Review & Photography by Phil Rozier for MPM
Brighton seafront in December: windswept, salty, and bracing enough to wake the dead. Step inside Concorde 2 though, and you’re hit with a different kind of storm, one of sweat, heat, and glorious noise. This tiny Victorian venue, with its 600 capacity frame, has seen more legends than most arenas: Blackstone Cherry, Buckcherry, The Dead Daisies, Monster Magnet, The Answer, Fatboy Slim, Foo Fighters, Ugly Kid Joe… all have crammed themselves into this seaside sweatbox. And me? I’ve been there for every one of them. Like an old friend, Concorde 2 is comforting and always there. From the often pretty rank toilets to the blackoutblind windows, even some of the staff are the same after 20 years.
But last night was different. For the very first time, I ventured beyond the “no entrance without authorised pass” doors and into the pit itself, to review The fucking Wildhearts.
Being this close to any band is a revelation. You don’t just hear the music, you feel it rattling through your skull. At times you’re literally standing on the PA system, wondering if maybe those earplugs the security offered weren’t such a bad idea after all. But then Ginger appears, Geordie accent in full swing, camaraderie intact, playful as ever with the crowd and you remember why you came.
A New LineUp, Same Wild Energy
This isn’t The Wildhearts of old. The new lineup brings flowerclad keyboards, pork pie hats, and a fresh injection of energy that’s frankly exhausting to keep up with. The set leaned heavily on modern material, teasing the new album slated for 2026, but there were surprises too: rare Bsides, including a cheeky cover of the 80s Cheers theme tune, which had the crowd roaring with delight.
Midset, the classic Everlone dropped like a bomb, a true crowdpleaser that had every voice raised and every fist pumping. An unplanned Geordie in Wonderland, off the set list but on point, sent the room into chaos, proving spontaneity is still The Wildhearts’ secret weapon.
The Wildhearts crowd is always a family affair. Rowdy, loud, and unafraid to sing every word back at the band. Up front, the mosh was sweaty and joyous, a communal release of energy.
New track Spider Beach, dedicated to narcissists, was a suckerpunch of a song – ironic given that Suckerpunch itself was missing from the set list. The unexpected piano keys added a surprising depth, broadening the band’s sonic palette without losing their bite.
The set list stretched to 17 songs, with the band squeezing in past curfew to close with My Baby Is a Headfuck, a delirious finale that delighted the crowd and left the venue shaking.
Some things never change: Gibsons and Marshalls attacking the crowd with clarity and bite. Ben Marsden’s doublecut Junior snarled alongside Ginger’s old faithful Les Paul, the tones slicing through the humid air like a hot knife through butter.
The Concorde 2 remains the sweatiest, most reliable friend a rocker could ask for, and The Wildhearts proved once again why they’re one of Britain’s most enduring live bands. New lineup, new album on the horizon, same chaotic brilliance. Standing in that pit, ear drums ringing, sweat dripping, I felt part of something bigger; a family, a riot, a celebration.
The Wildhearts at Concorde 2: loud, sweaty, spontaneous, and utterly enjoyable.
