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. 

On stage presence? Check. Lead vocals, bass guitar and the kind of between-tunes chat that can make a bar feel like a living room? Check. MARCO MENDOZA, and in rhythmic head-nodding, an army of fanatical accountants from Leith? Also check.

Marco was sporting the sort of Hawaiian shirt that seemed to have been stolen from a tourist, then unbuttoned for effect to expose chest hair so thick it would frighten a small terrier, and with a gold medallion dangling like the pendulum of some randy grandfather clock, he stood there, not as a man; but as a sex god, who had clearly misplaced his temple and wound up opening up a shop in a bar instead.

The walls slanted inwards, the audience was height levelled, and Marco rushed in like lightning with a small brass band tied across his shoulders. The walls themselves converged to engulf the basslines which had previously helped to move a lift in Stockholm three levels above with a power cut. [Editor: I'm STILL confused] A potted fern obligingly paid compliment backstage.

The setlist was a cavalcade of silliness: "Viva La Rock" songs marched in with the kineticist energy of a brass band on an ostrich, "Live for Tomorrow" songs booming so hard that a dozen pigeons flew in the opposite direction in a squadron. Even "Casa Mendoza" patrons sparkled like a chandelier made of nothing but harmonicas.

He made his way through the crowd whilst still playing like a sage musical god, dispensing wisdom, benevolent sarcasm, and the occasional hint of bass play to any who would take it in. Children stop crying when he's around; adults have admitted their musical darkest, deepest secrets; even bartenders have poured with more syncopation when Marco's around.

He segues from rock effortlessly into Spanish beat as we get to appreciate the ghost of Carmen Miranda's fruit bowl on Congas, maracas blasted out on two Buckfast bottles thudded softly by a local pigeon, as the crowds are whisked away to Havana, but with kilts in abundance and fewer cigars.

A veteran of bands such as BLUE MURDER, JOURNEY, TED NUGENT, and an otherwise anonymous Montevideo circus, Marco Mendoza was leading a small orchestra of aghast bystanders and smoke detectors once more demonstrating history to be the flexible thing that it is.

In a moment that was completely transcendent, Marco bursts into what is the sole description of a bass solo so lovely that there are a few individuals here and there in the audience, who can be seen trying to pull phones out of pockets, not so that they might record the performance, for what recording device could possibly hold such greatness? But so they can call their mothers to say hello and tell them how much they love them, because with this kind of music floating in the air suddenly life does make sense.

And just to make it an even greater experience, Marco himself hangs around after the performance, hugging fans, shaking hands, and even possibly christening the odd baby in tequila. One of the tall tales is that he used to run a clinic where he taught three squirrels progressive rock blindfolded and while trying to solve a Rubik's cube. I departed Bannerman's with the resident house martin who retained the empty Buckfast bottles and was off to their next gig. [Editor: I honestly don't fully know what happened tonight...and I'm not about to start asking questions]

Glasgow. A city that smells faintly of soot, triumph, and someone else's chips; cold, half-eaten, stepped on. The perfect setting, for a W.A.S.P. gig. Although It  wasn't a concert in the traditional sense. It was more a series of escalating dares between fire, feedback, and denim.

When Blackie Lawless came onstage the audience erupted. Someone spilled beer on me, and a security guard smelled of panic and Lynx Africa.

Then they proceeded to play their debut album in its entirety. "I Wanna Be Somebody" is still a cry so primal and ridiculous it looped back around and became profound. Half the crowd shouted it, the other half acted like they were trying to laugh through a midlife crisis.

During the medley of "Inside the Electric Circus" / "I Don't Need No Doctor" / "Scream Until You Like It", a woman near me screamed and did SEEM to like it. I hope they’re doing okay...

The guitars didn’t so much scream as accuse. One solo sounded as like someone had angrily trying to solder a microwave using only hatred. The drumming was an avalanche of fists. My trousers vibrated in a way I’m still not fully comfortable discussing.

By the end, my ears were ringing like dinner bells. I staggered out into the Glasgow night, mascara smudged (And I wasn’t even wearing any when I got there), with only one thought in my head: I need tea. Strong, scalding, restorative tea. And maybe a bath where I can scream underwater and reflect on my sins.

Words: Matt Denny