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.

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.

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

As I travelled into Edinburgh for tonight’s entertainment, I kept wondering who this Cooper woman was and whether she could be the same one I met on a Sunday in Milwaukee in the rain. She was the ugliest woman I had ever seen. Cheekbones like broken glass and a smile that looked like it belonged to a taxidermist’s first attempt. But lord, did she know how to command a room.

Turns out, ALICE COOPER isn’t a woman at all. Not in the traditional sense. More like a ghoul in a tuxedo, caked in mascara and bile, dragging a leather sack of rock ‘n’ roll theatre behind him like Santa Claus’s deranged brother. The Playhouse was packed—boiling with pensioners in eyeliner, teenage goths pretending they’re not with their dads, and me, nursing a can of Monster like it was communion wine.

When the curtain dropped, it felt more like an exhumation than a concert. A dollhouse of doom wheeled in on squealing casters. Nurses, nooses, toy boxes full of snakes. The band hit like a chainsaw through a wedding cake. Cooper himself emerged like a resurrected vaudeville demon, waving a sword, then a crutch, then a baby doll’s disembodied head. He doesn’t sing so much as spit prophecy. And somehow his voice, all gravel and grave-dirt, STILL carries with the command of a man who’s seen the inside of more padded cells than stages.

“Bed Of Nails” came early and hit hard. People lost their minds. Grown men in IRON MAIDEN shirts screamed like toddlers seeing Santa at the garden centre. “Poison” sent the balcony into a swaying mess of clasped hands and haunted expressions. At some point, he was beheaded, then resurrected, then strangled a puppet. It was hard to follow. Narrative coherence wasn’t the point.

What struck me wasn’t the music—though it slapped—but the devotion. Alice could’ve walked onstage in a paper crown and just whispered nursery rhymes for 90 minutes and they’d have STILL cheered. But he didn’t. He gave them the full nightmare. Confetti. Guillotines. Smoke. Applause so desperate it felt like a séance.

By the end, I was soaked in fake blood (Not mine) and adrenaline (Probably mine). I still don’t know if that was the same Cooper I met in Milwaukee (Mill-e-wah-que), but if it was, she’s cleaned up nicely. Still terrifying. Still commanding. And still, somehow, rock’s reigning corpse bride. If this is retirement age, then God help the rest of us.

Words: Matt Denny

“Your world is coming to its end, but you don’t have to be afraid”…never before have these lyrics been as poignant but sadly, we ironically find ourselves in joy and sorrow as HIM…Finland’s finest romantic rockers, are bidding us farewell, calling time on their 20+ year career. Yes back in March, the news was dropped by Daniel. P. Carter on the Radio 1 Rock Show that HIM were embarking on a farewell tour, after announcing that 2017 would see the band play their final shows and go their separate ways, breaking countless hearts around the world…with the departure of drummer Gas after the last album “Tears On Tape” things were just never the same and despite having Jukka take over behind the kit, new material simply wasn’t working…the spark had gone and it was time to say goodbye. With the UK only getting 5 dates on the “Bang And Whimper” farewell tour, I was lucky enough to see them one last time at Nottingham Rock City…and I should have taken tissues.

Any HIM gig starts early in the morning and today was certainly no exception…even though we’re in the middle of December, there were people queuing at the venue from 8am, camped out with blankets, highlighting the dedication and commitment HIM’s fans truly have…but by the time doors were opened, this sold out show had a line of fans literally streets long…never mind meters, you could measure the queue in postcodes! As the crowd inside started to grow and settle in and while the bar was all hands on deck, we were warmed up by tonight’s only support act, BITERS [7] from Atlanta, Georgia. The four-piece strutted their stuff on stage like seasoned veterans and their style echoed the same sentiments…inspired by the hey-days of rock ‘n’ roll, taking elements from the likes of T-REX and the NEW YORK DOLLS they took the crowd on a semi-nostalgic journey back into the 70’s, the denim and leather, the long hair, the rock star swagger and the tunes to back it all up…tracks such as “Gypsy Rose” with its clap-along charm and the simplistic merriment of “Stone Cold Love” allowing front man Tuk to channel his inner Marc Bolan…while “1975” exudes a true sense of heritage, harking back to a time when rock ‘n’ roll was fresh and captivating, and it’s still not gone out of style today. Their set may have been brief but with the time they had they won over tonight’s crowd and it got the gig off to a great start.

Now, in this situation, normally we’d be excited knowing HIM [8] were about to make their grand entrance but tonight, we know it’s also their swansong…this really is the beginning of the end as it’s the final time we get to witness Ville Valo and co work their magic on stage, and the excitement is mixed with a sense of sadness. Simply knowing that once tonight is over, they will be but a cherished memory and it genuinely is heart breaking for many, many fans. Luckily however, HIM have a back catalogue of hits that can turn any frown upside down and they waste little time getting going, opening up with “Buried Alive By Love”. Mige’s pummelling bass and Valo’s powerful vocals breathe life into an already swelling crowd and the energy in Rock City tonight is incredible. Every word is sung back by each and every person in the room and you can feel the love and appreciation everyone has for the band, and as they plough through fan favourites like “Heartache Every Moment” and “Wings Of A Butterfly” it really does send chills down your spine. Each of their eight albums are represented in some way with inclusions of “Kiss Of Dawn” and “Heartkiller”…and we’re even treated to a rare inclusion of “Sigillum Diaboli” to rapturous applause…but as the set draws to a close, the realisation of what’s transpiring hits home and when Ville humbly says his thanks for the love and support over the years, and as they slide into “Funeral Of Hearts” there are plenty of mixed emotions. The beauty of the moment, the sadness of the occasion and feelings of both togetherness and loss, there’s barely a dry eye in the room as HIM don't really have fans, no, they’re more like family and it feels like we’re saying goodbye to a loved one. Then, after closing with an encore of BILLY IDOL hit “Rebel Yell” and a painfully apropos rendition of “When Love And Death Embrace”, the Finns leave not only the stage, but a gaping hole in our hearts. HIM were one of a kind and their iconic Heartagram, whether tattooed on the skin of fans worldwide, or emblazoned on proudly worn t-shirts, will forever be a reminder, a symbol of happiness and positivity, as Ville, Mige, Linde, Burton, Gas and later Jukka, touched each and every one of us with their music. As a band HIM were too often underrated but tonight, everyone in attendance knows the world just lost something truly special. There really is no love without tears and tonight really does prove we will always love HIM. Kiitos ja jäähyväiset, ystäväni ...