There’s something beautifully predictable about a Gorilla Riot opener in Manchester: The doors open, the room fills, and before you’ve even had time to check your camera settings against the current lighting or even adjust your camera strap, the place is already three pints deep and expectation is high. They’re hometown lads after all, and the crowd treats them like returning champions, which, to be fair, they are.
What makes Gorilla Riot so addictive is the way they straddle two worlds. On one side, you’ve got that early “bordering on stoner rock” thickness with riffs so fuzzy you could use them to insulate a loft, grooves that swagger rather than walk, and a general sense that the amps might actually be sentient and angry. On the other side, their newer material brings this surprisingly soulful, melodic warmth. Their 30 minute set stitched those two identities together perfectly. Heavy enough to rattle your sternum, smooth enough to make you close your eyes for a second and just feel it. They carry themselves with that effortless “yeah, we know” confidence. No ego or theatrics. They may not be from the patron state of shooting stuff, but they do know how to entertain a crowd.
Calling it a “photo pit” was generous tonight. It was more of a politely negotiated patch of floor either side of the stage posts that the crowd views the bands from. Tonight there wasn’t even anything between the monitors and the front row’s belt buckles. Myself and Nick Ashton had to signal each other from opposite sides of the stage to let the other know they were ready to swap sides before running the gauntlet in an ever thickening crowd to get to the other side with a minimum of fuss and zero spillages.
The Manchester crowd, bless them, were lovely as always, Offering to move, shift, lean, or fold themselves in half to help me get a shot. And as always, I kindly declined, because they paid to be there and I’m not about to ruin someone’s night for the sake of a slightly better angle. I don’t shoot for Getty Images or National Geographic and my chances of getting a Hasselblad Award are less favourable than getting the top Euro Millions win, so a piece with one less pic is no great shakes.
Lighting? Let’s just say it was “creative”. The kind of lighting that makes you wonder if it was a recent Temu purchase, or if the person on the desk is conducting a long term psychological experiment on photographers. Deep shadows, unpredictable colour washes, and a stage so low you felt like you were photographing a band playing from inside a trench. Add in a couple of stetsons and a handful of people who seemed to be about 7ft tall just compounded the effect, so I apologise in advance if the pics aren’t up to much.
Brayden Stewart took the stage next, and the whole room shifted gear. Where Gorilla Riot came out swinging, Stewart brought a warm, smoky calm. He has the kind of voice that sounds like it’s been marinated in late night bourbon sessions around an open fire, with all those funny, alcohol laced stories that become legendary the more they are repeated.
He moved around the stage with an easy, unforced confidence. No big gestures, no theatrics, just a man who knows exactly what he’s doing and trusts the songs to carry the weight. And they did. His interaction with the crowd felt natural too. A nod here, a grin there, then a line delivered with just enough grind and Texan twang to make you believe every word.
Then came those headlining Texans.
I don’t know how I missed them last year, but it happened, and after years of following them on social and music platforms, and bigging them up wherever I could to spread their existence where I could, Blacktop Mojo hit the stage with all the subtlety of an articulated lorry riding the rev limiter. No easing in, no gentle intro. Just a full throttle, chest thumping blast of Southern tinged blues rock that made the walls of The Bread Shed consider early retirement. With no room at all to
It was a set list built like a rollercoaster: heavy, heavier, emotional gut punch, then back to heavy again. Matt James’ all smoke and steel voice is ridiculous live, and the band behind him are tighter than a jar lid you’ve already loosened for someone else. They play like a unit that’s lived, fought and resolved any issues on the road the Texan way, and learned to read each other’s minds somewhere between soundchecks. It’s powerful, it’s polished, and it’s got just enough chaos to keep it exciting. Manchester was their first stop on this tour, so I can say with a remarkable amount of confidence that if you have tickets, you’re in for a real treat.
Between the cramped pit, the questionable lighting, the stetsons, the tall crowd, and the constant shuffle to find a clean angle, this was one of those nights that makes you remember why you do this. Not every night is photographically easy, but our reward for the photographic challenges of tonight was Three awesome bands that brought three brilliant flavours, and one room full of people who came for a good time and got a great one.
