Raised in Shigawake on Quebec’s Gaspé coast, Hayes studied agricultural science in Montreal and still operates a vegetable farm in her hometown. Her musical education included jazz studies and country-blues bands; the subtle harmonic turns here suggest those interests remain close. Francis Ledoux and David Marchand of Quebec rock trio zouz, collaborators since her 2022 debut to coax a waltz, again help her find the less obvious routes through familiar folk and country terrain.

‘Acid Rain’ makes that working partnership felt immediately. Lead guitar sends unusual phrases across the bass and drums, their exchanges accumulating into a fine mist before acoustic guitar and slide bring the song gently home. Its opening rose supplies the album title: “You let it be brilliant / Then you let it go” Hayes sings, recognising the wisdom while still struggling with its consequences. “If I break / Another heart,” she worries, “I’m pretty sure / I’ll dissolve”. Her voice has the warmth of Suzanne Vega or Chelsea Sue Allen, though here the embrace it has around your ears comes with a slight tremor.

‘Tempest’ follows that tremor through gently rolling vocals and swelling harmonies as Hayes affirms “I’m not scared of the world / And what it may hold / I just fear that I won’t / Have time to explore it.” Acoustic guitar and sparse percussion barely disturb her until a deep drum roll passes beneath, an involuntary shudder. Barer still, road song ‘Kentucky’ paints a picture of dry, orange soil peppered with resilient vegetation, its close folk harmonies changing tonal colours above a slight drone. The track’s tonal warp exposes the voices to the heat of the landscape passing on the tarmac outside.

The running bass and persistent shuffle of ‘Timid’ give the record a welcome push, piano and guitar adding little nudges around Hayes’ close harmonies. “I cut my teeth keeping quiet,” she sings, turning the phrase towards the grinding ache that follows at night. That tension eases on ‘Wilder Still’, where she seeks refuge in hills “gentler than people”. “So I take a breath / And learn to let / Go,” she sings, her unhurried phrasing finally allowing the release that ‘Timid’ holds back.

Cédric Dind-Lavoie produces and plays piano and organ on ‘Make You New’. Its slow opening drone promises solemnity, then Hayes’ tumbling delivery stirs something closer to a dance, the Irish refrain at its end entrusting renewal to time. ‘Steady’ takes longer over its reassurance. Piano ripples beneath “You’re already / Worth all the light you emit”, while the admission that people sometimes become too tired to listen catches a little at the generosity and altruism elsewhere. Hayes knows what giving can cost you personally.

‘Pining’ is a highlight, breathy minor-key vocals and a bony piano ostinato pressed onwards by the faint heartbeat of a kick drum. Plucked guitar, cymbal washes and distant instrumental commotion complicate its ascent into the clouds. Then ‘Say What You Mean’ brings the now familiar palette of acoustic guitar and sparse rhythms together, Arielle Soucy’s flute threading through the song’s accumulating fullness. Hayes moves between English and French, the repeated invitation to speak becoming more insistent with “Aweille, dis-le!” — come on, say it. “Have you been hiding out?” she asks. After the slightly clenched teeth of ‘Timid’, the question has a particular tenderness. Rimshots, low toms and subtle electric guitar encourage the song onwards without hurrying the answer. Hayes has spent much of this record wishing others into the sunlight. Here she stays beside them while they find the words.

Beneath the playfulness of 2024’s Kindergarten Heart lay years of patient growth, its lightness earned rather than assumed. Take the Case of a Rose makes a subtle shift towards the effort involved, the close harmonies and gently unsettled arrangements accommodating doubts that Hayes might once have turned towards childhood to resolve. That said, her emotional sincerity remains, as does a refreshing willingness to put something hopeful into the world. She knows a little more about what can go wrong, and still wants to see what might bloom.

‘Take the Case of a Rose’ is out 13th November via Bonsound.

Vinyl and CD editions include the additional three-part SANCTUM suite.

There’s definitely a bit of a resemblance in some moments on Glue, but the overriding reference that kept springing to my mind was that of Richard Thompson, specifically on the former Fairport Convention man’s less folky solo compositions.

‘Television Loveseat‘ certainly has the aura of the earlier work of the erstwhile Mr, Jones, however, but can we be totally honest? Gurry Wurry has a sound all of his own. Sure, there are always going to be artists you could level at him for having been possible influences – ‘Polaroid Of Pain In Glue‘ for example nods towards bands/performers of the mid to late sixties – see The Moody Blues, Donovan, even Scott Walker at a push – if their songs had been interpreted by Super Furry Animals, but let’s not put any pigeons in holes here, for this is very much the work of a unique composer whose creations stand very much on their own merit.

Delving deep into Glue, personal favourites include the Bryan Ferry-like ‘Champions Bore Me‘ (which also might well be the best title I’ve heard this year) and the more reflective, initially stripped back ‘Like A Landlord,’ which opens with the genius lyric: “Most people are awful / I didn’t think you were most people / Most people will wobble / But I didn’t think we were most people.” It has a nice dose of oddball about it too, which somehow makes it doubly endearing.

Curtain closer ‘Maslow Was Wrong‘ too, adds another string to Gurry Wurry’s bow, an epic sounding, early hours tugger of heart strings that leaves you somewhat devoid of your senses for a while. You just have to sit there quietly to come to terms with what you’ve just heard, and then repeat. Not just that song – it’s better off going back to the start of the entire album, for there are several layers to the tracks here that reveal themselves subtly the more you listen.

The thing is, I do get the Bowie reference, I really do – like the aforementioned music legend, this is pure unadulterated pop music, but one that feels like it’s been fucked up and dragged through Hell before finding itself. The result is Glue. Yes kids, you should definitely try Glue.

The self-released Glue is out now.

From the second they stepped out under the lights, it was abundantly clear that time hasn’t blunted Anvil’s edge. Lips remains one of metal’s most charismatic, wide-grinned frontmen, treating his signature red Flying V not just as an instrument, but as a lightning rod for the evening’s energy. Before the first song had been played, Lips treated the audience to an aperitif by walking onto the venue floor and shredding amongst them. They then tore through a setlist packed with legacy anthems and thunderous new rhythms, with his classic showmanship and piercing solos dominating the stage. Bassist Chris Robertson held down a fiercely heavy, driving low-end groove.

Behind them sat the band’s engine room: Robb Reiner. Delivering a masterclass in heavy metal drumming, Reiner’s relentless double-bass work and rhythmic precision laid down a sonic foundation that filled every inch of the Buckley venue. Anvil are a living, breathing, sweating time machine: fearsomely tenacious and unapologetically 80s, regaling the audience between songs with anecdotes from their early days.

By the time the final chords rang out against the massive backdrop, the sweat-drenched crowd left no doubt that the band’s connection to their fanbase remains unbreakable. Anvil didn’t just play a set last night; they put on a masterclass in survival, passion, and the enduring power of pure, unadulterated heavy metal.

All photos: Kev Curtis

The new guest-curator format added an interesting spin, with four creative figures each taking over a slice of the line-up. Brighton post-punk crew Squid ran an abrasive, left-field stage at The Island, a former Edwardian police station, with a rare set from their own guitarist, Anton Pearson. Shabaka Hutchings, of Sons of Kemet and The Comet Is Coming, steered things towards experimental jazz and fierce percussion at Strange Brew. Swedish artist Cobrah built a club-focused “sub-universe” of hyperpop, ballroom, and hard techno, while Turner Prize-winning artist Jeremy Deller blended folk, art, and rave culture via Circle Dance and his Acid Brass project.

As ever, it was good to see so much of the city, and such a wide range of ages, get behind a festival this weird, wacky, and beautiful. Credit to the Beacon for keeping things running so smoothly, and even with the action scattered across a multitude of venues, you were forever bumping into a friend or recognising a face, which is very Bristol.

I eased into the day at 1.30pm with American bassoonist and composer Joy Guidry, whose hypnotic, ambient set, all bassoon and a bit of fiddling around on a MacBook, gently held an already quite full Strange Brew. Nobody was dawdling; people had come to get stuck in and squeeze every last drop out of their ticket price.

Then it was over to the Beacon itself, the festival’s centre point and hub, where Marla Kiefer wasted no time getting the party started the moment you walked through the doors. Afro drumming, heavyweight bass work, and sheer jumping energy: a much-needed shot of sunshine on a cold, foggy, overcast day.

Copenhagen artist Fine, meanwhile, filled the Lantern upstairs almost instantly. The Beacon’s secondary space is a quaint hall that feels as though it should be hosting a cello concert, though at events like this it’s usually given over to very chilled ambient sounds, and it’s always very, very dark in there. The queue snaked out of the venue, over the bridge, and around the bar, and the poor souls at the end of it had no chance in hell of getting in. There was clearly a lot of buzz around her, and the slot landed about two hours in, just as everyone was arriving.

Among the day’s standouts was caroline, the eight-piece London collective acclaimed for their unique blend of post-rock, traditional folk, emo, and minimalist ambient music. Very immersive stuff, and great to sit back in a seat and soak it all in, soothing one moment, disorienting and intense the next. They were the perfect choice as the first band to grace the main Beacon Hall, and the place was packed.

New for this year was a tie-up with Shredenhams, a former Debenhams in The Horsefair that is now a skate park and community hangout. It was a mad space of old pool tables and tons of plywood, with two stages given over to the craziest, most uncompromising noise going and hosting the more immediate side of the line-up. The Gnomes brought the garage rock racket out front while the back room welcomed Panda Bear & Sonic Boom for some neo-psych. Nobody was allowed to skate that day, mind, with alcohol on sale. Probably for the best.

Then there was The Island, Squid’s domain, a warren of stairs and alleyways where you could stumble into a dingy basement and find something gloriously strange going on. Bizarre in the best way, and the true hidden gem of the day.

Equally eccentric, and a lot cuter, were Mermaid Chunky, the British audio-visual and avant-pop duo of Freya Tate and Moina Moin, known for improvised chaos, highly visual costume designs, and post-punk electronic spoken-word storytelling. Their set was an absolute blast and a carnival of colour: they played a new song wrong to a full house and laughed it off, while their friends came out dressed as all manner of strange folkloric characters. I’d caught them at Forwards Festival in Bristol earlier in the summer, but they were way better this time, contained within the prim and proper surroundings of Beacon Hall. Loveable and very British in their eccentricity, the whole aesthetic was gloriously bonkers.

A personal highlight was the human firework otherwise known as Mykki Blanco. The Bridgehouse (the foyer) seemed a pretty random choice for an artist of Blanco’s calibre, who has collaborated with the likes of Madonna, Charli XCX, and Blood Orange and is a regular on BBC 6 Music. Plagued by dodgy sound early on, Blanco was not to be suppressed. With a face so caked in glitter it looked like a helmet, Blanco was repeatedly in the crowd, jumping the barrier and at one point running up the stairs to twirl and thrust for a delighted audience watching from the Beacon’s many spiralling stairways. Pure lunatic entertainer energy.

I can’t say Cobrah’s electro-BDSM pop was for me personally, but it was impossible to ignore, and sassy with a capital S. Her debut album, Torn, landed in March and finds her shifting from erotic provocateur towards a more romantic, lyrical mode, but there was little softness on show here. This was a set that demanded attention, and it left the crowd nicely fired up for headliners The Avalanches.

The Australian duo, the sample-wizards behind 2000’s Since I Left You, are currently touring their stellar new record, No Bad Memories, released in October. I was lucky enough to catch them at a sold-out Roundhouse the evening before, and while the show was still a technicolour treat, an 11.30pm start, 15 minutes later than advertised, is a lot to ask of an ageing millennial like myself. A few weary attendees slipped away after a day slogging around in the cold. Still, The Avalanches were clearly having a whale of a time on stage, hugging and dancing away, and Beacon Hall made for a fab place to catch their Y2K-inspired glitch-pop and soul-dance tunes. A pleasure to catch them two nights on the trot.

And for those with titanic stamina, or a little something extra in the system, the night didn’t stop there. After-parties at Strange Brew and The Island ran right through to 6am, with a host of Bristol cultural big hitters, Noods Radio and Crack Magazine, joining forces to make sure the fun never ended.

In all, it was yet another brilliantly curated festival, full of surprises, new discoveries, and a few cult favourites, built for the curious who want to find the next big thing or share an interesting find. Logistically it must be a nightmare for the organisers, so hats off to all involved for making it look so easy. And Bristol, a curious city with its musical finger forever on the pulse, wore it well.

This was a proper co-headline bill, not the usual ‘legendary act plus someone you’ll chat through’ arrangement. Both bands played full sets, alternating the closing slot across the tour, and Birmingham got an evening built around career-spanning anthems, glamour, grievance and the sort of communal singing that makes arena staff reach nervously for their radios.

Suede went first, and the room changed temperature. Suede offer seduction: cheekbones, smoke, sex and songs that sound like a bad decision you would happily make again. Brett Anderson remains one of British rock’s great theatrical animals. In a sweat-drenched shirt and black trousers, he stalked the stage through the pencil-thin lights, dropping to his knees during ‘We Are the Pigs’ and ‘Trash’, behaving like a man who has lived life to the full and regretted none of it. At his age, it could have looked ridiculous. Instead, it looked like mastery.

Armed with tracks from Antidepressants—arguably their best album in nearly 30 years—and a selection of perfect Nineties bangers, the band could do no wrong. ‘Animal Nitrate’ provoked the expected roar, while ‘Filmstar’ and the closing ‘Beautiful Ones’ turned the arena into a vast, glittery group-therapy session for people who lived the Nineties to the full and have never fully recovered.

A rare acoustic outing for ‘Stay Together’, alongside the omission of ‘So Young’, showed that Suede have a deep enough catalogue to pull surprises at will without endlessly ransacking their debut. ‘Saturday Night’ remains one of the great British singles precisely because it makes urban loneliness sound like the best party you have ever been invited to. And when Anderson went down to the front during ‘Beautiful Ones’, he did not so much greet the crowd as induct them into some glitter-covered, mildly disreputable congregation.

Suede in 2026 have reached a peak not seen since their Nineties heyday—and seem to be improving with age. Keep an eye on this band: they still matter.

Suede were always going to be a hard act to follow, but Manic Street Preachers are used to arenas and know exactly what their audience wants, without resorting to a pastiche greatest-hits set. James Dean Bradfield remains an absurdly good frontman: part working-class hero, part guitar-shop deity, part man who has clearly never once considered the possibility of relaxing. Nicky Wire, meanwhile, remains the Cheshire Cat of rock, grinning from the moment he walks onstage in his feather boa and ever-present giant shades.

The set leaned heavily on the classics, with ‘Motorcycle Emptiness’, ‘A Design for Life’, ‘You Stole the Sun from My Heart’ and ‘If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next’ doing the heavy emotional lifting. These are songs that have survived every fashion, every reunion-tour cliché and every attempt to reduce them to Nineties nostalgia, because they were never really about the Nineties. They were about wanting to escape, wanting to matter, and suspecting that both might be impossible.

There was a lovely, respectful moment when the band nodded towards Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ before ‘No Surface All Feeling’—a reminder that the Manics have always understood pop as something sacred, while paying tribute to their Welshness. By the time they closed with the stunning ‘You Love Us’ and ‘If You Tolerate This…’, the arena had become one vast, hoarse choir. ‘If You Tolerate This…’ should have dated – instead, it sounds more necessary than ever.

The pleasure of the double bill lay in the contrast. Two bands with huge choruses: one dark romantics, the other literary moralists. Yet both share the same stubborn belief—that guitar music is not merely entertainment, but a way of insisting that you exist. The Manics still sounded urgent. Suede still sounded seductive. Both were thrilling.