transmuting agony into something which scorches and off it goes. This is shaman's work—the alchemy of sorrow into beauty. Or, if cynics prefer, the not-so-glamorous alchemy of turning misery into something an admission fee can be hawked for. The room was stirred at once. There was no space between Hutchinson and the people; space was gone the instant he played that initial note. We were no longer spectators, only witnesses to a more ancient ritual than rock and roll, older than electricity itself, perhaps older than plain common sense.

The technicality of his playing was apparent to anyone who was paying attention. There was a guitarist in there who had spent thousands of hours on the thing, not toward virtuosity, but toward saying something. His fingers take openings other people would cut out as being too hard, too clever, and make them requirements. That is, Hutchinson makes your errors appear like amateur hour—and generously advises you'll be dead before you catch up.

The setlist blazed its way through the wastes of obscurity and rebellion. The songs were lights on a highway. Some dipped and blunt as desert rock, some burning with a bruised loveliness. There was anger there, yes. A refusal to trade and compromise. Not the adolescent fury of the eternally outraged, but the fury of the adult who has seen the middling machine working its will and knows it will always outlive us all anyway. And vulnerability—not the pseudo types the corporate world markets and sells as "authenticity" but is still very dishonest, rather the genuine article. A man's nudity after learning that to exist one must drop all pretence. To be vulnerable to strangers takes courage. Hutchinson possessed it. Or perhaps madness—one or the other, it did the trick.

The emotional arc was complicated—unpredictable and non-linear. Intensity, stoic contemplation, moments when melody and structure disintegrated into raw emotion, and moments when you felt like the universe would finally let some other unfortunate piece of humanity have a turn to mourn. Spoiler: it won't.

His playing communicated someone who had paid their dues in blood and time. No flash for the sake of flash, but a forceful eloquence, notes applied with the stinginess of the man who knows that every movement is valuable. This is the tremendous difference between the journeyman and the serious artist. The journeyman learns tricks. The artist learns when to refrain from using them. Hutchinson could probably teach you how to turn a funeral into a carnival and you'd be beholden to him. The music took a course through thematic landscape we could describe as the underworld and back. In short, the musical equivalent of making peace with the Grim Reaper isn't coming after you—he's taking notes.

There were questions of obedience and faith, of the depth of commitment and relation. There was cosmic metaphor—star and empty spaces out there—against the intimate reality of a man fingering a guitar in a rock cell in Scotland. It was as if one heard the universe's claims adjuster nod in concurrence. Most astonishing to me was the lack of sentimentality. Hutchinson steers clear of the tacky tear, the slobbery emotional button-pushing. In its stead, he offers unadorned honesty that embarrasses most music-making today.

Where you're the one taking the blows, translating the agony, and crafting something that smoulders with a fire more intense than any vacuous lie or soothing fantasy. Or in plain terms, he makes life look like hell—and beautiful.
Inside a Scottish stone chamber, all that changed. Those who saw it know. The others only get the echoes. And, if you're lucky enough, you may even succumb to jealousy before the next performance. Words: Matt Denny.

 I don’t travel to gigs much anymore. Not since the last one ended with a power cut, a medical evacuation, and me explaining to a very patient police officer that “technically” pyrotechnics aren’t illegal if you’re passionate. But when DeWOLFF announced a show at The Voodoo Rooms, I thought, why not? Worst case, I’d die in Edinburgh. Best case, I’d hear some real music before the paramedics arrived.
The journey up felt biblical, but not in the uplifting way—more in the plagues and retribution way. The train swayed through sheets of rain so thick you couldn’t tell where the sky ended and the land began. The windows fogged, the passengers stared at their phones like sinners at confession, and I sat there wondering which one of us would snap first. Edinburgh greeted me like a bad omen in a trench coat: wet, brooding, and whispering that I’d made a mistake. You don’t go to Edinburgh for the weather; you go because something in you wants to be punished.
The Voodoo Rooms lived up to its name—half ballroom, half fever dream. The ceiling shimmered like melted gold, the walls hummed with the memory of too many bad nights, and the stage looked like a shrine built for the damned. I ordered a drink that tasted like despair with citrus notes and waited for the band.
Then DeWolff appeared. No fanfare, no fake humility. Just three men who looked like they’d crawled out of a swamp in Alabama and hitchhiked to Scotland to remind us what soul music is supposed to feel like. They plugged in, nodded once, and unleashed something that sounded like a sermon delivered by the devil himself.
The first few songs came on slow, thick, and sinful—like honey dripping off a knife. You could tell what they were about without hearing a word. Long nights. Bad promises. Love that rots from the inside out. It wasn’t storytelling; it was confession. The kind you whisper when you think God’s already turned his back.
Pablo van de Poel played his guitar the way surgeons cut flesh—precise, clinical, but with just enough pleasure to make you uneasy. His brother Luka didn’t so much play the drums as interrogate them, each hit landing like a question you don’t want answered. And Robin Piso on Hammond—he wasn’t playing music. He was summoning it. Notes poured out of that organ like smoke from an altar fire, thick and holy and slightly unhinged.
Midway through the set, something shifted. The air got heavier. The lights dimmed to the colour of dying embers. A song began that could only have been written by someone who’s watched a relationship die and thought, good. The crowd went silent—not respectful silent, but afraid silent. No one wanted to break the spell. It was beautiful, the way watching a car crash in slow motion is beautiful.
You could feel the ghosts of Muscle Shoals in the room—the ache of Etta, the sweat of Pickett, the dirt of Leon Russell—lurking somewhere behind the amps, nodding along in approval. DeWolff weren’t imitating that legacy. They were feeding it. You could tell they’d been to the mountain, or at least to the part of Alabama where God still drinks bourbon and smokes indoors.
As the set went on, the songs got darker. One of them sounded like temptation given a melody—something you’d play while driving home from a sin you enjoyed too much. Another was pure heartbreak, slow and reverent, like a funeral for feelings you never deserved. The closing number wasn’t so much a song as a reckoning. It started like forgiveness and ended like revenge.
When it was over, the crowd didn’t clap right away. They just stared. The band left the stage quietly, leaving us there to pick through the ashes. Then the applause came—loud, raw, desperate. Like everyone in the room had just been resuscitated against their will.
I walked out into the night. The rain was still falling, of course—it always is in Edinburgh—but it felt different now. Like it was cleansing something. The city shimmered in the streetlights, damp and alive and entirely indifferent. Somewhere behind me, someone was still humming one of the songs. Or maybe it was just the sound of the storm.
DeWolff didn’t just play a gig. They performed a ritual. They raised the ghosts of Muscle Shoals and fed them Scottish whiskey until they sang through the walls. I’ve seen bands try to fake soul, to bottle it, to wear it like a costume. DeWolff doesn’t do that. They bleed it.
And as I headed back through the soaked, cobbled streets, I couldn’t shake the thought: some bands make you believe in love again. DeWolff makes you believe in damnation—and makes it sound glorious. Words: Matt Denny.

It’s Saturday, September 20th, and I wake up in my Travelodge hotel room in Morecambe, and you know when your compos mentis but are fully aware of the fact you are incredibly hungover at the same time? You need a minute. I look up at the TV, which is still on, I don’t know what I’ve been watching, but I know it wasn’t disabled porn, they said it was, I may have gotten confused. There’s a Burger King gift bag on my desk; they have room service? No, it’s empty, that was from last night, that’s a good sign. I ate. Check the note...LANCASTER? I can’t remember going to Lancaster? Oh no wait, I used Uber. Wait what?! How much did that cost?! Fuck me it may as well have come from Camelot.  

I stick my nose out the window for some clarity and fresh air, the type that only opens around 3 inches to prevent suicide, I admire their foresight, and all I see through the pouring rain is more rain, despair and clouds promising even more rain. Eric Draven said it can’t rain all the time...the bastard is a liar, as he’s clearly never been to Morecambe in September. I know the football team are called the shrimps but surely, they don’t play in an aquarium? What’s the pitch made of? Seaweed?  

Anyway, I digress...after a shower, a quick dash to Wetherspoons down the street for breakfast, there wasn’t a lot of time before Saturday’s shenanigans, as we have a full day of bands today, starting at 2pm. Back in March, I made the mistake of not realising this and ended up missing half of CORROSION, but this time I am prepared. What I wasn’t prepared for, was the aforementioned weather. Honestly it hasn’t stopped pissing it down all morning and it showed no signs of stopping. Never mind coaches and trains I may need to book an Arc home tomorrow! Admitting defeat, I make a slight detour to the local Morrisons, buy an umbrella (They had dinosaurs and leopard print, of course I chose leopard print) and head back to the Alhambra to resume my coverage of BATS IN THE ATTIC... 
​
I get there for 2pm, somewhat damp despite the umbrella, (I may as well have swum across the bay) and head to the bar. I don’t exactly know how much I drank last night but the lady serving me was like “Jack & Coke?”...of course it is. I clearly established myself. OH MY GOTH was at the bar too and joked “It’s too early for me!”...but as they say it’s 5 O'clock somewhere. That’s never bothered me I don’t care what time of day it is; I’m having a drink. Pleasantries aside, we have a long night ahead of us, so let’s get stuck into our first band... 

Being the opening band can be a daunting task in any live situation, even more so when you’re the youngest band playing the weekend, but credit to them, SOCIAL YOUTH CULT [7] take it in their stride like seasoned post-punk veterans. These Newcastle natives play as though they’ve been plucked fresh out of the late 70’s, as they effortlessly channel the likes of JOY DIVISION and BAUHAUS, perfectly recreating that distinctly dark, indie-rock sound. With tracks like “Temporary Love” off of their debut EP “Memento Vivere”, plus recent singles like “Black Lipstick”, they pleasantly surprise not only the crowd, but the other bands in attendance with their authenticity. With their debut album on the horizon (More on that soon, watch this space), these youngsters are a welcome breath of fresh cemetery air. 

Next up we have Nottingham-based outfit CHAOS BLEAK [6] who while themselves haven’t been together long (Forming in 2019), are actually 20+ year veterans of the underground Gothic music scene. Comprising of former members of the likes of MIDNIGHT CONFIGURATION and CRIMSON BRIGADE to name some, they bridge traditional hard rock with socially charged post-punk lyricism, and a hint of semi-industrial cyber-punk in their aesthetic.

With recent releases like the single “Deathtrain” and their 2024 album “Agents Of Chaos” to promote, they chug their way through their set with a solid consistency and cool, controlled swagger, allowing the early afternoon punters to groove along nicely. “Long Black Coat” is dedicated to all those in attendance, celebrating the togetherness, while “Dress The Kids For War” comes with a “Free Palestine” call for peace, which gets a cheer. Not the most exciting band I’ve ever seen live, but they perform well despite a certain level of monotony it can be argued they bring sonically. Bleak is a strong word but SOME chaos would have been nice...

We liven things up a little for our third band, as Bristol’s NAUT [7] add a little sparkle to proceedings…in a sense. Frontman Gavin Laubscher is wearing this wonderfully sequined black blazer jacket, coming across as either a depressed disco ball, or SAM RYDER’s evil twin. I would have tried to take a photo, but I feared the flash would cause serious reflective damage to both the venue and all those in attendance. Imagine the bit from “Shin Godzilla”, when all the atomic rays come out of his dorsal fins, taking out buildings, helicopters, possibly low orbiting satellites…I mean I’ve seen Morecambe, I doubt the fire brigade answer the phone.

I digress…with their dark blend of indie-rock, melodic post-punk and Gavin’s baritone drawl, they treat the crowd to some fine Goth ‘N’ Roll. Tracks off of their debut album “Hunt”, such as “Dissent” and “Nightfall” go down a treat with their subtle synth elements, while earlier EP cuts like “Disintegration” show that Bristol has its own bat population too. It’s a fun set, and here we have another band full of potential among the UK’s darker musical circles. Don’t miss the boat on Naut…

Next up we have a band I was more familiar with, as THE BLACK CAPES [8] made the trip from Greece to grace us with their dark, Goth rock intensity. I’d previously reviewed their album “Lullabies For The Dead” a couple of years ago, which I thoroughly enjoyed, so it was good to finally catch the guys on the live stage. Tracks like “Wolf Child” off of said album, are justifiably popular, but they’ve since released their most recent LP “Looks Like Death”, which gets strong representation. With cuts like “Love Is Love” and “The Reject Anthem”, frontman Alex prowls the stage like he should be wearing a black cape himself. So brooding and ominous is their stage presence; add this to the heavier riff work and Alex’s deep vocals, this is a more doom-influenced Goth rock treat, and Alhambra is left trembling. These aren’t so much as Greek Gods…no…more like Hades’ own in-house band; inspiring his schemes to murder Hercules with each and every note while he gives Cerberus belly rubs… 

By this point I should remind everyone that this is day two of a festival of sorts, not a stand-alone gig night, and we’re having a full day of it, so what better time to hammer home the hospitality, foresight and organisation of the whole team that run both BATS IN THE ATTIC and Alhambra as a whole, than to highlight their half-time scran. Yes, that’s right, in a small kitchen set-up adjacent to the bar, everyone in attendance can pop up and get some homemade vegetable Saag Aloo curry with rice, naan bread…and there’s nachos and cheese with salsa, for a fiver!

​For a break between bands and to soak up your Jack & Coke, and for just a moment to sit, chat and recharge if anything, it’s a wonderful inclusion and just goes to show once again that the team behind all of this care about you. Sure, you can survive off crisps and peanuts from behind the bar, or brave the weather for a local establishment, there is a KFC down the road, Kentucky Fried Cockles anyone? (For fuck sake Gav! For the last time! I’m not telling myself again!) but, Bats has you covered. It was bloody nice too to be fair! You cannot fault the organisation here. 

Our next band are notable by their absence, and that is because sadly, WITCH OF THE VALE [N/A] pulled out of the event. I was genuinely gutted to hear this, as having previously seen the Scottish dark electronic duo supporting THE BIRTHDAY MASSACRE, I was looking forward another set of their nonchalant, ethereal splendour. Their cover of “Hurt” for example almost brought me to tears. We instead, have the replacement bus service that is MARK E MOON [6].

Not to knock the Isle Of Man…man…as his electronic-tinged post-punk fleets between darker indie-pop and nostalgic synth-wave, as he and his backing band promote their new album “Pop Noir”. Tracks like “A Kiss Before Dying” and “Children” (I think) are decent, but my disappointment got the better of me and I kind of wandered off to chat with The Black Capes and grab another Jack & Coke. To be fair I felt bad and went back and had a listen after the fact, Mark’s earlier stuff on Bandcamp is better than the new and only record on Spotify, but that’s just me.

Our penultimate act of the weekend are a Swedish outfit by the name DARK SIDE COWBOYS [8] and outfit is a fitting term. Channelling the likes of FIELDS OF THE NEPHILIM and PHANTOM OF THE BLACK HILLS, they truly embrace a sense of Gothic Americana, with their Stetson’s, long coats, and generally coming across as the kind of ghosts Zak Bagans would be playing with in some haunted-ass saloon somewhere obscure in Texas. The smoke machine only adds to the spooky aura these Swedes bring…it’s like John Carpenter’s “The Fog” but the costume department somehow confused pirates for cowboys.

Their sound is more of a traditional rock ‘n’ roll with a semi-Southern twang. It’s a bit bluesy, they have solo’s, they have aura and atmosphere, but it’s delivered with a darkness that can only truly be appreciated on the live stage.  With their latest EP “Gunslinger” and a hefty back-catalogue spanning over twenty years, they really embrace both a lifestyle and gimmick in their art. With an imposing stage presence, and the tunes to match, they’ll be your huckleberry for sure, delivering a solid set at the Alhambra. Despite the gimmick, the subtle theatrics and face-value niche appeal, remember this quote from John Wayne; “Real art is basic emotion. If a scene is handled with simplicity – and I don’t mean simple – it’ll be good., and the public will know it”. Dark Side Cowboys don’t mess around and play from the heart. They’ll finish up, down a bourbon and saddle up for the next town. Well…when the rain stops at least. In the mean time they can enjoy tonight’s headliner…

Finally, then, when the smoke clears, it’s time for our final act of the weekend. Another Swedish act by the name of THEN COMES SILENCE [8]. Silence, however, is not on the cards, as the dancefloor / pit area is packed, and the Alhambra is in full swing for this lot. Dressed like somewhere between ALKALINE TRIO and TURBONEGRO, these Swede’s deliver a punk-riddled dose of dark alternative rock with more hooks than a Morecambe fisherman. Tracks off their latest album “Trickery”, such as “Like A Hammer” and “Stay Strange” bring a boisterousness that invigorate the late-night crowd for the largest dance along of the weekend. “Pretty Creatures” houses certain KILLING JOKE vibes which is never a bad thing, while older cuts like “Apocalypse Flare” only reiterates the capability of these Swede’s and their penchant for catchy, alternative rock bangers.

​It's been a long day and night…it’s an endurance for anybody, no matter how much you love a genre, but what’s evident yet again, is the team behind CORROSION and BITA care about what they put on, who they put on, and who they cater for. There is a budget for everything in music promotion, marketing and booking, and I’m sure they could have booked a big artist to sell tickets…but that’s not what these weekends in Morecambe are about. The whole point in these events at the Alhambra are to celebrate the alternative Gothic scene…forget genre specifics and flow charts and where what sound came from…the point here is togetherness, appreciating music, appreciating bands, discovering bands, and being a family. I’ve only attended twice now myself, but I feel more welcome and appreciated here than my local bars and rock clubs (Not that there are many).

​Between the half time scran, the personalised bottles of wine for the artists, the goody bags, sweets and promotional flyers on the tables, the warm welcome, games of pool, banter…this is a true community. If you’re into your old-school Gothic rock, or even if you’re just discovering your new favourite alternative genre, Morecambe needs to be on your radar. I can’t celebrate these events enough as mere words don’t do them justice. You have to be there. Bats in the attic in any part of the country are protected by law…well I’m making it law that this event be protected and celebrated. Embrace West coast Gothic…and allow a real grassroots alternative festival to flourish. Corrosion returns in March…I’ll see you there… Words: Gavin Griffiths

The second BETH BLADE & THE BEAUTIFUL DISASTERS plugged in and the first chord was struck, the air became heavy, sweltered, lethal. You could smell it: perfume and sweat, fear and something else, something abrasive, like ozone before thunder. The room reconfigured itself. We were not in a bar. We were in a cathedral worshipping the Gods of Rock n Roll and feeling very unworthy.  If the true king of Rock & Roll himself,  Mr John Craven, had made an appearance, I fear I would’ve spontaneously combusted.

Beth strode to the mic looking somewhere between sinner and saint. Her guitar hung low like a knife poised to spill blood. The first shriek was an open wound in the evening. The other riffs were jolts and shudders, the kind that twist your belly around and kick your pulse against the ribcage. She was laying down songs for their new album, "Vintage Rebel x Trauma Bond", an album that's thick with the smell of lust in a snare trap. Her voice was gasoline and fire, a voice that didn't just brush up against flesh, it rippled beneath it, nestled comfortably inside the veins, made all the nerves feel used and vulnerable.

The Beautiful Disasters trailed after her in lewd precision. The bass swooshed from torso to torso, pushing hips into motion, forcing strangers into one another as if they were old friends to start. Guitar solos wafted across the space like tendrils of smoke on a single cigarette, curling around the edges, sweetness one second, savage the next. Drums were relentless and almost primal with a rhythm that made you remember when you last were held tight enough to bruise.

​Between scream and solo, a mole appeared from under the stage. A dazed, bewildered little creature that, apparently, hadn't been spotted for thirty-six years. It blinked twice, blew out its nose at the beer-laden air thick with pheromones and feedback, then disappeared back into wherever it had emerged. It appeared to decide that this wasn't a home for the living. Nobody saw if it was there. Nobody cared. [Editor: We're Going To Have PETA Activists After Us Now...Great]

The room was feral, a fevered ocean of open mouths and outstretched arms in the front row. Sweat bucketed like baptism, glitter dissolved into skin. Bodies pressed so tightly together you could feel each breath, every shiver of desire kindled by a downstroke or a scream. A girl at the perimeter of the stage mouthed along with every line like a prayer, mascara running into her smile. A guy sitting beside her was on the edge of toppling over, his hand across his chest as if he was trying to hold the song in.

By the time the encores hit the air, the cathedral had reformed. Flags dangled from unseen rafters, Marshall stacks were like altars. Fireworks detonated in spectral colour beyond our gaze and spelled out "BETH", written in some private heaven we'd all agreed to believe.

Her guitar was now slick, shiny, lethal, and, with the final wail, she baptized us, not in water but light, sweat, and spit (Maybe even snot, Beth did have a cold). The crowd disintegrated. Some kissed like they'd never known light before. Some got on their knees. Some just stood still, trembling, afraid of what they let go. It was sex, it was surrender, it was music.

As the last note dissolved, the air cracked like glass. And there, in the silence after the storm, the mole reappeared, blackened, blinking, with a guitar chord trailing behind it like a love letter that it could not understand. It paused, it sneezed, and vanished into a wineglass.

BETH BLADE & THE BEAUTIFUL DISASTERS are not a band. They are hunger. They are risk.

They're the holy war on four chords and a scream. Words: Matt Denny.

Back in March, you may recall that I embarked on an adventure Northbound, to the west coast of England, and a quiet little seaside town called Morecambe. Quiet as in dead, that is...even the convenience stores closed conveniently early. Dystopian IS a strong word, but the seafront looked more like the front line of a battlefield. On the losing side. Like, “Humanoids From The Deep”, without a budget, or extras, and less appeal. I jest it's lovely looking out to the sea...just...don't turn around.

I explored a little more this time around. The stick of rock was probably mined in Littledale before Thatcher, and in that same touristy shop I found open, they were selling fridge magnets saying Cornwall. Made me equally dyslexic and disorientated. I travelled 230 miles North, to Morecambe remember, and Cornwall is even further South than me! Can you physically travel North to Cornwall from the UK? I’d take a paracetamol right now but apparently Donald Trump said they give you Autism...I have enough on my plate. 

Anyway, as per Morecambe, famous for its footballing shrimps, heavyweight boxing dosser and self-proclaimed gypsy king Tyson Fury, and of course, comedic legend Eric Bartholomew, who is such a national treasure he has a Wetherspoons named after him, (That's better than being fucking Knighted!) we were here once again to try to appreciate this post-apocalyptic seaside destination, and the music was fitting. What is it that’s so alluring about Morecambe’s dark side? No, I’m not going to make another cockle picker reference, I did that already for GOTHZILLA months ago and that was pushing it. We’re of course going to be taking a look at Morecambe’s Gothic scene...and the family vibes surrounding events at the Alhambra.  

While March hosted COROSSION FEST, the main West-Coast Gothic event of the year, acting as an alternative to the already established East-coast Whitby weekend, September finds the team putting on the Sister show if you will; BATS IN THE ATTIC. Really it differs only in name, as again we have two nights at the Alhambra, a genuinely lovely venue, filled with bands covering everything under the Gothic umbrella. I must emphasise umbrella at this point as the weather this weekend is wetter than an otter's pocket, after said otter drowned looking for cockles...DAMNIT! I did it again! Moving swiftly on...let’s hit the Alhambra for night one and get that Friday feeling underway... 

Our first band of the weekend are an immediate highlight, as Sweden’s SJÖBLOM [8] entertain the early crowd with their finely stripped back synth-rich delivery. A group I’ve been looking forward to personally (Even though I honestly can’t pronounce them); the duo utilises a backing track for percussion as they bridge indie aesthetics with a sense of new romantic melody. Their stage presence may be minimal; jeans, hoodies and leather jackets...one guitar, around two keyboards, but they have the tunes to carry this set effortlessly.  

​“Oh My Heart” from 2016’s “6” for example, is an incredibly infectious number, with a solid bass groove, piercing keys and dance-along qualities, easily an early hit and fan-favourite, getting people up on the dancefloor early on. Their latest album “Dead Of Night” gets good representation, including a wonderful rendition of “Turn My Head”. Instrumentally it channels the likes of early DEPECHE MODE with its quirky electro-pop aesthetics, while “Telephone” from 2021’s “Demons” only cements their status as a solid indie-synth ensemble, and they’re a brilliant way to open the weekend and get everyone in a great mood. Their sound could easily do well in UK markets, given the trend for nostalgic 80’s throwback lately and hopefully, we’ll see a lot more of these Swedes in the future, as they are well worth checking out. I purchased vinyl, trust me. 

 

Finally, then, we get Friday night’s headliner, GHOST DANCE [8] and to give a sense of perspective, this Leeds-based bunch initially broke up the year I was BORN. Having themselves been born out of THE SISTERS OF MERCY and SKELETAL FAMILY you just know the heritage is there, and vocalist Anne-Marie Hurst turns back the clock to perfectly encapsulate what post-punk and proto-Goth should embody, with this newest iteration of the band line-up.  

Tracks like “I Will Wait” chug-along rhythmically with some solid riffs and slick guitar licks, almost bordering on classic heavy metal tropes, and they allow for an intense, end of night dance along as the track grows and grows into a wonderful crescendo. Forget about genres for a minute, this is a wonderfully crafted song. “Spin The Wheel” showcases a softer side of the band, as Anne-Marie allows her melodious vocals to take centre stage, sounding pained and perturbed, over the gambles and uncertainties of life, but in a venue full of likeminded friends, acquaintances and adopted family, it’s a message that we can all relate to. Both Corrosion and Bats In The Attic provide a haven for likeminded people to congregate and enjoy culture, and we always run the risk of judgement, or ridicule, it’s the wheel we spin when we make these choices growing up, but this community has shown me that they thrive; WE thrive, when bands like this bring us together.  

Further tracks like “Down To The Wire” highlight the joviality you can have with alternative music with its clap-along qualities and indie-pop sensibilities, while newer tracks, like “Goodbye” and “Jessamine” only cement them as lost icons of the UK’s proto-Goth music scene. We’re so used to reliving the good old days, or at least yearning for them in some generation's cases, that some bands can often be overlooked in favour of the big guns. This is one of those bands, that we need to appreciate more, and the Corrosion/Bats team ensure that we do. For that, we applaud them. 

Regardless of any sense of genre bias we have for these weekends in Morecambe, what’s important, is that night one of 2025’s Bats In The Attic went down a storm. Friday may only have had four bands, but each and every one of them delivered in their own way, and it’s that which makes this community flourish. Music is subjective in nature, but the message is always the selling point, and the whole point of this Morecambe-based congregation, is this menagerie of unrelated family members can come together, have fun, and appreciate not only the legacy and history of Gothic rock and post-punk, but enjoy each other's company in what’s become a bi-annual reunion. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my hotel, order a Burger King from Lancaster because of course I do, nothing is fucking alive let alone open in Morecambe as far as I can tell, and make notes ahead of tomorrow...because there are plenty of bats left in the attic. It’s going to be a long one...not unlike my journey here to be fair! - Words: Gavin Griffiths