The Outlaw Orchestra – Bannermans, Edinburgh 25th April 2025 – Gig Review

After a prolonged spell of cultural dormancy (the result of a fondue accident, a suspiciously agile ferret, and a jar of chutney that turned out to be neither), I once again found myself careening northward toward Edinburgh—a city that mixes art, existential hairdos, and the deep-frying of entirely blameless foodstuffs into a glorious, greasy masterpiece.

Burrowed beneath the cobbles like a troll with access to amplification, Bannermans is the kind of venue that might emerge if a medieval oubliette developed a fondness for volume and denim. Ideal, then, for the unholy triumvirate that is The Outlaw Orchestra—a trio from Southampton who sound as if Nashville got into a punch-up with Motörhead behind a petrol station and woke up in a banjo’s guest room.

They entered not so much like a band, but more like three outlaws kicked out of a spaghetti western for being too rowdy. Their opening track—possibly titled “Whiskey Gastric Incident” or “My Lawnmower Has Opinions”—erupted with the subtlety of a trebuchet flinging a flaming barrel of moonshine. There was hollering. There was enthusiastic stomping. A man in the crowd appeared to propose to a pint.

Each song tore across the room like a goat on amphetamines wearing tap shoes, fusing the grit of barroom rock with the kind of twang you could use to gut a trout. The lyrics arrived at warp speed—something about chickens, probably snakes, and maybe a haunted stringed instrument with unresolved trauma. One bloke was so emotionally undone he began chewing on his own hat. It was corduroy. The hat, not the man.

Things spiralled in all the best ways. Cowbells rang out like distant alarms. Slide guitars sang the secret language of drunken tractors. At one point, I’m fairly sure I witnessed a sock puppet deliver a sermon on redemption, though it might just have been the drummer’s right hand undergoing a spiritual crisis. When they unleashed what I suspect is their spiritual anthem—“Send Some Whiskey Home or I’m Running Off With the Tractor”—the crowd ascended into some kind of denim-clad transcendence.

Now if I may indulge in sincerity for a moment: this was a long-dreamed gig. I’ve been an Outlaw Orchestra loyalist ever since I stumbled across Pantomime Villains, their riotous album of boot-stomping outlaw carnage, twanged wisdom, and suspicious references to dentistry.

Massive thanks to Olivia on the sound desk, who kept the chaos beautifully contained, like a lion tamer with faders. My ears, however, have since relocated to Leith, where they’ve taken up silent protest and refuse to acknowledge me.

All I have left is the ringing in my skull and a sudden longing for brisket and distortion.