Upon a backdrop of pseudo-social media and music videos on giant screens - like an angel - Katy Perry came flying in above the stage, hanging from wha
Read MoreTheres something beautifully perverse about celebrating the summer solstice with a day-long immersion in Britains most gloriously nihilistic musical export. As the longest day of the year stretched ahead of us, thousands of punk pilgrims descended on Bellahouston Park for what can only be described as a masterclass in controlled chaos - a whos who of 70s punk royalty serving up nearly five decades of three-chord rebellion.
The crowd was a thing of beauty in itself - a generational melting pot that would have made Malcolm McLaren weep with pride. Ageing rockers with their original 1977 band shirts rubbed shoulders with Gen Z kids sporting freshly minted Stiff Little Fingers tees, while fathers and sons (myself and my old man included) bonded over shared appreciation for music that was supposedly meant to tear families apart.
Pork pie hats, mohicans, safety pins, studded leather, utility kilts, tartan socks - it was like someone had raided the costume department of a particularly authentic period drama. At 7 pounds 30 pence a pint, some punters were clearly making the most of liquid courage, but the atmosphere remained resolutely good-natured throughout.
I caught only the tail end of Edinburghs new wave darlings The Rezillos, but what I witnessed was pure, unadulterated fun - their sci-fi punk aesthetic still as infectious as ever, closing with what sounded like "I Cant Stand My Baby" as the crowd warmed up for the main attractions.
The Skids were a personal highlight, and not just because Im a fellow Dunfermline lad. Roberts stage presence remains utterly magnetic - the man genuinely transforms when he hits the boards, and his claim that performing takes him back to being a 16-year-old kid again was written all over his face. Two songs in, he was already "absolutely fucked" (his words), the humid Glasgow air clearly taking its toll on his trademark pogoing. His introduction to "TV Stars" as "the worst punk song ever written" - followed by the proud declaration that hed penned it himself - perfectly encapsulated the self-deprecating charm thats kept The Skids relevant across five decades. There was something quite touching about watching him crack disparaging jokes about Fifers while clearly being chuffed to bits to be representing his homeland on such a scale.
Buzzcocks arrived like a sugar-rush of Shelleys melodic genius, firing through the opening salvo without pause for breath. The energy was undeniable, but they proved to be the days most divisive act. Steve Diggles peacocking guitar solos and the frontmans largely unintelligible stage banter (thanks to some serious reverb issues) divided the crowd. While purists muttered about "indulgent guitar solos not really being punk," theres no denying the power of songs like "Ever Fallen in Love" when delivered with such unbridled enthusiasm.
The Undertones, however, were absolutely sublime. Despite miscalculating their allotted time and throwing in several unplanned songs, they kept the energy stratospheric throughout their mammoth 23-song set. The Derry boys proved that punks greatest pop sensibilities age like fine wine - "Teenage Kicks" still sounds like the most important three minutes in rock history, while deep cuts like "Male Model" and "Wednesday Week" sparkled with renewed vitality. Their crowd interaction was spot-on, and watching pensioners pogo to "Here Comes the Summer" was genuinely life-affirming.
The Stranglers brought their distinctive darkness to proceedings, Hugh Cornwells absence hardly diminishing their impact. "Golden Brown" cast its hypnotic spell over the assembled masses, while "Peaches" and "No More Heroes" reminded everyone why they were punks most musically sophisticated proposition. Theres something deeply satisfying about watching a band play songs that genuinely scared the establishment back in the day.
But the evening belonged to the Sex Pistols - or more accurately, to Frank Carters incendiary interpretation of Johnny Rottens legacy. Any concerns about a Gallows frontman stepping into those particular bondage trousers were obliterated the moment Carter prowled onto the stage. The man simply has it - that indefinable spark that separates true performers from mere musicians. Watching him leap from the barrier into the mosh pit during "Pretty Vacant," throwing cheeky winks at the cameras, and acknowledging the ticketless hordes watching from the surrounding hills with genuine punk appreciation, you couldnt help but feel this was exactly what the Sex Pistols needed.
His vocals are frankly superior to anything John Lydon could muster these days, but more importantly, Carter understands hes sharing the stage with punk royalty and treats them accordingly. The mutual respect was palpable - Steve Jones and Paul Cook looked genuinely energized by their new frontmans presence, while Glen Matlocks bass lines had never sounded more vital. "God Save the Queen" felt genuinely subversive again, "Anarchy in the UK" was a call to arms rather than a nostalgia trip, and even the Stooges cover "No Fun" crackled with menace.
My dad, not exactly what youd call a hardcore punk but someone who grew up on 70s music, was won over completely. "I loved the Pistols!" he declared afterwards - high praise from someone more accustomed to prog rock than three-chord manifestos. That conversion perfectly encapsulated the days success: this wasnt just a heritage act parade, but a living, breathing celebration of music that still has the power to transform.
As the humid Glasgow air finally gave way to a proper summer evening, and the last echoes of "Anarchy in the UK" faded across Bellahouston Park, one thing was crystal clear: punks not dead - its just gotten a bit more distinguished. Same time next year? God save the Queen, I hope so.
Review / Photo by Fraser Doig.
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