A Gloriously Chaotic Rock 'n' Roll Riot
by Rosstheboss on 20/05/2025Rating: 5 out of 5Alright, mate, I'm 45, got a dodgy knee and a mortgage that haunts my dreams, but Don Broco's Birthday Party Tour had me acting unwise - and I bloody loved every second of it. These Bedford lads don't just put on a gig; they crank the dial to 11, chuck you in a mosh pit, and leave you grinning like you've nicked the last pint at the pub. Strap in, because this was one for the ages, and my creaky joints are still buzzing. From the moment they roared into "Gumshield," a tune so punchy it could flatten a brickie, the venue was a cauldron of chaos. Frontman Rob Damiani swaggered out, mullet flapping like a majestic seagull, wearing a fan-made "I Love Don Broco" shirt that screamed "I'm here to cause trouble." The energy? Like someone spiked my Carling with a double espresso and a firecracker. By "Manchester Super Reds No.1 Fan," a sarky banger catchier than my missus's nagging, I swear I saw a geezer in the pit doing burpees to impress Rob. Mate, save it for the gym - Rob's already got the crowd in his pocket. These blokes turn a gig into a proper knees-up. Rob's not just a singer; he's the ringleader of a rock 'n' roll circus, diving into the crowd, nicking a fan's cowboy hat, and chatting like we're all down the Dog & Duck. He spotted some kid crowdsurfing - looked about 12, bless him - and hauled him onstage for a mullet-off. Kid won, crowd went mental, and I nearly popped a disc cheering. Drummer Matt Donnelly's belting harmonies while smashing the kit like it owes him a tenner. Si Delaney's guitar riffs could slice through my tax return, and Tom Doyle's basslines are so dirty I needed a shower after. Together, they're a sonic bulldozer, and I was happy to get flattened. The setlist was a belter. "Bruce Willis" - a nutty tribute to Die Hard - had me yelling "Yippee-ki-yay" like I was John McClane fighting off a hangover. "Fingernails" was all raw, angsty riffs, perfect for pretending I'm still 25 and not knackered from assembling IKEA furniture. But the real kicker? "T-Shirt Song." Picture a thousand punters - me included - whipping off their shirts and swinging 'em like we're in some sweaty helicopter rave. Lost my favourite polo somewhere in the melee, right when Rob yeeted his neck brace into the crowd. Neck brace? Yeah, the lad's headbanging gave him whiplash. What a hero. The encore was pure magic. "One True Prince" had me crooning like a lovesick uncle at karaoke, and they closed with "Gumshield" again, because why not? The crowd sang so loud I reckon we woke up the neighbors. Don Broco don't just play; they make you feel like you're part of the gang, like you're all in on the same daft joke. I left sweaty, voiceless, and with a grin wider than my mate Dave's dodgy golf swing. Don Broco's live show is a five-star, rib-bruising, life-affirming riot. At 45, I thought my gig days were behind me, but these lads proved I've still got some daft left in the tank. If they're playing near you, flog the lawnmower, grab a ticket, and wear a shirt you don't mind losing. Just don't tell my physio - he'll have me back on the foam roller. Cheers, Don Broco, you absolute nutters. I'm off for a lie-down.