Review & Photography by Manny Manson for MPM
The De Montfort Hall is buzzing. It’s a sell-out, and the crowd is ready. The Darkness have rolled into Leicester as part of their Dreams on Toast 2025 tour, bringing with them a night of glam-rock excess, falsetto acrobatics, and sheer unfiltered joy.
Support comes from the legendary Ash, a band who need no introduction to a crowd like this. But tonight belongs to The Darkness—the masters of theatrical, over-the-top rock ‘n’ roll mayhem. The stage is set. The fans are packed in, shoulder to shoulder, pint in hand, ready to lose their voices. Let the madness begin.
Hailing from the hallowed streets of Downpatrick, this mighty trio—Tim Wheeler (guitar hero and chief melody merchant), Mark Hamilton (bass-wielding stage gymnast), and Rick McMurray (percussive powerhouse)—have spent the last thirty years defying age, gravity, and the laws of physics with their signature blend of fuzzed-out riffs, euphoric choruses, and eternal teenage spirit.
Their saga began in the Britpop-drenched ‘90s with Trailer (1994), but it was 1977 (1996) that truly launched them into the stratosphere. Named after the year punk first exploded, it gifted the world Girl from Mars, Goldfinger, and Oh Yeah—songs so infectious they should come with a government warning. Then came Nu-Clear Sounds (1998), an edgier beast that saw them flirt with the dark side, before Free All Angels (2001) restored balance to the universe with bangers like Shining Light and Burn Baby Burn.
Since then, they’ve powered through the decades with the ferocity of a rocket-fuelled DeLorean, delivering Meltdown (2004), the audacious A-Z Series (2009-10), Kablammo! (2015), and Islands (2018), each proving that Ash simply do not age.
And now, like a fine whiskey (or a particularly rowdy Guinness session), they return with Race the Night (2023)—an album so packed with anthemic brilliance it might just shift the Earth off its axis.
Expect soaring melodies, fuzz-laden guitars, and the kind of pop-punk energy that could resurrect the spirit of Britpop itself. So, dust off your Converse, prepare for some unapologetic nostalgia and fresh bangers, and get ready to race the night with Ash—because legends never fade, some bands grow old gracefully. Others, like Ash, refuse to grow old at all, they just keep getting louder. ���� From the moment ASH crash onto the stage, it’s clear this is no sleepy nostalgia trip—this is a full-throttle, power-pop explosion, a reminder that even after three decades, Ash still burns bright.
And how better to start than with Goldfinger? As soon as the opening chords ring out, the room erupts. Tim Wheeler, clad head-to-toe in denim like a rock ‘n’ roll gunslinger, marches across the stage, flying V guitar slung low, leading the charge. Beside him, Mark Hamilton is already mid-air, twisting his long frame into a shape that only a Thunderbird-bass-wielding contortionist could achieve. Rick McMurray on drums? A relentless machine, locking it all down. The crowd shout every word like a battle cry.
Then comes Angel Interceptor, and the lights go wild—strobing in time with every shimmering note. A fitting tribute to its namesake, the track soars, high and weightless, like Destiny Angel herself in a Captain Scarlet mission gone beautifully off-script. Wheeler’s voice is as sharp as ever, cutting through the haze of flashing blues and reds, while Hamilton prowls the stage, spinning and dipping like he’s dodging laser fire.
The heavier riff of Orpheus kicks in, and if there was ever a moment to throw yourself headfirst into the music, this is it. The guitars wail, the bass rumbles, and the floor shakes beneath a sea of jumping bodies. Ash don’t do half-measures, and this is proof. Next up, Shining Light. It’s a moment of breath-catching euphoria, the kind of song that makes you close your eyes and just feel it. Wheeler steps forward, his voice ringing out over the swelling chorus, and for a moment, everyone is weightless. Hamilton, of course, is still incapable of standing still—his bass lurching like an untamed beast, his limbs stretching into geometric impossibilities.
Then the punk blast of Brain Dead kicks down the door. Fast, bratty, and razor-sharp, it sends the crowd into a re-newed frenzy. Hamilton practically throws himself into every note, a flailing whirlwind of bass-driven chaos. Wheeler slashes through the chords with the urgency of a man late for his own gig. It’s pure, unfiltered energy, and the audience laps it up.
And then—Kung Fu. And the room goes ballistic. Who is the headline act tonight? If the band had been warming us up before, this is the moment the entire place goes critical. The riff is instant adrenaline, and suddenly, it’s 1995 again. Wheeler grins as he spits out the lyrics, Hamilton is airborne, and McMurray hammers his drums like he’s fighting off an invasion. A curveball follows with Jump in Line—a riotous calypso-punk explosion that turns the venue into a full-blown dancehall. It’s impossible not to move. Impossible not to be swept up in the madness. And the band? They look like they’re having the time of their lives, the crowd most definitely are
Then the unmistakable opening of Girl from Mars. And the room is awash with nostalgia, but there’s nothing stale about it. The crowd roars, singing every word like their lives depend on it. Wheeler leads the charge, his guitar ringing out over the chaos. It’s a song that still feels like magic, still sounds like teenage summers and infinite possibilities.
And then, the grand finale—Burn Baby Burn. If there was any energy left in the room, it’s gone now, expelled in one final, furious explosion. The riff hits, the crowd ignites, and suddenly, everyone is part of the song, bodies moving in a call to frantic ecstasy. Hamilton is a blur, his bass swinging dangerously close to taking someone’s head off. Wheeler, drenched in sweat, commands the chaos. McMurray, relentless, keeps it all from spinning off the rails. It’s the perfect ending—fast, euphoric, and utterly unstoppable.
Ash came, they saw, they conquered—again. Three decades in, and they still play like they have something to prove. But they don’t. Nights like this are proof enough. And as the final chords of Burn Baby Burn fade into the rafters, the mighty Ash take their bows and depart, leaving De Montfort Hall basking in the afterglow of their fuzz-fuelled brilliance. But there’s no time to catch our breath—because something even more outrageous is brewing.
A heady buzz ripples through the crowd, an electric mix of nostalgia, anticipation, and the knowledge that we are mere moments away from witnessing Britain’s most extravagant rock ‘n’ roll spectacle. The grand old hall hums with excitement, the scent of warm beer and decades of rock history hanging in the air. Somewhere in the aisles, an ice cream seller—yes, just like the old days—peddles tiny tubs of vanilla to unsuspecting punters, unaware that in approximately ten minutes, they’ll be dodging flying pints and Justin Hawkins’ airborne splits.
On stage roadies scurry about, clearing the stage of ASH’s somewhat diminutive stage set, they are tuning guitars, side stage and adjusting mic stands as the lights dip ever so slightly, teasing the chaos to come. A ripple of movement at the front suggests the first die-hard spandex warriors are limbering up for battle, while the rest of us steel ourselves for the moment the lights burn our retinas, and The Darkness explode into life, a little about their meteoric rise to Rock and Roll fame and fortune.
Hailing from the mystical land of Lowestoft, these four heroic minstrels—Justin Hawkins (lord of falsetto and fabulousness), Dan Hawkins (riff-wielding warlock), Frankie Poullain (master of groove, fashion and moustachery), and Rufus ‘Tiger’ Taylor (thunderous heir to the Queenly drum throne)—have spent the last two decades keeping rock’s flame alive. While lesser bands crumbled under the weight of their own seriousness, The Darkness have soared higher than an eagle strapped to a rocket, delivering one mighty album after another. The flamboyant, riff-fuelled quartet have spent over two decades defying trends, serving up face-melting solos, tongue-in-cheek theatrics, and stadium-sized anthems with a wink and a falsetto shriek.
It all began with Permission to Land (2003), the record that reminded the world that guitars should wail, trousers should be tight, and choruses should be sung with the conviction of a man clinging to a cliff edge. Then came One Way Ticket to Hell… and Back (2005), a title that aged like fine wine. After a brief vanishing act (cue dramatic gasps), they roared back with Hot Cakes (2012), Last of Our Kind (2015), Pinewood Smile (2017), Easter Is Cancelled (2019), and Motorheart (2021), each one packed with enough face-melting solos to make Brian May’s hair curl even further.
And now, dear friends, we arrive at Dreams on Toast— The band’s eighth studio album and yet another glorious chapter in their saga, packed with outrageous guitar heroics, soaring vocals, and that signature Darkness blend of wit and musicianship. With new anthems primed to sit alongside old classics, De Montfort Hall is about to become a shrine to the greatest UK rock band since Freddie and co. Spandex optional, but highly recommended. Is this their latest and greatest masterpiece. Will it cure all ailments? Possibly. Will it summon the spirit of rock ‘n’ roll back into our weary souls? Absolutely. Will it make Leicester shake, shimmy, and scream into the night? You’d better believe it.
So, tighten your spandex, warm up those vocal cords, as this is going to be an evening of guitar-slinging, high-kicking, and the kind of rock majesty that could make even the mighty Queen nod in approval. Some bands play gigs. The Darkness stage musical extravaganzas. And tonight, De Montfort Hall is their rock ‘n’ roll playground, packed to the rafters with die-hard fans, fists raised, ready for a night of high-octane, glam-fuelled madness.
The lights dim. The PA crackles to life. And then—ABBA.
As Arrival drifts across the venue, the anticipation builds. The tension is delicious, the crowd poised like a coiled spring. And then—BAM—the band storms the stage, launching straight into Rock and Roll Party Cowboy, their latest swaggering anthem. Justin Hawkins, a vision in white flared trousers, matching waistcoat, and a flamboyant neck scarf, struts like a man who knows he’s about to own the next two hours. Dan Hawkins, the riff machine, stands cool as ever, guitar slung low, while Frankie Poullain, all velvet cool and panther-like poise, holds court on bass. Behind them, Rufus Taylor is a whirlwind on the drums—until, that is, he obliterates his snare.
When the song finally screeches to a halt, there’s a moment of confusion. Then Justin, never missing a beat, grabs the mic pointing out the reason for the delay, adding:
“Rufus ‘Tiger Taylor broke his snare on that song, the first fucking song” with a glee in his voice, he adds “Yeah, we’re The Fucking Darkness—that’s how we roll!”
The crowd erupts in laughter and cheers as a new snare is quickly swapped in. No one minds the delay. It’s all part of the glorious chaos. Then—redemption. Growing on Me hits, the opening riff sparking the crowd back into a bouncing, fist-pumping mass. The band are locked in tight, and as Justin soars into that chorus, it’s pure euphoria.
And then, the moment of pandemonium—Get Your Hands Off My Woman. Justin ditches his guitar, prowling the stage, microphone in hand, grinning like a rock ‘n’ roll ringmaster.
“Give me a D!”
“D!”
“Give me a” “Montfort Hall!”
The audience roars back. Then, as the song explodes into life, after a drum riser head stand, The song is carnage—a thunderous, filthy, outrageous singalong, Hawkins hitting those stratospheric falsettos like his life depends on it. The song finishes with Justin soaring into the air, launching off the drum riser in a gravity-defying leg-splay, landing perfectly into the groove.
From there, the set keeps pounding forward. Mortal Dread arrives in a blinding storm of light, reds and purples flashing across the stage as the band pummel through its ominous, brooding groove. Dan’s guitar tone is immense, thick and snarling, while Frankie prowls the stage, flicking his bass with a theatrical flourish.
Motorheart cranks the weirdness up a notch—a futuristic, robotic stomp of a song that shouldn’t be sexy, but somehow is. Justin, ever the showman, throws himself into every line, twisting and contorting like a man possessed by the very spirit of rock excess. Then—Barbarian. The riff hits like a battering ram, Dan and Frankie hammering it out with ferocious intent. Justin, now perched on the drum riser, delivers the lyrics like a medieval bard on a warpath, his voice soaring over the thunderous instrumental assault.
The momentum doesn’t let up. Flying Through Fire sends the crowd into hysterics, its rapid-fire riffage igniting a mosh pit of pure joy. The Darkness, as is their way, don’t just play songs—they dominate them, and the audience follows every twist and turn, every euphoric key change, every absurdly high note. Then comes the breather—Love Is Only a Feeling. Phones are held aloft as the band deliver one of their most majestic moments. Dan’s guitar sings, his solos as heartfelt as ever, while Justin soars through the chorus, pouring every ounce of drama into it. It’s a spine-tingling moment of beauty.
But The Darkness don’t dwell on sentiment. The Longest Kiss kicks things back into high gear, its swaggering groove oozing sleaze in the best way possible. Then, Heart Explodes—a modern Darkness anthem, Justin throwing his whole body into every line, Frankie spinning across the stage, lost in the moment. My Only arrives like a high-speed train, the rhythm section locked in tight while Justin delivers vocal gymnastics that would humble most singers. Then, Japanese Prisoner of Love, a thunderous, operatic beast of a track, drenched in theatrical bombast. The Darkness at their most over-the-top—and loving it.
Then, the pure, giddy joy of Friday Night. The crowd eats it up, dancing, clapping, singing along with every ounce of nostalgia-fuelled energy they have left. It’s a glam-rock dream, and the band are in their absolute element. And then, if that wasn’t enough—a curveball. The unmistakable intro of Immigrant Song. If anyone doubted Justin’s Zeppelin-worthy wail, this is where they are proven wrong. The band tear through the cover with merciless precision, every note a punch to the gut, every drum fill an earthquake. By the time it ends, the audience is drenched in sweat and utterly exhilarated.
And then—Christmas.
It’s March, but when those opening chords of Christmas Time (Don’t Let the Bells End) hit, the place erupts. It’s ridiculous, it’s magnificent, and for those four and a half minutes, it’s Christmas again. Justin milks every second, basking in the absurdity, Frankie jingles his tambourine like it’s a holy relic, and the crowd sings back like a stadium choir. Then, the big one—I Believe in a Thing Called Love. This isn’t just a song. It’s a rock ‘n’ roll phenomenon. The crowd, love it, hot and sweaty they scream every word, jump, sweat more, and generally loses their minds as the band deliver the ultimate glam-rock finale. A true, undeniable banger.
For the encore, A Weekend in Rome brings a last burst of melodic grandeur, before I Hate Myself closes things out with thunderous, joyous, rock ‘n’ roll catharsis.
And as the band bid farewell, the PA plays I’ve Had the Time of My Life. The audience, exhausted but grinning ear to ear, shuffle out into the night, knowing they’ve just witnessed something truly special, and most definitely have had the time of their lives.
