Review: By Christian Stanger
Photography: Dan Maynard

When I came home from the UK in early 2009, the world had shifted slightly off its axis. The GFC was in full swing, Kevin Rudd was about to give us all a handout so we could blow $900 on a TV, and in the unit I briefly landed in, my mate had a few new tracks on his expansive playlist that filled the room at volumes that the $100 speakers had no right to handle.

It came up on the screen ‘Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies’ and then the swirling discordant strings dissolved into a heavy bass note, punctuated by orchestra hits, out of step. The staccato strings hit in arrhythmia, and the tension winds tighter so that by the time the choir and Simon Neil arrive and everything locks into place at once, it’s a completely different song and you can breathe. Calculated precision and madness. I bought in immediately.

I’ve only caught Biffy Clyro a handful of times since, distance and time getting in the way, but they’ve never quite lost me. Even with a few wobbles, a cancelled tour, and a live album unveiled during lockdown. This tour has been a long time coming, for them and for us.

Teenage Joans are no strangers to this situation—needing to win over a room full of people not necessarily there to see them but watching anyway. But this duo are experts at getting doubters onside, and within minutes, singer/guitarist Cahli Blakers has worked her charismatic magic.

Teenage Joans are the fizzy punk antidote to the angular, muscular chaos of the headliners and they fit like a glove. Opening with ‘Sweet Things Rot’, the duo builds from a slow burn to a cacophonous squall by the end and sound more shoegaze than the well-worn “girl punk” tags would suggest. ‘Ruby Doomsday’ follows with something more in line with what their reputation predicts: like Blink-182 or Paramore through a 2000s Aussie indie filter. The track is an instant caffeine hit as the room slowly fills.

They also use the set to road-test new material, joking that feedback isn’t required given the recording bill is already paid—but judging by the response, another banger of an album is on the way.

A lengthy wait ensues, soundtracked by elevator music that grows more and more bizarre and dadaist. Then the lights dim, and the bright repetitive stabs of a synth emanate from the speakers. A kilted and shirtless (obviously) Simon Neil appears on the riser, soaking in the adulation hurled his way.

The drums kick in, Neil jumps down to stage level and leans into the mic: “I can’t divorce you!” and we’re off to the races. There’s an undeniable ecstasy in his delivery, something distinctly Scottish that’s central to the band’s charm.

It’s important to note Biffy Clyro are incomplete tonight, as bassist James Johnston continues treatment back in the UK. In his absence, the band has a different shape. Johnston has been more than a bassist—he’s a focal point, a secondary Simon Neil, two shirtless engines feeding off each other’s energy at the front of the stage, with James’ brother Ben Johnston backing them up on drums.

Without James, focus narrows almost completely to Neil. That’s not to diminish replacement bassist Naomi McLeod, nor the rest of the band—but the frontman’s spotlight is that much more intense for this show.

Two heavy hitters—‘That Golden Rule’ with its avant-garde second half, and ‘Who’s Got A Match?’—deliver the first major crowd eruption of the night, with anyone even vaguely familiar belting out: “I’m a fire and I’ll burn burn burn tonight!”

But it’s ‘Biblical’ that resonates most. Already massive on record, here it’s elevated several notches by production and sheer crowd force.

The band’s command of dynamics and friction comes into focus on ‘Different People’. It opens cold and synth-heavy with a deceptively soft-rock feel (and if you didn’t know what’s coming, you’d consider a toilet break), until a jagged guitar line punctures the atmosphere. The bait-and-switch completes as the drums kick the door down, transforming the track into a pinned-against-the-back-wall wall of sound.

Then the gears grind as Simon Neil belts “I am going home,” and seconds later flips the script with “there’s no such thing as home.” An emotional U-turn—light and shade mashed into a searing chorus. And like everything so far, the crowd knows it and sings it.

‘Mountains’ positively soars, and Neil returns solo for an encore starting with the acoustic-led unifying moment of ‘Machines’. The crowd carries the refrain “take the pieces and build them skyward” with goosebump-inducing conviction.

The final stretch from here could be in any order and still hit just as hard.

‘The Captain’ is raucous and unruly. ‘Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies’ pulls me straight back to that first listen—the same chaos, tension, and eventual release. Live, it’s just as precise. Neil is locked in, eyes closed, counting beats, head nodding—then the chorus opens up.

During ‘Bubbles’, someone near the front unleashes a stream of homemade bubbles into the room, but it’s the final 90 seconds that steal the moment—still one of the best things they’ve ever written.

Biffy Clyro thrive on contradiction: chaos and precision, hooks and oddness. In a sea of monotony, they’re a heavy splash of mosaic colour, packaging complexity inside pop hooks, singalong choruses, and stadium-sized guitar riffs.

And what a treat it is to have them in smaller rooms in Australia, at least for now. Surely Riverstage beckons next time around.