Electric Boys – Bannermans – Edinburgh 4th June 2025 – Gig Review

Outside, the pavement steamed — not metaphorically — actual mist, like the gig had ejaculated its spirit into the night air and now God Himself was having a crafty fag round the corner. I was standing there, spine bent like a wonky coat hanger, trying to remember my postcode while my knees knocked like a haunted washing machine.

That’s when I met her. Leopard print vest. Chest hair like pub moss. Sunglasses so mirrored I could see my own shame. She leaned in close, breath heavy with sausage roll and secrets.

“Conny Bloom,” she whispered, “is the second coming of Prince… but hornier. And Swedish.”

She said it like she’d seen Bloom in the nude, oiled and howling, lit by tealights arranged in the shape of a cock. Said it like she’d tasted the man’s pheromones on vinyl and come out the other side speaking fluent funk.

And you know what? She was right.

Because what we’d just witnessed wasn’t a gig — it was a tantric exorcism with guitars instead of gongs, and thrusts so deep you felt them in your tax history. Every note Bloom played dripped heavier than jizz in a crisp packet, and I say that as someone who’s lived above a kebab shop and once made love on a bouncy castle during a thunderstorm.

It was filthy, but also divine. Like discovering your genitals can feel shame and pride simultaneously. That bass didn’t just make your belly flutter — it rearranged your internal organs into the shape of a lust rune. You could’ve tattooed that riff on the inside of your eyelids and still not captured the ooze of it.

One bloke in the alley was crying. I asked if he was alright, and he just moaned, “It felt like being pegged by a comet.” We hugged. Briefly. He then ran off, trousers half-undone, to find a kebab or forgiveness — maybe both.

Inside me — spiritually, emotionally, physically — something had shifted. My nipples were still hard. My thighs felt like they’d been holding in a scream. There was a new wrinkle in my soul, right between lust and dehydration.

I tried to walk to the bus stop, but the ground still throbbed. Pavement pulsed like a post-coital heartbeat. I passed a bin that smelled like cheap wine and unprotected feelings, and nearly wept.

Every step felt like I was dragging myself away from a womb made of sound and sweat, reborn through the pelvic thrust of a man who knew things about lips, hips, about rhythm, about how to fingerpick the edge of your being until it sobbed and begged for release.

Back home, I stripped off my clothes and found a guitar pick stuck to my chest hair. I don’t own a guitar, and I never used to have chest hair. It’s still there