Did you stretch? Did you breathe in, breathe out, let the air sit in your lungs before the impact? No? Then it’s too late. Reign drops like a brick through a cop car window, a drumbeat that doesn’t just start the show but detonates it. The air turns sharp, like adrenaline laced with burning plastic. And then Bobby Vylan—grinning, already drenched in sweat, already inches from collapse—screams something, but it doesn’t matter what. It matters how. The words don’t leave his mouth; they rip through like barbed wire being pulled from the walls. You’re either in or you’re out. No, actually—you’re in. Whether you wanted to be or not.
The crowd moves like a protest just turned riot. Not fluid, not cohesive—collisions, recoils, brief alliances of bodies before being torn apart again. A lad in a Stone Island jacket flies one way; a girl with neon-green braids the other. No one is apologizing. Bobbie Vylan, from behind the kit, is an engine room on fire, limbs a blur of calculated violence. The sound? A hammer to the sternum. Every kick drum makes your bones second-guess their structure.
And then — Dream Big, and the pit doesn’t know what to do with itself. A song of aspiration, defiance in optimism. The fists are still clenched, but now they’re punching skyward instead of each other. Someone shouts every lyric like they believe it’s a spell to make their overdraft disappear. It’s sweaty, it’s messy, it’s… oddly touching? And just as the thought lands—
“HE’S. A. MAN.”
Bass like a car crash. Bobby snarls through the mic, moving with the kind of elastic tension that suggests he could either spring into the crowd or drop straight through the floorboards. Toxic masculinity gets skinned alive, guitar chords like serrated knives peeling away the layers. And the blokes at the front—macho, posturing—they’re the ones screaming it the loudest. No irony, no detachment. Maybe for the first time, they’re hearing themselves.
The pit is now a collective catharsis factory, arms on shoulders, knees bruised, voices shredded. Then—then—
“We! Live! Here!”
If the ceiling was still intact, it isn’t now. The room erupts. A song that doesn’t play—it attacks. The chorus is less of a lyric, more of a battle cry, an eviction notice to anyone who still thinks they get to decide who belongs. Sweat drips from the ceiling. Someone is screaming, eyes closed, fingers clawing at nothing. The security guards have given up, watching from the sides, arms folded, pretending they aren’t impressed.
And then—Bobby stops. Just stops.
One second he’s sprinting from one end of the stage to the other, body half-hanging off the monitors. The next? Dead still. The only sound is breathing, panting. The crowd sways, restless, waiting. The tension doesn’t just hang—it strangles. And then, barely above a whisper:
“This is the Hunger Games.”
And we are in it. Every syllable lands like a fist. Every lyric a blunt instrument to the temple. And the crowd? Unleashed. The walls, the floor, the air itself—vibrating, warping under the weight of it all. Final song, final blow, no encore because what else is there to say?
Bobby doesn’t leave the stage. He collapses onto it. Bobbie still hitting the drums, now just for himself. A cymbal rolls loose, falls off the riser. And then—nothing.
No bows. No farewells. Just silence. Deafening. Absolute.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
You’ll need the stretch next time.
Words & photos – Richard Isaac
“We Love Live Music” is a new platform dedicated to celebrating the energy, passion and joy in live music – thank you for visiting our site! You, the gig goers & festival goers, are a big part of the “We..”. So we’d love to hear from you, share your views or gig stories in the comments below the reviews, or tag us in your socials in your posts from the shows. Look us up on TikTok/IG/Facebook/YouTube where we’ll be posting regular content
