On the eleventh of January 2010, English band You Me At Six released their sophomore album, Hold Me Down. Their first major label release, it reached number five on the UK Albums Chart and is certified gold in the country. To celebrate its tenth anniversary, the band embarked on a series of shows across the United Kingdom, where they would play it in its entirety, front to back, and it was an opportunity I simply could not miss.

At the time of release, I was already a You Me At Six fan and had seen them live for the first time, as main support on Paramore's Brand New Eyes tour. A month later, Hold Me Down hit the shelves, and I remember buying it in London, where my older brother took us for a weekend. I left an East London HMV branch with a pile of CDs the height of the Eiffel Tower, glad to finally have access to music that was not available in my rock-deprived country, and it included several copies of Hold Me Down- I had friends who wanted their own too. In June of that same year, You Me At Six played the Nouveau Casino, in Paris, as part of a headline European tour, a show and a day that would mark a permanent change in my life, but I didn't know yet, at the time. How could I? In the meantime were some of the hardest times in my life, only the start of them, it seemed, and Hold Me Down was one of the records I used to play every day in an attempt to stay afloat. It would spin in my little stereo every morning before university and, chances are, it would also play in the shiny blue iPod my friend's then-boyfriend had given me because he didn't have any use for it in the end. It would be my comfort every time I felt down, the music I would turn on loud, the cliché of the teenager slamming the bedroom door because mum and dad just don't understand, though the issues ran much deeper.

I have been a You Me At Six fan for twelve years of my life now, and I don't want to say I have had a love-hate relationship with them because it isn't true. I simply am a human being, and I relate to sort of their art in different, closer ways than others. An album like Hold Me Down will forever be a prominent part of the tapestry of my life, a visible piece of the puzzle. It's a time capsule of the sweetest kind. Listening to it takes me back to the music videos, and all the little things we used to watch on YouTube, the running jokes that only mean something to the old-timers, things about ice cream being too cold, what's butter, something about sheep in a field, the Liquid Confidence behind the scenes footage and the JLS dance moment. (I don't actually know if this bit was ever iconic to the fanbase as a whole, but, just like the kids say, it lives rent-free in my mind. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be on YouTube anymore.)

On the morning of the show, I sat down in St. Pancras Station, in London, in front of the Starbucks no one can ever find when I tell them, and I played Hold Me Down in preparation for the show, something to get me hyped up. Playing The Blame Game came around, and I felt tiny tears, almost invisible, insignificant to anyone but me, during the line "You hold me down by keeping me around," and I realised I had never really understood that line before. There is something magical about finding new meaning in art that has been an ever-present part of your existence, deep in your blood, for the past eleven and a half years of your life.

The show was held at Kingston's Pryzm and was, once again, organised by the still absolutely amazing Banquet Records. I don't think I could praise them anymore- they truly are the best thing since sliced bread (and that's a French person saying that.) A night that, a decade ago, would have started in the daytime, queuing against all sorts of ludicrous weather, was birthed in the Wetherspoons pub across the street this time around, in front of a glass of Kopparberg's Cherry Rum. Nineteen, twenty-year-old me would have loved the barrier. (She even kinda threw a tantrum on Tumblr about it once because she was upset, back in the day, but that's a shameful story for another lifetime.) Thirty-one-year-old me wanted to crowdsurf and reclaim the music she thought had been tainted by someone else's influence.
Never again.
Hold Me Down is mine. This is not a proprietary statement. It's the admittance that nevermind what other people did to me, nevermind the stains they left on my life, music that is pretty much part of my DNA cannot be touched nor removed. It is mine for as long as I choose.

For all those reasons, I knew I would get emotional during You Me At Six's set. It's not even the cliché of me crying for no valid reason, bawling my eyes out because why the hell not, I love this song, or this child on TV at Christmas time is just so stinking cute. It's a mixture of nostalgia, melancholy, pure joy, and appreciation of how far I've come since I was a nineteen-year-old girl with a bad fringe who thought she was so hard when Sean Smith's part came on during The Consequence. Funnily enough, that's the song during which I started crying. The Consequence. The first goddamn song on the album. Even for me, that's a new record. They were about two lines into it when I felt tears welling up in my eyes, and they were not to stop for most of the set. This album is a part of me, it's in my bones. As of last Friday, I have seen You Me At Six live twenty-three times, unless I am awful at math and remembering things, and I have heard Underdog in the flesh a similar amount of times. The nineteenth of November 2021 was the first time it made me cry.

Hold Me Down also takes me back to the questionable art every one of us used to make back in the day, those lyric drawings in several fonts that were plastered all over Tumblr. There are so many fitting one-liners in Hold Me Down, and I know I made several of these drawings. Lyrically, this album will stand the test of my time because of those clever, sometimes sassy one-liners. "I've got real big plans and such bad thoughts" (The Consequence) // "I'm down, down, but definitely not out" (Underdog) // "You hold me down by keeping me around" (Playing The Blame Game) // "And everybody was kissing on fire, and we all got burnt" (Safer To Hate Her) // "You've got nothing to lose, except for me and you" (Liquid Confidence) // "Dearest enemy, you should have never trusted me, you bitch" (Contagious Chemistry) // "I'm a man of my words and my words will never change" (Trophy Eyes) // "Remember when you were my boat and I was your sea, together we'd float so delicately" (Fireworks) Just to quote a few. (The Contagious Chemistry one is admittedly not something we would use in lyrics in 2021, but it was my favourite song back in the day, so I had to include it.)
(Also, can we talk about the fact that Trophy Eyes, as in, the band, named themselves after that specific song?)

I found this on Pinterest, so, unfortunately, I don't know who made this.

During the build-up to the show, out of complete superstition, I did not say anything about it online, as if me being openly excited about something carried the risk of ruining it. On the day of, when I was safely on English land, I made up for lost time, and I think everyone who came across me was sick to the back teeth of hearing me talk about the one song I was most excited to hear: There's No Such Thing As Accidental Infidelity. It received its first-ever live performance on Friday night and, despite frontman Josh Franceschi warning the crowd of potential rustiness, it sounded just as perfect as I always imagined it to be. I paid a tribute to my decade-ago self in today's fashion and crowdsurfed to Aled Phillips' part while wearing a Kids In Glass Houses t-shirt. Some parts of yourself can never die.

After finishing up with the album's closing track, the wonderfully heartbreaking Fireworks, You Me At Six came back for an encore composed of SUCKAPUNCH, Lived A Lie, Take On The World, and Beautiful Way. Did I emotionally need it? No. I would have been content leaving the room after the last notes of Fireworks. Did I mind? Also, no. Despite it not being my favourite song, SUCKAPUNCH shines in a live setting, and its packed energy is mindblowing. Lived A Lie is one of the band's most fun singles. I got someone to carry me on their shoulders during Take On The World, and my love for the track only grows. Beautiful Way is one of You Me At Six's best recent numbers, one of the reasons why I still love them, why I would still go the extra mile for them. Maybe I wouldn't queue at stupid o'clock in the snow anymore, warming my hands up in an Asda bathroom in suburban Edinburgh while wondering if my plane home is going to leave the next morning. Maybe I wouldn't chase the elusive barrier anymore. But I will always want to celebrate the shiny parts of my life and, as far as puzzle pieces go, You Me At Six are pretty golden.

The next step in this lifelong celebration takes place in Paris, in March 2022, and you're all invited. It's followed by another show that will shatter my heartstrings in the loveliest manner, the tenth anniversary of the band's third record, Sinners Never Sleep, in June.

In April 2021, Welsh post-hardcore outfit Holding Absence released their sophomore album, The Greatest Mistake Of My Life, sending them to well-deserved higher spheres, and allowing them to gather an even greater number of fans and followers. Due to the touring situation being all over the place, for the most part, they only managed to tour the record this late October and early November, and this band holding quite a special spot in my heart, off I traipsed to England to see them a few more times.

I first discovered Holding Absence's music in March 2017, when they landed the main support slot on We Are The Ocean's farewell tour, which I attended in its entirety. (Granted, it was only three shows.) Since the first show, at Glasgow's Cathouse, even if I was ill and exhausted, the band's sound stuck with me and, despite a few misses over the years, I managed to catch on a stage a number of times, the last one taking place at Slam Dunk South, this past September. I think that, from the moment I managed to properly see them again after that initial tour, I have decided there would be no way in hell I would miss shows I could attend again and, from the weird sort-of-post-pandemic-but-not-really limbo we find ourselves currently stuck in, I stand by the thought.
I just don't want to miss Holding Absence again.

All three shows I attended (Newcastle, Manchester, and London) started with High Wycombe's As Everything Unfolds, undoubtedly the greatest thing to have ever come out of this town. (Which is, coincidentally, where I saw them for the first time.) They, too, finally get to tour their debut album, the excellent Within Each Lies The Other, released in March 2021. Despite them still being a quite young band, they have plenty of followers all three nights, and singalongs can be heard at every show. I might have even spotted a moshpit situation at the Electric Ballroom. As Everything Unfolds are exactly as I remember them, fantastic on a stage, and they so easily hold the audience in the palm of their hand, night after night. It is going to be beyond exciting to watch them leap from milestone to milestone, and I can't wait to be along for the ride.
(As Everything Unfolds will be performing Within Each Lies The Other in its entirety at the Camden Assembly on the 25th of February 2022, and a good chunk of the tickets are gone. In March of next year, they will also appear on the European leg of Holding Absence's tour. Give them a listen here - Grayscale is a banger.)

Hailing straight from Sydney, Australia, Yours Truly are a little miracle during a rainy, cold week. In all honesty, I only believed they were on my side of the world when I saw them in front of me, on stage, even though it was all a bit silly, and they had been in the United Kingdom for over a week at this point. I first discovered the Australians when they supported State Champs in the summer of 2019, saw them again on a happy accident at Chicago's Riot Fest, and their debut album Self Care was one of my favourites last year. I have lived with this record for so long that it was almost surreal hearing it in the flesh, played live, and I still can't quite compute it. (Even though I still haven't heard Undersize. Next time.) The audience reaction was different all three nights. Newcastle offered quiet but invested singalongs. Manchester saw louder singing and a little more dancing. London was a straight-up riot, and I managed to crowdsurf twice. On stage, all I see is a band eager to conquer the world, a band I want to see doing just that. Their older tracks, such as Circles and High Hopes (both from their 2019 EP Afterglow), are known by quite a few people and could easily become pop-punk classics. They have mastered the "devastating lyrics set to an infectious tune" vibe in songs like Funeral Home or Together, and their latest single, Walk Over My Grave, full of angst and heaviness, shows they could be heading in any direction from now on. Frontwoman Mikaila Delgado's charisma is to be commended, she is simply captivating. Full disclaimer: Yours Truly were the main reason I crossed the Channel for these shows, and I am ecstatic I did. It was not something to be missed.
(Yours Truly are coming back to our shores in April and May as main support on Against The Current's headline tour. They have also been announced at High Five Summer Fest, a cool alternative weekender in Stockholm, Sweden, in July. Check them out here, and read the Self Care review here.)

As mentioned earlier, Holding Absence are finally touring off the back of their sophomore album, the perfect The Greatest Mistake Of My Life, and it's only natural that they start these shows with its first three tracks: instrumental opener Alive, Celebration Song, and Curse Me With Your Kiss. There is something undeniably life-affirming about the first words one sings, screams, belts out, whatever, being "I'm alive" with all your soul and all your heart.
And I guess it's how I always feel seeing Holding Absence live.

One of the reasons why I hold their Scala show, in December 2019, so dear in my raging emo heart is that at the time, I was feeling beyond broken. I was approximately ten days into my sick leave, having to hide everything I was doing outside of my tiny flat because "I literally cannot face being polite and cheery for four thousand people every day, and I'm mentally exhausted of having so much demanded of me with no reward" does not mix well with "actually, live music helps me feel better and stops the brain pain and existential dread for an hour" from an HR and managerial standpoint. I simply was not well at all. That night, I met up with my friend Mia, who had flown from Milan, Italy for the show, and we met up with some other friends of mine in the line. I remember, at some point, opening the door between the main room of the maze that the Scala is and the bar area and finding another two of my friends on the other side, not knowing they were going to be there. Being surrounded by people who loved and cared about me took this show from "this band I love is playing a discography I love just as much in full" to "I am with people who make my heart feel lighter" territory. The two combined made the experience extra special. 

Since then, I have somewhat always associated Holding Absence's live shows and music in general as a place where I feel safe and loved, and nothing could have made this sensation more tangible than starting a show screaming the words "I'm alive" with a grin that could not be wiped off my face.
Outside of my ramblings and emotions, let's be real and honest for a minute here.
Holding Absence is one hell of a live band. I remember the first times I saw them, knowing in my heart of hearts that they were something special. Almost five years down the line (Christ), their shows have that something fully realised. It's a feeling I can't quite put into words, but they are the kind of band that offers something from everyone, wherever you find yourself in life, and maybe it's just a lot of heart, and everyone can relate to that, but...Yeah. There has to be a word, somewhere, in any language, really, that puts this comforting, hearty feeling into words, that something special, that explains why Holding Absence have become as beloved as they are and why they seem to be growing and becoming even more appreciated as time goes on.

It could very well be because they are nothing short of a fantastic band, and their music hits the spot every time.
Music-wise, they can do it all. Within the little, poetic, beautiful world they have created for themselves, a world that could head in any direction, they know how to do everything. They know how to do the raw emotion. They know how to do the straight-up bangers that you just can tell are going to become classics, Emo Night crowd-pleasers and all, in five or ten years' time (Christ, the sequel.) They know how to do the heaviness- nomoreroses sees quite the intense moshpits every night. And they know how to lean into something softer and more vulnerable. Maybe it ties prettily with the idea that there is something for everyone in their music.

Every band seems to have a longer song that seeps into everyone's heart and grows to become a fan favourite against all odds. Jimmy Eat World have 23 and Goodbye Sky Harbor. The Wonder Years have I Just Want To Sell Out My Funeral. Taylor Swift's ten-minute version of All Too Well is currently topping the charts. There is always one.
Holding Absence has Wilt.
The six-minute-and-a-half-long song, a heartbreaking tale of a love ending, has become immensely popular despite its length, as is acknowledged in London, I believe, by frontman Lucas Woodland. It starts heavy and sees the usual moshing and crowdsurfing, and ends with "little people," Woodland's words again, carried on people's shoulders for a beautiful few minutes. See, I love being carried on people's shoulders at shows, but as someone who often attends alone and is generally plagued by social awkwardness, it's hard for me to just ask. It took me until London to get there, but it was a hundred percent worth it. I don't know what it is about being perched on someone's shoulders at a show, seeing the crowd and the stage from up above, a somewhat more intense feeling of communion and connection to others, but it gets me every time.
In the future, I do hope Holding Absence save a special spot for Wilt at every show, not just because it's my favourite song, but so we can all feel this way again, find comfort and company in the middle of an all-too-relatable track.

If there is one word I regularly use to describe a Holding Absence live experience, it's safe. I feel safe in their crowds, and I feel safe among the people around me, even after a drunk person tries to crowdsurf, rolls back, and slams their leg on my head (Manchester), even after I get a bike-shaped bruise (London.) It's not about the usual crowd movement that happens at heavy shows. It's about the people. I always feel among friends, whether I know someone in the room or not. The feeling was heightened by actually making friends at the end of the London show, and I hope I get to feel this way at every Holding Absence show to come. Nothing compares to ending the night with a heart so full. 

(Holding Absence are playing Exeter and Bexhill, of all places in the world, alongside Enter Shikari in November. They are also supporting Funeral For A Friend in January (how huge!) and touring the European Union in March 2022. This goes without saying, but check them out here.)

In July 2020, after having to postpone it due to the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, Bury Tomorrow released their anticipated sixth full-length record, Cannibal. In the words of frontman Dani Winter-Bates, the album was a "cathartic process to address some of the darkest moments [I've] had in [my] life" as well as an attempt to normalise mental health-related conversations. "The normalisation of mental health is what saves lives. I want people to see the light in the dark. If they delve into that they can find solace in the discussion, the normalisation, the positive action by discussing this. The term cannibal refers to being eaten away by your own thoughts but also eaten away by other humans. We're not kind to ourselves, let alone kind to each other." The Southampton-based outfit was set to play a series of intimate release shows, which were ultimately postponed to November 2021, a year and four months after the album had hit the shelves and reached a well-deserved number 10 spot in the UK charts.

This small tour starts in Kingston, in one of the branches of the nightclub Pryzm, organised by what is one of the most important and popular record stores and promoters in the country and the alternative scene, Banquet Records. After landing in Gatwick after a stressful flight, I checked in at the nearest Travelodge and, sure enough, my first stop in town was the small and comforting shop. I don't know how much I have addressed this before, but I tend to feel uncomfortable in record stores because I'm a girl who doesn't look like the music she listens to for the most part, and because I worry I will be judged for liking emo bands and metalcore records better than revered classics. The four walls of Banquet Records, on Eden Street, Kingston-Upon-Thames, are one of the places where I have never had to worry about such insecurities and elitism. Walking in and seeing the posters plastered from floor to ceiling, the Polaroid pictures with various artists stapled to the counter, and all my favourite bands represented everywhere fills me with a sense of comfort. For this review, I had set myself the objective of being a little less sentimental than I have recently been, but I always have to give credit where credit's due. Banquet Records is an oasis of comfort for me, as well as a fucking fantastic place to buy music, online and in person.

As announced by the band on social media prior to the show, the set starts at 8pm and afterwards, a free meet and greet will be hosted in the venue, though, while on stage, frontman Dani Winter-Bates explain how he hates the term "meet and greet" and just wants to hang out with fans after a long break. Throughout the years, Bury Tomorrow have been extremely vocal about paid meet and greets, and they have always made a point about meeting fans after every show, no matter the size. I don't like using such a turn of phrase because I don't want it to set unrealistic standards on the bands I care about, but when going to a Bury Tomorrow show, it's almost a given that you will meet the band afterwards if you stick around for a little while. Though I am aware that buying a ticket to a show, any show, does not entitle me to meet a band and spend time with them, I love that it always comes as a bonus, and I immensely respect Bury Tomorrow for it.

This series of four shows (starting in Kingston and followed by stops in Leeds, London, and the band's hometown, Southampton) is still labelled "Cannibal release shows," but the setlist covers most of Bury Tomorrow's career, from 2012's Lionheart to more recent tracks such as Choke, The Grey (VIXI), which had been released in 2019, ahead of the record, or the album's title track, Cannibal. It is actually the same setlist they performed at Slam Dunk Festival, back in September and, just like they did back then, the shows feel like a celebration of Bury Tomorrow coming back after an almost two-year break that saw the biggest changes they have ever experienced as a band. (In July 2021, the departure of founding member, rhythm guitarist, and clean vocalist Jason Cameron was announced. They are currently performing with Tom Pendergast on vocals and synths and Ed Hartwell on rhythm guitar.) These shows feel like a band telling us that they have been shaken, sure, but they will still stay here, and they are not going anywhere. At the end of this tour, they are even heading into the studio to record what will be their seventh full-length album. Bury Tomorrow are not going anywhere.

For the personal story-time moment of the review, we'll start with a stupid fact about myself: I have chronic sinus problems due to one of them being deformed, and I had suffered quite a bit the days prior to the show. On the day of, I thought I was doing well until about halfway through the hour-long flight to Gatwick Airport, when the extremely dry air of the plane messed it all up again. I ended up having to attend the show wearing glasses, which I never do, and, in true me-fashion, I put them away to safely head into the moshpit for Lionheart, then left the heart of the action, and put them back on for the remainder of the set. I could probably try to find some inspiring message in the way I fought against my own shortcomings to attend a metalcore show and be an idiot but, the truth is, I just thought it was a funny story. 

Bury Tomorrow's set in Pryzm marked my forty-third time seeing them perform live and, as I explained on my personal Instagram account, it is an odd number to celebrate, but I do because it means they now are the band I have seen the most. Those forty-three shows have spanned over the course of almost a decade, starting in November 2012 in Paris, and I believe 2015 was the year I saw them the most, mostly due to me following the entire first Stage Invasion tour. Come to think of it, seeing them in a nightclub in Kingston, a small venue by all standards, a sizeable difference from the packed tents at Slam Dunk and the larger venues of the Black Flame tour, in December 2019, took me back to those three odd weeks of April 2015 where I spent more hours than anyone should on various trains and coach services, was not given a break by my also chronic tendonitis, and almost broke my hand. The most important part of this celebration and the one that has hit me the hardest in Kingston is that Bury Tomorrow is something constant in my life, and I guess in many other fans' lives. I promise it's not the "people always leave/sometimes they come back" metaphor I stole from One Tree Hill again. It's just a fact. They are constant. They are here. They always deliver, and they never disappoint. Buying a ticket to a Bury Tomorrow show, nevermind where in the world it is, means I will have a brilliant time, probably mutter "fuck it" to myself before marching headfirst into a moshpit, like I'm the most confident person in the world, hear some of my favourite songs, and be blown away by a band I truly adore. Seeing them live is like pressing a reset button for me. From then onwards, things are okay, and we're going back to the start, back to where you know you're safe and okay. They really are a safe place for me. It feels like catching up with old friends but in music form.

For some people, I imagine describing a band's live performance as "you know what you're getting into every single time, without fail" might sound boring and unexciting. They might love the chaos and uncertainty more than anything else and, who could blame them? I do love a bit of chaos and uncertainty. But in this case, it means the world to have something I know will always be here to welcome me home. And the last thing Bury Tomorrow are on a stage is boring and unexciting. They are a group of musicians who knows where their strengths lay and use them in every last song and performance, take what they do best and push it a step further every time. 

And there's something so goddamn inspiring in that.

And for the forty-third time in my life, I had a fantastic time watching them concentrate all that energy, all their strength, and create madness and mayhem from the stage. 

 or this one, seeing as it is the first part of a tour I am following since I picked this blog back up in July and since the pandemic, really, I have decided to keep up with my somewhat spontaneous writing streak and go with some sort of diary situation, but with live music sprinkled all over.

About three years ago, I discovered American metalcore outfit Thousand Below on the Impericon Never Say Die Tour. Doors were at four in the afternoon and, seeing as it was a Sunday, I was free, so I turned up early and was absolutely blown away inside a half-empty Koko. Since then, it's been three years of waiting, of religiously listening to the band's two records, 2017's The Love You Let Too Close and 2019's Gone In Your Wake, and hoping for anything to happen on my side of the world. Sometime in the middle of this nonsensical hellhole that has been 2020 and 2021, a European tour supporting Sweden's very own Normandie was announced, and here I was, planning adventures in fun places like Copenhagen, Prague, or Eindhoven. COVID hit again, in the form of the mainland Europe leg of the tour being postponed to next spring, sans Thousand Below, the day after I looked up flights to Denmark. By this point, the UK shows, the only ones that were still going on as and when and with the correct line-up, had already been sold out for months, and here I was, back to basics, back on my bullshit, planning to attend a fully sold-out tour, very largely for the support band, and without a single ticket in sight.

After much planning and deciding on my end (I am far from being sensational at decision-making, and my sense of guilt is over-developed when I feel like I should be doing something, and I can't in the end), on Friday morning, I jumped on a ten-hour coach from Paris to London. See, I don't mind long journeys at all. I flew to Australia and back, two years ago, and I was absolutely fine with being on a plane for twenty-five hours, even though I was craving fresh air by the end of it. (Side note, a layover in China is not a prime location for oxygen. The sky was pollution yellow when we landed in Guangzhou.) I know I won't get bored, and I can bring lots of things to occupy myself, from books to embroidery kits. 

But I hadn't missed sitting ten hours in uncomfortable seats and having the man in front of me push both of his seats back, leaving me with next to no legroom. (I pushed one of the seats back with my knee. You don't mess with 2021 me.) As planned, I wasn't bored. I read the best part of a novel for the first part of the journey and actively listened to music (more on that later). On the ferry, I stitched while listening to one of my favourite podcasts, and here I started feeling inspired on an artistic level. I always do when I'm travelling. I stitch in ferries, coaches, and trains. A sizeable chunk of my luggage is dedicated to art and journaling supplies. When in Melbourne, I would wake up every morning at six, sit up in bed, and write. Being on the road, anywhere in the world, sparks my inspiration in ways nothing else ever does. I'm going back home from this trip with, at the time of writing, three iPhone notes full of future projects I am excited to start- the results of the aforementioned "active music listening." There will be moments when music is just a pretty soundtrack. There will also be moments when I will listen to every word and see where my mind wanders. Most of the time, creative endeavours.

[ If anyone likes a good podcast, there you go ]

There is camaraderie found in strange places, one of which is long-distance travel. Following the pandemic, paperwork to travel to the United Kingdom has become stressful at best, and the check-in process at the coach station was the longest I've ever seen. As it turned out, everyone on the coach set out to help each other and, by the time we reached Calais and got our passports checked three times, we were all politely chatting. The girl in front of me had the same voice as someone I know, which proved disturbing every time she phoned someone. The guy behind me informed me he had a professional phone call, and I found myself rooting for a complete stranger, even though I had no clue what he talked about in said call- I am not tech-savvy and I think he was an engineer of some sort.

After I reached London, I met up with my friend Diane, who is following part of Trash Boat's UK tour. We ended up in Pizza Express for food and, I guess it's the time of this post where I praise the country for vegan and vegetarian options in restaurants. Living in rural France when you're a vegetarian is a testing experience, to say the least. The only thing I'm asking from McDonald's is a half-decent veggie burger (not a cheese wrap, not a salad, not an Egg McMuffin), and if I see another goat's cheese and honey anything anywhere, I will set fire to something and yes, this is a threat. Pizza Express does a banging vegan pizza with jackfruit pepperoni and fake mozzarella, and it's not even more expensive than traditional options. Those kinds of things make me so happy I could cry.
(Yes, I am aware I could simply not go to large fast-food chains. Again, I live in rural France, and the nearest towns are in working-class areas. I'm not exactly spoilt for choice.)
Euston Station used to be a second home of sorts when I lived in England. I used to live in Watford, and I have taken the Northampton and Milton Keynes Central lines one too many times. If I never set foot on a late Saturday service full of drunk, middle-aged, white men screaming Wonderwall and banging on the windows again, it'll still be too soon. Unsurprisingly, every Wembley Central service was cancelled, so here I traipsed on the tube and across all of Wembley after ten pm. (The stadium lights weren't even on.) 

The next morning, I treated myself to a cup of tea and biscuits, like the middle-aged lady I am at heart, and went around the charity shops of Wembley High Road before heading to Victoria Coach Station. I hope every band on the planet knows that if I ever come to see them in Southampton via Victoria Coach Station, it's a declaration of love of the highest order. In my Instagram post relating to the show, I called Southampton one of the seven circles of hell, and not even the nice shopping centre can change my mind. (Though it is very nice. I like Westquay.) Victoria Coach Station has to be another one of those hellish corners of the world, right? (Alongside Gare Du Nord and Châtelet Les Halles, in Paris.) Why else would I have seen a woman floss in public with something I am positive was not dental floss? The coach journey was pretty nondescript, as usual, I read, and I stitched, and I had lunch, and here I reached Southampton at 4pm, still without a ticket to tonight's show. I kept checking out all of my social media and still found nothing. I decided to go out to get food and treat myself to a peach wine spritz, because why the hell not and, on the way back to my hotel, I checked my phone and saw someone had tweeted me, offering me their spare ticket for free. I couldn't believe my luck! I went to get ready (pro tip, spray to cover up roots is a horrible, horrible thing and, at the time of writing, I cannot wait to wash my hair) and power walked to the venue when I couldn't get an Über. (I'm not trying to be precious or anything in my use of taxis, I'm just petrified of the large rodent population of Southampton. Not a joke, just a phobia.) My friend for the night was called Tom and was great company, and I had a brilliant time and a lot of luck.
I guess Saturday was a bones day.

The first support act of the night was Caskets, which I had never heard of before, but I knew I was interested as soon as I saw their merch table. See, I like an original merch spread and, if you turn up with tarot cards as part of your items, I need to know more about you. (Same if you have household items of some sort. Give me those mugs!) At this time, I have no idea what the cards are for and how they relate to the band's music (or lyrics, one can imagine), but they drew me in immediately. Their performance was fun and energetic, and there was a large number of singalongs in the Joiners that night. I have downloaded one of their albums on Spotify to listen to on the journey back to London, so, from my point of view, I'd call this first set a success.
I got closer to the front for Thousand Below and...you know what? I don't use live music to fill the void anywhere anymore, but the joy I feel when I see one of my favourite bands walk on a stage and start playing is unmatched. I couldn't shake the stupid grin off my face for the whole set, and nothing compares to hearing songs you've been listening to for the past two to three years being played live. Thousand Below are just as brilliant on a stage as I remember them to be from the Never Say Die Tour, and it's as big a joy to watch them perform as it is for them to be on a stage. A little while back, I tweeted the band, as a joke, something along the lines of "How much is it going to cost me to hear The Love You Let Too Close live?" and one of them replied "Just the price of a ticket." And I can confirm it only cost me turning up in Southampton to hear my favourite song live. I know what I said about hell and its circles, but it was worth it. I sort of jumped in the pit, hoop earrings, tears and all, and gave my all to that bridge like I'd been waiting my whole damn life for it. At the end of a set concluded by the excellent alone (out of my head), I was still a bit emotional and shaking like a leaf. And, as I found since I came back to live music in the wake of that virus we don't want to hear about anymore, this is the best feeling in the world.
A few minutes before Normandie is meant to start playing, frontman Philip Strand walks on stage and apologises as he has lost his voice and might not be able to play to the best of his ability tonight, which resulted in their performance being cut short. I have first seen Normandie on Yellowcard's farewell tour, in 2016, then at Download Festival in 2017, and then headlining in London, a show which I'd mostly attended to see William Ryan Key, formerly of Yellowcard. (Both bands are good friends if I am not mistaken.) However, my most vivid memory of any of their sets, apart from thinking "that band's good" was them congratulating the audience on the results of the general election at Download Festival and being met with confused silence. (The June 2017 GE saw the Conservative Party remain in power, even though they lost part of their majority, if I understood correctly. I'll put the band's error on the fact that they are Swedish, British politics are confusing to say the least, and that comes from someone who had an English civilisation module in her degree.) Southampton marks my fourth time seeing the Swedes, and the two main thoughts I had were a, if this man has lost his voice, how come he can bust out a high note like that, and b, I have only listened to one of their albums once, how come I know the words to half of these songs? Turning up for shows mostly for the support act can be a tricky situation, but I suppose there could be much worse headliners than Normandie to have to watch every night. Much, much worse.

At the time of writing, it is Sunday, and I am waiting for my coach back to London. (I hadn't realised my hotel check out was at 10am, my coach is just before 2pm.) I didn't fancy walking around with my luggage, so I have been sitting down in Costa for the past hour and a bit, writing this around an iced latte with coconut milk. After this, I guess I'll eat the sandwich I didn't have for dinner last night and head to some charity shops in search of a red blazer for my Halloween costume.
I chose honesty for this post. I sometimes feel insecure having hobbies that are not being stuck to my phone screen in public. I feel like people look at me when I get a book out of my bag (not a Kindle, a plain old book made out of paper, a lot of the time in French because they're all I have access to in my neck of the woods), let alone a laptop to write or an embroidery kit. It's crazy how normal hobbies can make you feel insecure sometimes, because they are not the norm. Most people don't whip out fabric, floss, and needles on the train. Oh well. Again, no one messes with 2021 me, I guess. I've been thinking of writing a post like this since I knew I would be attending these shows, and I thought it would be something closer to "tricks and tips when you're following a tour" than this long-winded diary entry with live reviews in places. And to honour my original thoughts, here are some tips and tricks for when you're following tours.

- If you can, don't take the first coach or train out in the morning. Sleep. These things will get tiring.

- Get a good backpack. (Mine's from the hunting section of a popular sports chain where I'm from, it was relatively cheap, and it's perfect.) 

- Tea is your best friend. Travelodge is your best friend. Spray to cover up roots is your worst enemy.

- Make an itinerary for where you're going.

- If you tend to have mental health issues, mostly anxiety, try to incorporate some of your everyday life habits even though you're away from home just so you don't lose your footing. (Mine range from spending time alone to making space in my day to be a little creative.)

- Eat well and drink water regularly. Don't be like me, who automatically gets heavily dehydrated at least once. By eating well, I mean eat whatever you like, I'm not the healthy food police, but, you know. From experience, chips for breakfast and dinner won't ever do you any favours, and that's me saying that.

- If you're using a bumbag at the shows, don't put the clip on your back. It's safer to have it in front (and, if that's any relevant to you, no one can unclip it when you're crowdsurfing.)

- Document that stuff. All of it. Write, post on social media, take pictures, text your friends, whatever. Keep memories.

Before I got on the coach, I went into the aforementioned charity shops. I did not find the red blazer, so I changed my Halloween costume, but I found a pretty kickass Royal Blood tour shirt, and Lily Allen's book My Thoughts Exactly. (Just prior to entering the shop where I found it, I was in WH Smith, saw it, and thought I'd love to read it, as I love Lily Allen. It's crazy to me that I would find it on the next shop I step foot in, and only for one singular Great British pound.) At five in the afternoon, I touched down in London Victoria, jumped on the tube to King's Cross, and the first thing I did when I got into the Travelodge was to go for a shower and wash as much root spray off my hair as possible. (The amount of times I have washed my hands off its residue during this trip is unbelievable. Surely, it had to be some sort of record.) After making myself look somewhat decent, I headed to the Islington Academy, another place that has basically been home for the past few years, especially when I lived in Watford.

The queuing process felt like it lasted for hours, and the number of people who had turned up without their COVID passes, getting tested beforehand, or getting vaccinated altogether was befuddling. Didn't we come close enough to losing that thing you're here for? I sort of have to commend the venue staff for having lateral flows tests on hand, I suppose. I joined my friend Am upstairs and missed a little bit of Caskets but, as I had the night before, enjoyed what I saw very much. The singalongs from the crowd are so impressive that my first thought is that "they must be from around here," but as it turns out, they are from Yorkshire, so I'm guessing it's just sheer talent. Part of this tour felt like awesome bands sprouting out of nowhere, and somehow having several hundred people singing along to their music.
I loved it.
I briefly caught up with my friend Tosca, saw my friend Emily for the first time since the pandemic hit, and then, headed downstairs for Thousand Below. Shockingly, every once in a while, I like staying at the back or on the sides for shows. (Joiners had CHAIRS at the back. It was great.) But not during the band I have travelled for, and not when those three main support sets are something I have waited three years for. In London, the moshpits start during the first song, and I jump headfirst, as usual. I am also the first person to crowdsurf for the night, during The Love You Let Too Close, and security is taken aback, to say the least. And it was a great time. I appreciate the intention of the guy who offered to swap spots with me during No Place Like You, so I wouldn't get hit by the people in the pit, but I think he and I both knew he wouldn't have said that to a guy. I guess that's what happens when you're the only girl in a moshpit. Oh, well. Thousand Below are fantastic, meeting frontman James Deberg at merch afterwards was a great moment, our picture together is hilarious, and playing The Love You Let Too Close immediately followed by No Place Like You was kinda rude to my emotions, but I'll allow it.
Sometime during Normandie's set, which is the planned length in London, and which they explain is their biggest ever, I start wondering about one thing. Who are the people who listen to Normandie? How did a group of Swedish men become the kind of band who sell out a whole UK tour, including a thousand capacity venue, months in advance? Surely, touring with Yellowcard (who broke up five years ago) and Hands Like Houses (who have never been that big) doesn't make one scene famous? What did I miss? Who is the target audience? What's the demography? And I mean that with absolutely no disrespect, only curiosity. Have I missed out on a big tour they would have done? Is it because we collectively love Sweden as a society? (Also, as found out through research, why did no one inform me that frontman Philip Strand had contributed to a Eurovision song? That's the kind of fact that's right up my alley.)
On another note- Holy Water is a straight-up banger and has been stuck in my head for the past almost week.

At the end of the show, we run into some of Am's friends, head to merch, where I purchase a cool Caskets pin (if you know me, you know I'm a sucker for things I can put on jackets), spot one of my old team leaders at the merch table, and then, we head to the back of the venue in an attempt to meet people. See, I remembered the Islington Academy being something of a ballache when it came to meeting band members, I remembered having to go all the way around the block because security staff simply will not let you go in a straight line down, but I had never seen the "designated waiting area" they now have. Is this new?
We end up not meeting anyone, but I make new friends and I have a great time, so, who cares. Emma and Callum, this one goes out to you.

On Monday morning, I leave the cosy Travelodge room (I swear this is not sponsored content, though if they wanted to, I'm down- I just really love Travelodge) and head to Victoria Coach Station, yet again, to make my way to Birmingham. If every other journey had been comfortable and convenient enough, this cannot be said about this specific trip. Upon embarking, I notice a large and somewhat loud family group and decide to let them in first so I can then sit as far away from them as possible. (Disclaimer: I'm not mean about families and children, an overload of noises and voices can trigger panic attacks.) And I think I'm fine until we reach the Finchley Road stop and a second family group, larger and louder, sit all around me. The sound of their voices and iPad games sometimes grew louder than my headphones, and I had to step on discarded Skittles as I left the coach. For someone like me, this was the journey from hell.
Oh, well.
I don't know what kind of relationship I have in Birmingham. The wildlife situation being somewhat similar to Southampton's, I cannot say the Midlands city is my favourite place in the world, but I have to admit it is convenient, in the middle of everything, and it has a Tim Hortons café, which is always going to be an advantage. (For future reference, the presence of at least one Tim Hortons per tour is a requirement on my end. What's the point of going to the United Kingdom if I can't have a slightly-too-sweet Iced Capp with coconut milk?) After reading whatever All Time Low thought they were doing with that statement and getting ready, I head into the heart of the city for a well-deserved stop at Spoons (everyone in the scene will tell you, is it really following a tour if you don't go to Spoons?) and then, find my way to Mama Roux's without getting lost, which is a first. 

I have only been to Mama Roux's twice (both times in 2018, to see Mallory Knox, then With Confidence), and I can confidently say it is one of my favourite venues in the country. It is the perfect size for a good show, and it looks so lovely and quirky. The show opens with Caskets and, from my tiny corner, the only spot I could find in a packed and undeniably sold-out room, I can see the waves this band will be making in the future. This could have been their own headliner. The singalongs are deafening, especially considering they are the first band of the night, and everyone knows who they are. They sound as tight and fantastic as always, and I'm ridiculously happy I got a new band to fall in love with out of this three-day adventure. That's the best part of doing stupid things and following tours and going to shows early: you get new music out of it. You get to be swept off your feet three times around. Caskets are amazing, and I can't wait for the future.
About half an hour later, Thousand Below takes the stage for the last time of the tour, and a part of me starts feeling the end-of-an-adventure blues, last-day-of-summer melancholy, like, this is it, tomorrow, I'm not watching one of my favourite bands again. Outside of me being a raging emotional idiot, I have the best time during the third instalment of Only Girl In The Pit, a series by me, about my life. (Disclaimer: there's another girl who joins in about halfway through the set.) As I did the first times, I give everything I have to The Love You Let Too Close, I have a bit of a crying moment, I sing along really awfully, I dance equally awfully, and I have the best time. At the end of the night, the jacket I have made to celebrate one of my favourite albums and song gets a bit of a moment and a conversation, and, spoiler alert, I leave Mama Roux's a happy bunny.
(Honestly, I am so sorry to anyone who saw me dance, for lack of a better word, to Disassociate. I just don't know how to move sometimes.)
Finally, Normandie come up for their last show of the tour, and though still confused as to why they have become this popular, material for endless singalongs, I join in and enjoy the ride. (Also, I have discovered between the London and Birmingham shows that I have seen them support Hands Like Houses at the Asylum in 2018, which had entirely slipped my mind.) And, as usual, if you know me, even just a little bit, someone on stage asking for either crowdsurfing or moshpits is always going to be kryptonite and, after a quiet but decided "Fuck it," more to myself than anything, I jump in for the end of Holy Water. (I guess the track is now perpetually stuck in my head.) At the London show, frontman Philip Strand had informed the crowd he did not want a wall of death and, at the Birmingham show, he asked the people on the balcony to start a moshpit. It was probably a health and safety hazard, but aren't all the best nights?

On Tuesday, I finally treat myself to a Tim Hortons Iced Capp, I jump in yet another Flixbus service back to London, I sit down at St. Pancras station, waiting for my late Eurostar, I briefly catch up with my lovely friend Tosca, and I head home, slightly broken outside, but more than happy inside. On my wishlist for the future? Another Thousand Below tour, and maybe for the back of my leg to stop looking like I've barbecued it. (I burnt myself by accident on the radiator in my hotel room in London.) 

Also, as a final note! Do we remember the part about the hobbies and the insecurities? I embroidered on the Eurostar while listening to a podcast, just like I do back home. It was great. 

And, since we're on the subject of podcasts, have a listen to the Good Noise Podcast episode featuring Homesafe's Ryan Rumchaks and Tyler Albertson.

The last show we attended during our six-day trip to the United Kingdom was also the largest one, and it consisted of Bring Me The Horizon tearing up the O2 Arena on the last night of their Post Human Tour.

I have spoken about Bring Me The Horizon on several occasions in the past, and they were one of my very first dips into the pool of metalcore, over a decade ago. I remember them being one of the bands that were simply too heavy for me, at first. I played Chelsea Smile on YouTube, liked the guitar, but did not understand why there was any need for screaming. I waited it out a bit, more or less gracefully, and I saw someone share their song It Never Ends on Tumblr when it first came out. I clicked on it because I had a spare four minutes, and that was it. I understood. Ten years down the line, they have become unbelievably special to me as something I share with my older brother, who loves them and has travelled to see them with me several times. Watching them again after over two years was going to be special, I knew it.

Caught off guard by how early doors were and how long the queues of the standing area tend to be at the O2 Arena, we missed Nova Twins and only made it in ten minutes before You Me At Six were due to play. However, it was surprisingly easy to get to the front of the crowd.

Ah, You Me At Six.
I know I have spoken about them before, and most conversations led by me revolve around my deep and endless love for their earlier material, particularly their sophomore album Hold Me Down, which remains one of my all-time favourite records. Though I am not the girl who used to don their merch constantly and listen to their music every day on the way to university anymore, I still keep a close eye on what they do and keep up with their every release. Their music is like an old friend to me, the kind you don't always see or talk to every day, but when you do, it's like no time at all has passed.
Back in January, the Brits released their seventh full-length effort, SUCKAPUNCH. I have to admit some of it did not click with me as much as some of their older stuff, but when they are on stage in front of me, it doesn't matter. Who cares how many times I have listened to these songs, and who cares if they tug at my heartstrings or give me special feelings? I don't. Because the performance delivered by You Me At Six outshines everything else. See, when I first started listening to them, when I first saw them, when I saw them play large shows, I could tell how special they were, but damn- that O2 Arena set was beyond words. Music-wise and, undoubtedly, fandom-wise, they are light years away from Bring Me The Horizon, but they command the room with the kind of ease that forces admiration. It could be down to years of practice, years of cutting their teeth on the road and building their reputation as one of the finest rock bands in the UK. But it could also be due to natural talent and charisma, and I like to think it's a little bit of both.
The setlist is largely composed of tracks extracted from SUCKAPUNCH, and they all sound incredible in a live setting. Some older songs, such as Underdog, the band's timeless classic, or Take On The World, get an outing and an enthusiastic reception from the growing audience. 2014's Lived A Lie gets me crowdsurfing, even though I claimed I wouldn't and did not even dress appropriately for the adventure- proof that "I want to see as many crowdsurfers as possible" is my kryptonite through and through. They also play Bite My Tongue, which originally features Bring Me The Horizon's frontman Oli Sykes, who makes an appearance on stage for the first time on the tour. And, believe it or not, it's the moment that got me crying like an idiot.

At the end of a set concluded by the excellent Beautiful Way, frontman Josh Franceschi announces ten-year-anniversary shows for the band's third album, Sinners Never Sleep, which are then revealed to take place in June 2022, just before Slam Dunk Festival. If we're being honest, I am unbelievably excited, as the record holds a more than special place in my heart, but I am also terrified of hearing When We Were Younger live again, so I might need a little emotional support come June.

Recently, on a magazine's application page, I read the question: "Who is the most exciting band in the world right now, and why?" I thought of many options, many artists who social media is raving about, but the one true answer stood in front of me for an hour and a half on the 26th of September, 2021, and their name is Bring Me The Horizon. Who else could it be? What the Sheffield-natives do, no one else does it, but everyone draws inspiration from it in some way. They are the textbook definition of trendsetters, of trailblazers. The face of metalcore would not have been the way it has been if it wasn't for their music, charisma, anthemic lyrics, and style, and the face of rock music in the 2020s is going to be heavily influenced by their artistry. Mark my words.
I often speak about how unique it is to watch a band you once saw in smaller rooms play huge arenas, complete with pyro, screens, and a bigger budget, but I never really had that experience when Bring Me The Horizon is concerned, even though I have followed them for over a decade. The only time I saw them play an intimate venue was in May 2019, a few days before All Points East Festival, as a belated part of the Brit Awards shows. The one thing I can see, though, is a change of atmosphere. The first time I saw them play was at the first-ever Warped Tour UK, in Alexandra Palace, a strange day in my life to say the least, and the most vivid memory I have from their afternoon set was Oli Sykes asking people to open up a wall of death during Shadow Moses, which was getting its first-ever live outing, and do the Gangnam Style dance in it.

I could say it's pretty crazy to me that the band who did this is, ten years later, leading the pack of rock music in the United Kingdom, whatever anyone has to say about it, but there was unabashed confidence in asking that from an audience, and they wouldn't be where they are today without such self-belief.
I would like to say that, now, Bring Me The Horizon has the resources to fulfil their ambitions, but it would not do justice to their vision. Because you do not get where they are without a clear vision of what you want to be.
All throughout the years, there has been complete fearlessness in everything they have done. After the critically acclaimed Sempiternal, which many regard as the best metal record of its decade, they shifted their sound in That's The Spirit, going slightly softer, and even more dramatically with amo, which saw them explore poppier sounds and collaborate with people such as Grimes. In 2020, when POST HUMAN: SURVIVAL HORROR came out, it sounded like a love letter to the heavier music of their humble beginnings and almost a way of telling people that "actually, we can still do music that's heavy as fuck, and probably better than you think we can." And this fearlessness, this confidence, is, undoubtedly, what propels them to offer the live shows they do.

They do not have elaborate stage sets à la Iron Maiden, pyrotechnics, or complicated tricks. (Not that there's anything wrong with those. You all know me enough to know I love a bit of pyro.) They only have screens as props, behind them as well as a case of them around the stage, going up and down as the narrative demands. These screens are not here for an easy cop-out. They are here to tell a story, paint a picture, plant an atmosphere. Every song gets its own scenario, some we have seen before (Medicine comes to mind), some brand new, for the songs that haven't been played live yet. At various points during the show, dancers join them on stage, making the show feel like an all-encompassing experience. This demands every part of your brain. Yes, you are required to listen to the music, but also use your eyes and take in everything that's in front of you. This isn't just a live performance. This is the real definition of a show.
The setlist is a clever mixture of their biggest hits (Shadow Moses, Throne, Drown) and of songs released in the past two years, of course from POST HUMAN: SURVIVAL HORROR, but various singles as well, such as the poppy Ludens, the heavier Parasite Eve, Obey, which sees Yungblud's appearance on stage for an energetic feature, and their most recent track, DiE4u. This is a welcome reminder that they are one hell of a hardworking band, first, and that they will never go where anyone expects them. They are always surprising the audience. It's almost as if they are beyond traditional albums and EPs. They just release music in whatever form they want.

I don't know when I stopped to think it was all special beyond words, but it was definitely down to spotting audience reactions. From the right side of the standing area, I was constantly being pushed back in by security when crossing over the safety line, as moshpits were getting much too large. The lower end of the seating was right next to me, and there was a family right above me, parents and a kid who looked about twelve. The father was having a grand old time, and the child, in their Sempiternal era shirt, looked transfixed by what was happening on stage during Kingslayer. (I can't blame him. Kingslayer has exploded its way into my absolute favourite Bring Me The Horizon tracks, and watching it live was face-melting.) Maybe it was because I can always, always count on Can You Feel My Heart to rip my heart out and, considering the teary-eyed man next to me, it seems I am not the only one.
And that's when I saw it. The universality lying in Bring Me The Horizon's music.
They started as this deathcore band in Sheffield, and there is still heavy music to love and mosh to for the diehard fans. There is enough of a wow factor to transfix little kids who have probably never seen or heard anything like Kingslayer before. There's enough emotion and relatable words to tug at everyone's heartstrings, not only mine. I don't think I count anyway, I cry to everything. Yes, they are anthem-makers extraordinaire, but they can truly do it all. They can do breakdowns, a live show that feel like a pop star's, complete with dancers and matching outfits, clean and pretty much flawless performances. They can do everything and make it seem so easy and effortless that it's almost infuriating.

Maybe it's a reminder that we could all start jumping through life with the unabashed self-belief of a band who once asked a bunch of emo teenagers with fringes to do the Gangnam Style dance in the middle of a moshpit at five in the afternoon, and who, from there, have lifted themselves to the top of the pile, never mind the genre.

Remember the screens, the dancers, the outfits, the sounds, the music. Remember everything.
You'll be seeing them everywhere in the future.

Planning something in the United Kingdom and taking into account the travel restrictions and the things you have to pay for regardless of how long you are staying (meaning, the day 2 COVID tests that are absolutely unregulated by the government), you think, might as well stick around for a few days and have some fun. It is the train of thought that led us to Leeds on a frankly tropical Saturday night for the north of England in September.
But the truth is, where The Maine is, chances are, I want to be.

In the middle of their tour supporting long time friends All Time Low, The Maine added an extra three headline shows in England, playing Milton Keynes (of all places in the world), Leeds, and London. After spending about ten days looking all over the Internet for spare tickets, we headed to the Key Club and had one hell of a night. I personally had only been to Key Club for a show once before, in 2017, for With Confidence's Better Weather tour, and the place is loaded with memories for me. The ones added last Saturday night will remain positive ones and, after rum and cokes started flowing, impossible to explain, but fun regardless.

Support on the headliners came in the form of two acts, the first one being solo artist Jaws The Shark. I only managed to catch the last song, from memory, but I liked it enough to want to check out more, so there's a positive outcome for you. I caught more of the second act, Dead Pony, and I really enjoyed their sound and high energy performance. They're definitely a band I'll keep an eye on in the future. I like that, despite three shows not being a tour in the traditional sense of the term, effort was put into having a consistent line-up and choosing artists to play all shows instead of picking, almost last minute, whoever was available in a ten-mile radius.

If walking around in a t-shirt in Leeds after the first days of autumn meant tropical weather, I suppose the heat and sweatiness inside of Key Club were similar to the seventh circle of hell. This was my first small indoor show since the start of the pandemic, and I had almost forgotten what it felt like standing in a tiny room, sweat dripping from the ceiling, drenched, with other people's skin sticking to mine. I cannot say I missed the feeling as such, but I had definitely longed for the energy for the past eighteen months. There is something undeniably special about tiny venues, especially when you watch bands who could easily sell out larger, thousand people capacity rooms or more. The fact that it took us ten days to find tickets for the show truly is a testament to how popular and loved The Maine are.
As they should be.
These shows are an occasion for the Arizona natives to play more songs from their latest full length, the excellent XOXO: From Love And Anxiety In Real Time, as well as older tunes that do not often get played during shorter performances. As a long-time fan, it was nothing short of amazing to get a chance to hear Into Your Arms again. You know how, sometimes, you'll hear a song live, and the memory of that specific moment will stay embedded into your brain, for better or for worse? That was Into Your Arms for me. I remember hearing it the first time I saw The Maine, during their 2011 spring tour alongside NeverShoutNever. It was at the Nouveau Casino, in Paris, which is a no-barrier venue and, back in the day, no one really cared if you chucked all your earthly possessions on stage as long as you didn't get too much in the way, which we did, since we were first row. And the only thing I remember from Into Your Arms is an old friend of mine crying the whole time. Like, sobbing. Which I understand is rich coming from me, extreme crier extraordinaire.
As of September 25th, 2021, ten years, six months, and fourteen days later, I have a memory of myself smiling like an idiot, like, the kind of grinning that hurts your jaw, because I was just so happy to hear it live again. It's one of those moments when it absolutely hit me, square in the jaw and all, by how great a song it is, and hearing it live again was a treat.
Please never take it off the setlist again.

Apart from my weirdly specific, Into Your Arms related memories, this Key Club show was everything I could have wanted and expected from seeing The Maine: utter and complete chaos soundtracked by the best emo songs this side of the world. Never mind how hard we tried and, believe me, we did until the very last song, with all our might and energy, we simply could not get a moshpit going for more than two seconds, but we still had an awesome time. (And we'll get our revenge next time. I'm aware it sounds like a threat.) Chaos also came, as usual, in the form of frontman John O'Callaghan enthusiastically offering everyone a lift to Manchester, where the band was heading the next day to play with All Time Low, and phoning a random person's boss to tell them said person was quitting. Oh, also, not knowing what Lidl was. Yes, the supermarket chain.
Typing this, I realise explaining to an outsider what goes on when you watch The Maine perform on a stage is near impossible. It's one of those things: you have to witness it to understand it. This band is an all-encompassing experience.

And they're damn good live performers too. As I explained in my All Time Low post, earlier this week, I never know what's going to happen in the crowd whenever I see The Maine play, but I know I'm going to be given a brilliant performance by the five men on stage, never any doubt about it, and I couldn't ever ask for more. The setlist is hit after hit, after hit, from oldies such as Into Your Arms and Everything I Ask For to newbies Sticky, Lips, or Pretender, through beloved tracks like The Sound Of Reverie, Slip The Noose, or Run. I can never be unhappy with a setlist of theirs, even when I don't hear a song live for a decade or when they simply forget they ever released an album called Black & White. 
Mind when I said, about All Time Low, that every time they played a song, my brain would go: "Shit, I love that one?" It also works for The Maine, ten times out of ten. Every single song. Shit, I love that one, sixteen times in a row, even with sweat dripping down from the ceiling, and even when I'm still giggling about the Lidl incident. It doesn't hurt that they always sound perfect. There's never a hit or miss situation. I don't remember ever leaving a show thinking it didn't sound good or anything that sort.

Every time I see The Maine live, I leave the venue feeling like I'm on top of the world, like my problems do not exist anymore, with a stupid grin on my sweaty face, covered in glitter, but most importantly, I leave the room in awe of how truly talented this band is. They are always consistently great, professional, and they always sound just right. They are one of a kind, really, the perfect mixture of chaotic energy and musical perfection, complete with matching outfits, jokes about Magic Mike, and more heart than many bands in the scene. They have one of the most loving and dedicated fanbases I have ever encountered, and you can tell this band means everything to all of us. Watching them play on a stage, though, it grows obvious that no joke, no lies, playing shows, connecting with their fans, sharing a moment with us, especially after being deprived of it for twenty months, it means everything to them too.

Check out Jaws The Shark HERE.

Check out Dead Pony HERE.

Even if this is my third live review of sorts since I picked this blog back up from the almost-dead over the summer, there is still something utterly unbelievable, in a magical kind of way, about being back at in-person shows. It seems too good to be true and, as we have seen through many tours being postponed and shows being cancelled over COVID cases in bands' teams, it still feels like it's all hanging by a thread, more fragile than ever. Yes, we do have live music back, for now, and it is something to be celebrated, and we are lucky enough to see bands travel from overseas to play, but now is not the time to take anything for granted.
Now is the time to love it with all our hearts, like we've never loved anything before, and appreciate it more than ever.

This time last week, I flew to London, England, without a three-hour stopover in Barcelona, Spain, like I had for Slam Dunk, to watch All Time Low play Brixton Academy. Back when I first started listening to the Baltimore pop-punks, about twelve years ago, I remember the idea of Brixton Academy being such a milestone for artists. If you played Brixton Academy, in some way, you had made it. I remember seeing people I knew travelling to the United Kingdom and watching bands play there, and it all seemed like something unattainable, the Royal Albert Hall of pop-punk kids, if you will. The first time I ever attended a show in the iconic venue was in February of 2011, when I bought seating tickets to see A Day To Remember, only because their Paris show was sold out. Still a baby in these corners of the scene, I assumed that, if they were playing a three-hundred-people capacity room in Paris, the show in London must have been roughly the same size. Despite Brixton Academy holding magic and power over the scene I was diving into, I had no idea how many people it could contain, and I suppose you can imagine my surprise when I turned up for doors, and the queue was going all the way around the block.

Since then, I have seen many bands in this legendary building, all lovely white statues and sloped standing area, but never All Time Low, despite them playing it regularly. When they announced a UK tour, no European Union shows, I knew I wanted to attend but refused to plan anything because of the potential travel restrictions. And when The Maine, who I absolutely adore, was announced as the main support act, I knew I needed to be there- a true come hell or high water situation. There was no way I could miss that tour.

The first night saw the largest queue I remember seeing in front of Brixton Academy since my first ever show there, a decade prior. As a consequence, though I cannot fault venue staff for their quick and efficient work, we missed the first song and a half played by East coast band Meet Me At The Altar. I had heard of them thanks to their ties with The Wonder Years' frontman Dan Campbell, and I first checked out their single Garden sometime in 2020, including it in a sadly short-lived "positive energy" playlist situation I had on Twitter. After releasing the excellent EP Model Citizen in the summer of 2021, I grew even more excited to watch them perform live, and these first two times did not disappoint in the slightest- quite the contrary, actually. There is such a quiet confidence exuding from these women, as if they know it's within their power to hold a five-thousand-people strong audience in the palm of their hand, which I hope they did. How could they not? They have too much charisma to leave anyone indifferent, and the scene needs a voice like theirs too badly to ignore them. While they played the UK, last week, I saw many people praising them and calling them important, and you know what, yes, they really are. I have a memory of me saying, about Candy Hearts/Best Ex, that had I found music like it when I was younger, I would have held on to it and never let go, I would have grown obsessed with it and modelled my entire personality around it, and the same goes for Meet Me At The Altar. Teenage me would have adored them with all her heart, and it's only natural that adult me, even more so with all the education and views on the world I now have, is on that path. I left Brixton Academy even more of a fan than I was before I walked in, and I am unbelievably excited to see them again at Slam Dunk Festival in June. (If there is any way we could get Feel It Again with Dan Campbell, that would be lovely, thank you.)
Also, realistically, how could I not love a band that covers Jimmy Eat World's Sweetness? That was a match made in heaven.

In the past fourteen years, The Maine, "spelled like the state, from Phoenix, Arizona," has grown into a band that is universally loved and completely underrated at the same time. They have one of the biggest and most dedicated communities of fans I have ever seen, but rarely will you ever see anyone celebrate them as a must-check out band or cite their albums as staples of the genre- and it is through no fault of their own. I have always admired The Maine because they seem to do whatever it is they want to do without worrying whether it will be accepted by their peers. They played a free tour in the United States, back in 2015. They tour with every band, newcomers and old friends alike. They reinvent themselves with every album without shouting on rooftops that they are evolving or changing. They wear matching outfits on stage and radiate a chaotic energy that feels completely genuine. The Maine just exist. They do their thing, follow their own path, away from labels and clichés, away from tropes and traps, and it is why they are this loved.
The best thing about watching The Maine play on a stage is that you never really know what to expect apart from a great performance given by the five men on stage. It's a given when I go see them live: I know I will never, ever be disappointed, and I know they always deliver. Maybe it's why I have never hesitated before buying tickets to their tours, maybe it's why I have now seen them live twenty-four times, maybe it's why I keep coming back for more with no signs of stopping. I know they are going to be absolutely brilliant.
I just never know what's going to happen to me in the crowd.
After about two songs of quiet dad-dancing on the side, the first night, we grow restless and decide to shake things up in the middle of the audience, which results in a three-woman moshpit, which then grows into a five-woman moshpit. (Side note, but Brixton Academy and its fifty-five thousand barriers scattered all over the standing area makes it hard to start some action of the pitting kind sometimes.) On the second time, the crowd seems a little more active, and I find myself being the first crowdsurfer of the show. The sense of uncertainty and jumping into the unknown whenever I watch The Maine means everything to me. This joyful chaos keeps me excited and eager for the next show. Mark my words: I will always be impatient for my next The Maine show.
Their Brixton setlist is a solid mixture of their biggest, most-known songs (Numb Without You, Am I Pretty?, or Black Butterflies And Déjà Vu) and tracks extracted from their latest record, 2021's XOXO: From Love And Anxiety In Real Time. "If you don't know the words, pretend like you do!" enthusiastically exclaims frontman John O'Callaghan, the leader of all this chaos. And we all do. We wave our arms about, we sing along as best as we can, we dad dance like it's our neighbour's barbecue and we have had one too many beers, we scream "Yeehaw!" when prompted, because why the hell not, and we are lucky enough to watch a band that I have followed almost religiously for the past twelve years of my life, a band who looks happier than ever, and a band who always makes me leave the room with a stupid grin plastered on my sweaty, glittery face.
And, just as always, I am already excited for the next show, for the next tour, even though I have no bloody clue where or when that may be.

As I spoke about in my albums of the year post, at the end of last year, Wake Up Sunshine is the album that made me fall back in love with All Time Low, after years of drought and music I didn't connect with as much as I used to. It's the album that swept me off my feet all over again and, in some way, the girl who played it on repeat from her little countryside village could almost be the adult version of the university-aged kid who used to listen to Nothing Personal every morning as motivation for classes, minus the awful fringe. (Thank God for that!)
There is always something akin to a celebration whenever you watch All Time Low live and, albums I clicked with or not, the feeling never went away. They would play a song, and I would immediately start dancing and singing, thinking "Shit! I love this one!" every three minutes for an hour and a half. With Wake Up Sunshine tracks in tow, the feeling became heightened. Both nights, because they swapped setlist between both shows, every time a song started, old or new, all I could think about was: "Shit! I love that one!" 
You know how, sometimes, you'll watch a band, and they will say something about their new record and how they would please like to play material from it if you don't mind, as if they are asking you for a favour? All Time Low didn't really do any of it tonight, but I wouldn't have cared if they had. I wanted them to play as much stuff from Wake Up Sunshine as possible. I would have had my money's worth if they had played the album from start to end, and back again. Because this was not in the card, we simply got Some Kind Of Disaster, Sleeping In, Monsters (sadly sans blackbear or Demi Lovato), Favourite Place, Clumsy, Glitter & Crimson, as well as the two recent non-album singles that followed, Once In A Lifetime and PMA. The rest of the setlist was largely composed of classics, and let me tell you one thing, nothing compares to hearing five thousand people echoing the opening lines to 2007's Six Feet Under The Stars or watching confetti cascade over the crowd during the iconic Dear Maria, Count Me In.
The first night, during Glitter & Crimson, which frontman Alex Gaskarth said he wrote about a gay couple fighting for their love, I see a group of people holding a pride flag, not far from me, down the front. The second night, a similar flag is thrown on stage, only to be worn by guitarist Jack Barakat as a cape. And there's something that made me so happy about both those sights. Yes, nothing in the world compares to the joy of hearing the songs you love played by the bands who created and crafted them, but most importantly, nothing feels like knowing there are people who have found, in All Time Low, at their shows, a place where they feel safe enough to be who they are, unapologetically, as they should. And I don't think I will ever be able to listen to Glitter & Crimson without thinking of those Brixton shows, now.

There are a million things that have been said about All Time Low's stage presence and performances in the past, and I could only paraphrase the most complimentary. Even when I didn't quite click with their music, I attended every show I could, because they are just that good on a stage, whatever they play. They have an energy that is limitless, that knows no bounds, and the way they communicate with the audience, wherever in the world it is, is natural, never forced, and feels comfortable to witness. They seem to have toned down the dirty, blink-182-like jokes of yesteryear, though people will always throw bras all over the stage, apparently, and they are still the band I fell in love with, back when I was a lost nineteen-year-old kid with no sense of direction or fashion. They are fun, they are like the sunshine, they are full of energy, enthusiasm, and joy, they make you laugh and cry all at once, and now, they have the budget of their big ambitions and confetti and fancy screens behind them on stage, enhancing an already stellar performance. Yeah, maybe that was rude to my feelings to play Therapy and Missing You back to back, please, can I just not cry for a minute, but they were instantly forgiven anyway.

The first night, we end up in the moshpits, tearing it up and, strangely, after about seventeen shows or so, I had never been in the middle. (It took me ten shows to get the barrier I so desperately wanted back in the day, cut me some slack.) And, yeah, maybe some people need to relearn pit etiquette, but it was a fun time regardless. I crowdsurfed to Dear Maria, Count Me In on the first night, and when I landed on the other side of the barrier, running back in the crowd and seeing the confetti fall, I couldn't help but think that teenage me, the girl with nothing going for her, the girl who listened to the same album every day for months on end, the girl who tried to find joy wherever she could, nevermind if it was just stupid boys making basement noise in the basement, yeah, in Baltimore, Maryland, where she's still never been, well, that girl, she would be damn proud of adult me, and at that moment, it was all I cared about.

As I said on Instagram, 2020 sucked, big time, and I don't think we need to be reminded of any of it, but it gave me my stupid love for All Time Low back, and I think I have no choice but to be grateful. The joy I felt inside Brixton Academy, those two nights- I have to be grateful.