The Darkness – Usher Hall – Edinburgh – 18th March 2025 – Gig Review
19th March 2025
Ladies and gentlemen, gather ye close and lend an ear, for I shall recount a most raucous and resplendent evening spent in the grand old confines of the Usher Hall, wherein The Darkness, those tight-trousered troubadours of titanic tunes, did proceed to lay sonic siege upon the fair city of Edinburgh.
One might say that entering a Darkness gig is akin to tumbling headfirst into an intergalactic 1970s glam-rock fever dream—except the dream is real, the riffs are louder, and the falsetto could shatter the very fabric of reality itself. And so, as the lights dimmed, a collective breath was held, as if a nation had paused mid-cup-of-tea, awaiting the inevitable musical explosion.
And explode it did! Justin Hawkins, part rock deity, part court jester, strutted forth and launched into Rock & Roll Party Cowboy with a vocal acrobatics display that could make Pavarotti weep, while his brother Dan Hawkins, the ever-stalwart axe-wielder, delivered riffs so chunky one could butter them and serve them with jam.
Their latest offerings, Motorheart, The Longest Kiss, and Walking Through Fire throbbed with all the camp, bombast, and tongue-in-cheek grandeur that we have come to expect—nay, demand!—from these melodic minstrels. Barbarian had the crowd bellowing along as though their very rent depended upon it, and I Believe in a Thing Called Love was, as always, a communal religious experience of the highest order.
In true Darkness fashion, Hawkins also mounted the shoulders of a burly security guard, shredding his way through a solo like some six-stringed Napoleon surveying his empire. It was glorious. It was ridiculous. It was, in short, The Darkness.
The rhythm section, manned by Frankie Poullain (whose mustache deserves its own billing) and Rufus Taylor, son of rock royalty, thundered along with military precision, never once allowing the bedazzled ship to veer off course.
As an unexpected treat, a rather dashing gentleman—usually lurking in the shadows as the drum tech—burst into the spotlight, draped in a flowing cloak that could only be described as “a superhero’s pajamas.” With all the drama of a soap opera star, he dramatically seized his instrument of choice: the humble cowbell. Each strike was delivered with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker and the enthusiasm of a man who has just discovered his fridge is full of leftovers. His performance was as fleeting as a good Wi-Fi signal in a crowded coffee shop—gone in a flash, like a shooting star that just remembered it left the oven on, or a soufflé that finally decided to deflate. Yet, the impact of his cowbell legacy hung in the air like the mysterious smell of burnt toast.
The evening itself was a veritable eruption of pomp, power chords, and delightfully overblown theatrics, all carried out with such unabashed sincerity that one found it impossible not to be swept up in the madness—much like forgetting where you parked your car and suddenly wondering if you’ve become a lost soul in the parking lot of life. It was as though the universe, in its infinite wisdom, had conspired to make us all question our very existence—while we stood there, unashamedly applauding the legend of one man and his cowbell.
Edinburgh, my dear city, you were rocked—not merely by the thunderous presence of The Darkness, but also by the delightful opening act, ASH. A curious pairing, like two fine wines in a glass that shouldn’t work together, yet somehow… they did. The evening unfurled as an unexpected symphony, with ASH firing the opening salvo and setting the stage for a rock spectacle that, frankly, none of us were prepared for.
