There’s a bit of a different feel to Sound City this year. Perhaps not in the general area, as the same Saturday-afternoon bustle can be felt around Liverpool’s Ropewalks and its pubs and micro-venues. Moving towards said venues, though, you get the impression that it’s a lot busier than usual. Perhaps it’s to do with a more standout lineup this time, something which can be an admitted rarity at times. Sound City is all about getting in on the ground with the brand-newest of brand new music; 2026, meanwhile, has put the effort in to finding those where a tangible rise is just about ready to break. It’s all still new and grassroots, but with a good buzz behind it for some added prestige.
Thus, even for those awaiting their full breakout moment in the festival’s smallest spaces, the attention they get feels much more noteworthy. The furious noise-punk of PISS likely wouldn’t see a packed-to-the-gills Jacaranda with the perceived boost. The Love Buzz’s power-chord power-pop is probably more up Sound City’s usual alley, but even so, the Kazimier Stockroom feels sweatier than usual for something this early-doors. Can’t really dispute it, though; they’ve already got impeccable crowdwork instincts, and pulling someone up from the crowd to sing while they jam Everlong pre-set is miles above their pay grade.
Even Yee Loi, for whom Sound City gave them their first ever live show two years ago, pull in a decent audience. Though, that’s hardly surprising. They were far more proficient than entry-levellers in 2024, and they’ve only gotten better since. There’s not a weak link to be found among the trio, and their edges have grown harder without losing the youthful exuberance that punk is the perfect outlet for. Guitarist Rose Farrell deserves most of a shoutout, though, for how thoroughly locked-in she is at all times, ringing out solos with clarity and fizzy gumption. A cover of Elvis’ Mystery Train that brushes on punkabilly only further seals how legitimately beyond-their-years Yee Loi continue to be. And when The Kowloons come directly after, it’s only more apparent, as another group in Liverpool’s ever-increasing roster of indie darlings arrives. They’re far less compelling, but the winning formula of proficiency, popularity and home-field advantage is all theirs. Specifically for a set like this, it works a charm.
Getting to the bill’s big boys, though, you start to see some of this year’s shifting gears in full effect. As an ‘afternoon headliner’ (as spurious as that term continues to be), Gurriers would not be an obvious choice. They veer far away from mass-appealing, no-frills indie, instead rooted in post-punk that throbs industrially with the imposing, hunched-over figure of vocalist Dan Hoff consolidating some more of that menace. There’s an element of unpredictability that’s not common for top-brass Sound City act, and the frenzy that Gurriers spark indicates that it’s not unwelcome. Erasure has the benefit of Charlie McCarthy’s punishing bass even before it flips into a fat dance-punk cut. Even the more serene No More Photos, awash in clear blue light, proves a real scream-along. The Dome proves the perfect location to house a set comprised of entirely cool, exciting moments like this, and Gurriers always seem willing to test how far that goes. That’s what makes them a real standout.
It’s also advantageous for them that they’re the reprieve amid the conga line of local indie faves. Courting, for as hit-or-miss as their recorded output has been, do claw themselves above that rather forgiving waterline, though. Once they clear away the unintended clouds of feedback, they’re still an affable little post-punk band, appearing genuinely pleased to be here. Bassist Connor McCann has chiefly good flow, though the tightness of the unit and their willingness to dip into indie’s most populist wellspring sees them wholeheartedly prevail. As for The Kairos, they wind up a particularly grisly victim of The Dome’s chronic echo that morphs them into little more than a cavernous wall. Tom Dempsey is a more vivacious frontman than many of his stripe, but even that’s quick to dissipate. With an all-too-familiar sound that hardly grabs you by the throat—they’re a local ‘The’ indie band, so…yeah—it’s really just down to goodwill that keeps The Kairos afloat. Otherwise, they’re a big, stomping bulwark of sound and little else.
Basht., thankfully, fare a lot better. Their dense indie-rock whorls already have more going for them, while the slugs of grunge and ‘90s alt-rock malaise play kinder with The Dome’s booming acoustics. Like Gurriers (which evidently must be a trait of fast-rising Irish post-punk bands), they coax out a raucousness that another solid crowd is all too pleased to indulge in. Some added grime and Jack Leavey’s slurred, low-hanging voice point towards much greater indie success with total certainty. On the other side of that coin, the brighter Keyside are more holistically Britpop in feel, an appeal that’s differently strong but strong all the same. This is the purest, simplest form of festival-indie, jangling along with Michael and Cocodamol being as pleasant and digestible as you like. As far from revelatory as Keyside are, they emphatically get the job done, and that’s hard to argue with.
But now we arrive at Westside Cowboy, the sort of get that, on its own, has made Sound City a more magnetic prospect than ever this year. You won’t find an indie-rock band in the UK with more heat around them than these guys at the minute, already booked in for a Manchester hometown show at the Albert Hall in December with much more to come in 2027, no doubt. Even their run opening for Geese last month took them to Victoria Warehouse, a venue approximately 40,000 times the size of the Arts Club. And yet, at no point do Westside Cowboy present like this is just another stop for them. As they arrive to Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s Relax, they clearly have more in mind than being mere metro-festival stage-toppers.
For starters, they’ve got a great sound, flushed with a heartland-rock gallop that neither displaces their British indie bedrock, nor overshadows it. There’s genuine musical thrust here, mirrored in the band themselves. As they jolt and convulse with livewire determination, and frontman Reuben Haycocks wears a look of visible strain on his face, Westside Cowboy’s drive is incomparable. On a bill of indie names whose adulation hasn’t stretch much further than their postcode, the difference couldn’t be more obvious. This is so much more impressive of a collective, topped by Paddy Murphy’s frankly unreal drumming, not never dropping on any front. Thus, it’s not hard to see why these songs are already welcomed as indie greats. Westside Cowboy just have that drive about them, gathering around one mic for the skiffle-inspired send-off In The Morning that’s the cherry on top of this sumptuous cake.
Honestly, you get the impression they could be headlining this whole thing. They’re ready for it, and it’s not like tonight’s actual closers Keo dwarf them in profile. They’re similar fast-risers, evidenced by having a full hour to themselves with just an EP of released material to hand. This isn’t the only festival giving them that limelight this year, either; these are expected to blow up in a major way. And while there’s something inherent more magnetic about Westside Cowboy’s rambunctiousness, Keo’s earth-shaking, grunge-inspired rock hits a primal centre. Thorn is the big example, as it boils with genuine venom all the stronger with the singalong it elicits.
For a band tipped among the current crop of indie darlings, there are almost touches of sludge and Alice In Chains in here. The guitars sound terrific, actually elevated by the boom of The Dome to match frontman Finn Keogh giving it both barrels at all times. There are fistfuls of grit chucked in with considered care, yielding moments like the deep, dark slither of Best I Can Do. And, of course, a huge crowd is here for it, such is the strength of Keo’s pull. (They already seem so certain of their reach that Keogh’s hat has been on sale at their merch stand all day.) In all, it’s the kind of thing that revitalises your faith in this corner of the indie scene, if acts like this are getting their moments to shine, and it’s being bought into so emphatically.
Cross over to Sunday, however, and you might be left a bit perplexed at why someone like Kate Nash is so far down. Yes, she’s today’s ‘afternoon headliner’ (again, for what that’s worth), but she’s also opening up The Dome, a rather thankless role for an artist whose career is now two decades old, and who just missed a UK Number One with Foundations in 2007. Fortunately, when crowd density seems far less guaranteed than yesterday, she proves a significant draw, and not just for that singular hit. It’s no doubt the lynchpin moment, but Nash proves to have a much broader, deeper repertoire than quirky early-days indie-pop might suggest.
There’s a lot of anger and disappointment simmering within, coalescing on a speech on the vitriol of online comments and how that’s stymied innumerable points of progress before GERM. That song in particular is thumping punk cut bathed in hard red lights, an illustration of Nash’s current presence as a more visibly empowered voice. It’s captivating in a way with greater purpose than snappy, sardonic pop songs, yet Nash remains theatrically expressive and gesticulating all the same, particularly on opener Play. It’s the cover of Sinéad O’Connor’s Famine that pushes the envelope furthest, though, bleak and drum-heavy with added whistle, flute and mandolin. It’s nonstandard, but a real ear-catcher all the same, and shows the extent that Nash’s artistic evolution has gone to. Even if Foundations is still The One to plenty here, it’s not the only one.
The crowd generally seem there for it, though, perhaps the source of chagrin behind Cowboy Hunters’ tongue-in-cheek “Fuck Kate Nash!” at the spottiest attendance of the weekend so far. Their electronic / bass-and-drums punk is built for much sweatier, close-quarters climes, but that’s not to say it can’t work like this. Quite the contrary; the roughshod feel and grunting, minimalist dance beats are potent punches in the own right. The on-the-fly thrust of it all certainly helps, and not just in the novelty of the duo switching instruments for the last couple of songs. If anything seems to be falling apart, the improvisational feel keeps it all tied together, loosely but noticeably. With real character between the pair and a creative ethos that absolutely holds firm, things could be exceptionally bright for Cowboy Hunters moving forward.
Carrying on the trend of great sets with less-than-promising crowds, Picture Parlour manage to pull it back given how much is stacked against them. They never really took off as they should’ve, and with a late start and more watching from The Dome’s balcony than on the floor, calling it a day early sure would seem tempting. But between indie-rock gumption, a bluesy sizzle, a classic rock rhythm section and Katherine Parlour’s howling, larger-than-life aura, they’ve still got it. Afterwards, Teenage Joans are subject to similar technical gremlins, resulting in new song Coming Up From Hell getting an unintended first-and-a-half live airing. They’re notably delighted to be here, though, all the way from Australia with a pop-punk sound that could hopefully see jaunts to this side of the world become a regular occurrence. Bandits especially packs in classic pop-punk scruff, in no small part to how thoroughly Cahli Blakers launches herself into it.
From then on, though (barring some bright, breezy, not-a-frill-to-speak-of indie-pop from The Lilacs), it’s all about the trifecta of soul singers packing out The Dome. MT Jones leads the charge, a phrase implying far greater puissance than his light-funk and easy-listening will muster. It’s pleasant for what’s delivered—glittery and supple without an adrenalised bone in its body, but buoyed by a charismatic frontman who knows how effortless this all should feel. Even if it runs together before long, the standing ovation that Jones receives suggests his intended crowd has been hit. Brooke Combe should achieve similar, though a late start and her admitted anxiety spikes leave a truncated set feeling all the more threadbare. Combe jamming on the drums while her mic gets fixed is a nice character moment, as is some added mobility and strut compared to soul’s typically statuesque frontpeople. But around that, you’re also only getting snippets of a well-developed oeuvre that can leave this whole thing feeling hacked up.
Fortunately, Jalen Ngonda swings things around in a fairly huge way. So much so, in fact, that there’s a queue formed outside from The Dome being at capacity, maybe an unprecedented phenomenon for Sound City outside of this year. Ngonda’s rising star has been plain to see for a while, and next to his genre compatriots, you can really see the effect. His is a looser, temperate take on soul, his stage lit warmly to fully accentuate it, and added guitars and keys for extra saturation. Ngonda’s voice has also become pretty inimitable at this point, too, curving The Dome’s echo entirely with project with pinpoint accuracy. But more to the point, there’s such a universally likable vibe ringing throughout. The demographics at Sound City are impressively wide, and to see someone like Ngonda sit as a bellwether for mass appeal that’s also genuine and organic truly feels special. It’s the most impactful a Sound City headline set has felt in some time, and that counts for a lot.
Words by Luke Nuttall
Photos by Faye Roberts (Instagram)
