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Last week, it played host to a collision of styles that, on paper, shouldn’t have felt this cohesive, yet by the time the final feedback loop faded, it felt like the only way a Tuesday night in February should ever end.

The evening began with Girl Group (9), and frankly, it was a masterclass in the “velvet glove” approach to songwriting. They are a band that seems to have spent a lot of time internalising the 80s indie-pop lexicon, there are undeniable echoes of The Primitives and the crystalline, harmonic clarity of Voice of the Beehive but to label them as mere revivalists is to miss the point entirely.

Musically, they are exceptionally polished, but there is a real, jagged rage lurking beneath those perfectly harmonised sugary pop melodies. It’s “bubblegum punk” for lack of a better term; clever, witty, and delivered with a level of technical talent that makes the transition from a major-key hook to a snarling bit of social commentary feel effortless. They didn’t just support the headliners; they set a high bar for musicality that demanded the room’s total attention.

By the time Black Honey (9) took the stage, the NAC was properly swamped. Headliners usually spend the first three songs trying to find their feet, but Izzy Phillips and her lot started hard and stayed there. It was a blistering, high-velocity set that refused to offer the usual mid-set respite.

What was most striking, however, was the silence between the songs. Izzy mentioned briefly that she was struggling to talk between songs on this tour, something which could have caused a disconnect or a diminished performance. Instead, Black Honey turned the limitation into a weapon. By letting the music do the talking, they stripped away the “theatre” of the indie-rock show and replaced it with a raw, unvarnished intensity.

The setlist was a relentless march through their catalogue from the cinematic, Morricone-tinged grit of Charlie Bronson to the feedback-saturated roar of Hello Hello. Without the distraction of stage banter, the tracks felt more like a single, continuous transmission of urban defiance. The guitars were thick and fuzzy, the rhythm section moved with a mechanical, motorik strut, and Phillips’ vocals remained a crystalline anchor amidst the noise.

In an era where too many bands rely on “personality” to fill the gaps in their songwriting, seeing a headliner let the riffs carry the weight was a refreshing bit of reality. For those of us packed into the Arts Centre, it was the definitive proof that sometimes, the best dialogue is the one where nobody speaks at all.