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 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.
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