Review & Photography by Manny Manson for MPM
ome nights at The Bodega just feel special from the outset. It might be the buzz at the bar, the sense of anticipation in the air, or just the right kind of crowd assembling before the first note rings out. Tonight was one of those nights. Another visit from The Zac Schulze Gang—local favourites with a growing cult following—were set to headline, but before they hit the stage, it was down to Northamptonshire’s rising stars The Whisky Flowers to light the fuse. And light it, they did.
If you’ve ever needed reminding that the British music scene is still capable of nurturing raw, rootsy brilliance straight from the soil, The Whisky Flowers are your reminder, your proof, and your next favourite band. Bursting onto the stage at The Bodega in Nottingham with the swagger of Southern rock disciples and the soul of troubadours born on the wrong side of the Mississippi, this young four-piece from Northamptonshire delivered a fiery, emotionally-charged set that more than justified their rapid rise since forming in 2023.
This was a two-band evening, no fuss, no filler—and The Whisky Flowers opened things with a statement of intent that silenced the chatter at the bar before the first verse had ended. They came to play. And play, they absolutely did.
The Bodega, long one of Nottingham’s most reliable tastemakers for emerging acts, was buzzing by the time the quartet took the stage. Aiden Pryor, front and centre with a well-worn Guildand a voice that can go from molasses-sweet to rusted-iron grit, gave the briefest of nods before tearing into the opening riff of Mississippi Queen. It was a cover, yes, but this was no imitation—it was a reintroduction. Mountain’s classic was channelled through the band’s own lens: swampy, swinging, and just the right amount of unhinged. Steph Ashcroft, trading licks and harmonies with Pryor, added her own flavour—less of a rhythm guitarist and more of a co-conspirator in the band’s tonal tapestry. They played it dirty, fast, and gloriously loose, setting the bar high from the outset.
For a group formed just a couple of years ago, The Whisky Flowers sound like they’ve been together a decade. There’s chemistry here, not just between the guitars but across the whole rhythm section. Elliot Clark’s bubblegum-pink bass was impossible to miss—visually or sonically. His grooves ran deep, providing a melodic counterpoint to the gritty leads, all while dancing around Ben Hart’s effortlessly sharp drumming. The smiling Ben Hart, to give him his full stage title, was a picture of laid-back precision: sticks flying, head nodding, and grinning like he’d just discovered drumming for the first time. It was infectious.
Their first original of the night, Sunshine Love, was where the crowd truly leaned in. It’s a sun-drenched, Americana-tinged number that feels like a joyride through a desert highway—equal parts Tom Petty and early Kings of Leon. Steph and Aiden traded verses, their voices blending in close, harmony-laced lines that danced over the track’s lilting shuffle. There’s a warmth to this band that’s hard to fake. They’re not just performing these songs—they’re feeling them, and inviting you to feel them too.
Then came Perfect Imperfections, a slower, more introspective cut that let the band stretch their legs emotionally. The lyrics, penned with honesty and affection, reflect a maturity beyond their years— It was a standout moment for Ashcroft in particular, her vocals rising in strength and clarity as the chorus built to a rich, almost gospel crescendo. It was here that you could sense The Whisky Flowers weren’t content to live in the grooves of the past—they’re building something new out of vintage parts.
Midway through the set, Broken Bones turned the dial back to full-tilt rock. With a driving riff and some clever dynamic shifts, it became a vehicle for the band to showcase their tightness as a live unit. Clark’s bass thumped with real menace, while Pryor stepped into full frontman mode, tearing into a solo that was as much about storytelling as it was about fretboard flash. There’s a catharsis to the way this band plays—a feeling that they’re not just up there to entertain, but to exorcise something.
From there, they launched into Alive, an anthemic bruiser of a track that rides a stomping beat and lyrical themes of defiance. Pryor’s guitar howled, and you could feel Steph’s lyric land firmly in the chest of everyone in the room. The Bodega crowd—initially curious, now fully invested—responded with whoops, claps, and a few raised beers.
The band’s penultimate section began with More, a smouldering, Southern-blues style. It could have fallen flat in lesser hands, but here it was a showstopper—stripped back, soulful, and sung with rawness, restraint and confidence. Pryor, let the silence between the notes do the heavy lifting.
Then came I Fall Apart, a cover of the Rory Gallagher track, reimagined in a blues-drenched lament that builds from a gentle acoustic intro into a full-band surge. It’s one of those songs that feels simultaneously personal and universal—desire, dissatisfaction, longing for something intangible. The harmonies were rich, the playing restrained until it wasn’t, and the payoff at the end brought goosebumps to more than a few arms in the crowd. no showing off, just a perfect, aching tone that sang out loud and proud.
They closed with The Devil Made Me Do It, and honestly, there’s no better song title to sum up The Whisky Flowers’ aesthetic. It’s all swagger and sin—half cautionary tale, half victory lap. Hart’s drums led the charge, tribal and hypnotic, as the guitars snarled and wailed like beasts in the dark. There’s a real theatricality to this track—it starts like a sermon and ends like a bar fight. And if there was any doubt left in the room about what this band is capable of, it ended here, with a raucous final chorus that had the front rows hollering along like converts at a tent revival.
As their final chord rang out and the band stepped back from the brink, the applause was instant, loud, and earned. The Bodega may be intimate, but the sound that The Whisky Flowers brought to it was anything but small. This is a band that feels ready for bigger stages, longer tours, and headline slots.
What’s most exciting, though, is how fresh it all still feels. The Whisky Flowers are a new band—they’ve only been at this since 2023, after all—but they’ve got the energy of youth combined with a sound steeped in old soul. You hear shades of The Black Crowes, Alabama Shakes, maybe even a little Faces-era Rod Stewart—but what comes through most is their own identity. They’re not copying; they’re channelling. And what they’re channelling feels honest, vibrant, and very much alive.
With a catalogue of songs that already feels remarkably well-rounded, and a stage presence that borders on addictive, it’s clear that The Whisky Flowers are a name to remember. This was not the performance of an opening band making up the numbers—this was the beginning of something. You could feel it in the way the crowd lingered at the merch table. You could hear it in the chatter between songs. You could see it on the band’s faces: a mix of relief, adrenaline, and joy. That beautiful moment when all the hard work meets the roar of an appreciative room.
And that’s the thing about The Whisky Flowers—they make you believe. In music. In bands. In stories sung into the night and guitars played until the strings bite. Catch them now, while you can still stand at the front. Because if they keep this up, it won’t be long before those stages—and crowds—get a whole lot bigger.
After The Whisky Flowers left the stage to warm applause and grinning faces, the changeover at Nottingham’s Bodega was brisk but personal. No roadies, no crew hidden in shadows—just the bands themselves, swapping cables, lifting amps, untangling wires with that unspoken camaraderie between musicians who know this is what it means to graft in rock ‘n’ roll. The Whisky Flowers packed away their soulful Americana energy, and it was time for the main act of the night: The Zac Schulze Gang.
Now, “gang” might conjure up visions of a sprawling ensemble, but make no mistake—this gang is a trio. A lean, thunderous, take-no-prisoners unit made up of Zac Schulze on guitar and vocals, Ant Gunnarsson Greenwell holding down bass and backing vocals (and stepping into lead where it counts), and Ben Schulze on drums, grinning like a man who knows he’s holding the detonator under the kit. If The Whisky Flowers were the road trip at golden hour, the Zac Schulze Gang were the full-throttle descent down a gravel mountain path, sparks flying.
They waste no time. No intro tape. No idle chatter. Just a flick of the wrist, a growl of the amp, and they tear into “Woman.” It’s a muscular opener—slinky, sexy, bluesy in all the right ways. Zac’s guitar tone is already dialled in—warm in the low end, biting in the highs, but with a rasping edge that cuts through the room like a jagged bottle neck. His playing is aggressive, but not messy; it’s as though he’s trying to wrestle the soul out of every note, beating the blues into submission with sheer force of will.
“High Roller” follows and cements the tone of the night—this isn’t a nostalgia act or a polite nod to blues tradition. This is blues weaponised. Think Rory Gallagher with more venom, or Joe Bonamassa if he drank moonshine and brawled in bars. The solos are searing, but what really catches the ear is the interplay—Ben and Ant don’t just hold the rhythm down; they dance around it. Ben Schulze swings like Bonham on a boogie tear, while Ant Gunnarsson Greenwell locks in with a fluidity that suggests he could do this with his eyes closed. Yet it’s sharp. Tight. Never meandering.
“Hole in My Pocket” comes next, and it’s the first moment the crowd gets a real glimpse of Zac’s lyrical flair. Gritty and wry, it’s got a Black Keys-ish stomp to it but with way more finesse on the fretboard. There’s a smirk in the delivery, a sort of Southern sass that suggests Zac’s not just a guitar-slinger—he’s a storyteller with attitude.
Then it’s “Take What I Want,” and you believe every word of it. The chorus is snarled, not sung, and Zac leans into his guitar like it owes him money. At this point, he’s sweating through his shirt, hammering the strings with such intensity you can almost see the pick start to disintegrate. And behind it all, Ben Schulze is locked in, all muscle and movement, every fill a perfectly aimed jab.
Next, they drop into the first of the covers: “Walking the Dog,” the Rufus Thomas classic (and a Stones favourite). But this is no straight retread. Zac spits it out with a kind of punk-blues energy, dropping the tempo just enough to turn the strut into a swagger. It’s tighter, tougher, rawer. You get the feeling he’s not walking the dog—he’s chasing it down with a leash made of slide guitar. The room is moving now. Shoulders swaying. Toes tapping. That sweet spot between familiarity and reinvention hit just right.
“She Does It Right” is a tribute to Dr. Feelgood, and the gang nail it—not as a copy, but as a continuation. The spirit of Wilko Johnson is in Zac’s choppy rhythm playing, but he pushes it further, adding depth and fluidity where Wilko jabbed and stabbed. It’s a love letter in distortion and drive, and it earns a few nods from older punters in the crowd who clearly had been waiting to hear that one tonight.
And then: “Hellhounds on My Tail.” A Schulze original, but it sounds ancient. Delta blues dragged screaming into the now. It’s got the bone-rattling darkness of Robert Johnson with the snarl of early ZZ Top. Zac’s voice is raw here—he’s not singing so much as exorcising. Ant Gunnarsson lays down a bassline so swampy you half expect fog to roll across the stage. It’s feral, intense, and utterly arresting.
“The Rocker” is a change of pace—fast, fun, and distinctly Irish, paying homage to Thin Lizzy’s classic with all the twin-lead attitude packed into a single guitar. Zac doesn’t imitate; he channels. He nods to Gary Moore in tone, throws in a little Scott Gorham phrasing, but then twists it with his own fire. It’s a sprint, not a jog, and by the end of it, people are hooting.
Things get moodier with “Dry Spell,” a slow-burn blues number soaked in regret and reverb. Zac steps back from the mic and lets the guitar do the talking, wringing notes out like they cost him sleep. Then “Off the Handle” kicks in—a full Rory Gallagher tribute, and it’s here Zac really goes for it. He plays it fast, raw, and loose, with a crackle of danger in every bend. This isn’t a museum piece. This is revival through fury.
Then it’s time for “Framed.” Ant Gunnarsson Greenwell steps forward on vocals, and the shift is immediate. His voice is smooth, soulful, and rich—a perfect counterbalance to Zac’s rasp. The song itself is a swaggering tale of trouble, but in the middle of it all, something unexpected happens. The band shifts into a four-song medley so fast you almost don’t notice the transition. First comes Rush’s “Spirit of Radio”—those opening chords get a cheer—and Zac nails the tricky phrasing with jaw-dropping accuracy. Then, out of nowhere, it pivots to “Day Tripper,” and the crowd is fully in now, clapping and shouting along. From there, it gets heavier: a crunchy, feedback-heavy “Enter Sandman,” played with all the menace of early Metallica, before dissolving into the unmistakable opening licks of “Sweet Child of Mine.”
But again, this isn’t karaoke. Zac doesn’t mimic Slash—he rewrites the phrasing, pulls out harmonics, bends it sideways. It builds and builds until the song dips into a slow instrumental breakdown, where Ben and Ant Gunnarsson keep the pulse alive with hypnotic repetition. Then Zac comes back in—fury, finesse, and fire—and the crowd erupts as they slam the final chorus.
Now we’re into the final stretch. Zac steps up to the mic and thanks the crowd, but also gives a heartfelt nod to friends who’ve come over from Ireland, a moment that earns a cheer. “This next one’s for you—it’s an old one, one of our very first. You might remember it.” Then he rips into “Balleyshannon Blues,” an early single that still hits like a locomotive. It’s got a Celtic lilt in its DNA, something distinctly Irish but fused with Southern rock crunch. It’s joyous and bittersweet, the kind of song that makes you miss people you haven’t met yet.
Then, with barely a pause, they dive into the double-header that closes the main set: “Messing With the Kid” (Junior Wells via Rory Gallagher), and “Oh Well” (Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac). Zac attacks both with reverence and rage—he knows what these songs mean, where they came from, and how to give them new life. The former is dirty and dangerous, all sneering slide guitar and punchy drums. The latter is majestic: Zac leans into the acoustic-style intro with surprising delicacy before letting it all unravel into that iconic riff. It’s electric, psychedelic, and downright transcendent. It was barroom electricity bottled and served up in a backroom venue.
The crowd is shouting now, stomping, clapping, unwilling to let it end. And so, the band comes back, Zac calls Aiden Pryor from The Whisky Flowers back onstage. The two guitarists nod at each other with that mutual respect only musicians share, and together they launch into “Bad Penny.” The Rory Gallagher classic has long been a litmus test for guitarists, but this is a roaring, spiralling rendition, two bandleaders, two friends, trading licks, two guitars weaving in and out—Zac playing with fire, Aiden adding smoke. They trade licks like boxers in a friendly spar, and the result is pure electricity. It’s the kind of jam that feels like it could go on all night, and no one would complain.
But it ends—big, loud, sweaty. Arms go up, and theirs grins all around.
And then, like all good nights, it’s over. A final crowd photo, a wave, a promise to meet at the merch desk, and the room starts to empty. But no one’s in a rush. Because nights like this? They linger. Not just in the ears, but in the soul, and besides, fast talking Zac was at the merch greeting everyone that wanted to paw his sweaty hand.
The Zac Schulze Gang aren’t just a great blues-rock trio—they’re a phenomenon in the making. Raw talent, precision, passion, and just enough danger to keep it all thrilling. Keeping true to what Rory Gallagher once said:
“I like a nice rumble on bass, openness on guitar and drums that breathe.”
They are certainly following a recipe for success. See them now, while you can still get close enough to feel the heat coming off the fretboard.
