by We take a barrage of fuzz, noise and attitude with a touch of delicate brilliance. They command the stage, and this crowd, a mix of avid fans and interested observers laps up the angry shoegaze that’s dished out to us. Their sound has developed from pure punk to a more complex psychedelic sound of late. Check out recent single Juliet is the Sun and you won’t look back.
The Cornish Bank is packed, humid, and humming with anticipation. It’s the kind of venue that thrives on intimacy—low ceilings, sticky floors, and a crowd that’s practically breathing down the band’s neck. The Wytches take the stage without ceremony, and within seconds, the room is theirs.
The Wytches open with Talking Machine, a jagged, lurching beast of a track that sets the tone for the night: raw, reverb-soaked, and gloriously unpolished. This, the title track from the new album gives more than a subtle hint at the quality of the new material. Robe for Juda and Can’t Show How follow in quick succession, each delivered with a twitchy urgency that feels like it could unravel at any moment. Kristian Bell’s vocals veer between haunted croon and guttural howl, dragging the audience through every twisted lyric like a reluctant séance leader.
Wire Frame Mattress and Coffin Nails throb with doom-laced groove, the rhythm section locking into a hypnotic pulse while guitars spiral into chaotic fuzz. The Holy Tightrope teeters between fragile and feral, a slow-burn descent that leaves the crowd swaying in a kind of trance. Gravedweller, a fan favourite, hits like a ritualistic stomp—heads nodding, limbs flailing, and a few brave souls throwing themselves into a loose approximation of a mosh pit.
A Dead Night Again and Nothing 2 See offer brief moments of clarity, but even these are laced with unease. The Wytches don’t do comfort—they do catharsis. Wide at Midnight and Perform stretch the tension further, each track a sonic exorcism that leaves the room a little more frayed around the edges.
Fragile Male for Sale and World Too Old are standouts, ugly-beautiful anthems dredged from the bottom of a haunted canal. There’s humour here, too—dark, self-aware, and laced with irony. Bell doesn’t say much between songs, but when he does, it’s dry and perfectly timed, like a man who knows the power of silence.
Three Mile Ditch and Factory bring the energy back up, the band leaning into their heavier instincts with a ferocity that feels almost reckless. By the time Meat Chuck rolls around, the room is a sweaty, grinning mess. It’s a final, glorious descent into madness—no encore, no apologies, just a wall of sound and a crowd that wouldn’t have it any other way.
The huge queue for the merch stand says it all, and we leave grinning, clutching t-shirts and vinyl.
The Wytches UK tour is only just under way. Go and see them near you.
Setlist:
Talking Machine
Robe for Juda
Can’t Show How
Black Ice
Wire Frame Mattress
Coffin Nails
The Holy Tightrope
Gravedweller
A Dead Night Again
Nothing 2 See
Wide at Midnight
Perform
Fragile Male for Sale
World Too Old
Three Mile Ditch
Factory
Meat Chuck
