Photo credit: Steve Gullick

There are certain bands that stay with you, tied to a specific time, a specific feeling. For me, The Cribs were one of the first indie bands I got in to as a teen, nearly twenty years ago - the kind of band that soundtracked late nights, train journeys, University life and everything in between. 

Walking into Cardiff’s Tramshed, there was a sense that this wasn’t just another gig, but a reunion of sorts between a band and crowd who’ve grown up together. And quite the nostalgic trip it was. Looking around, not much had changed - a scattering of denim jackets, skinny jeans, and the Jarman's still in their trademark leather. The only real shift came in the details, with bassist Gary now sporting a refined moustache.

From the off, early cuts and fan favourites landed with the same urgency they always have, but what stood out most was how naturally it all fitted together. Opening with Dark Luck before launching into I’m a Realist and Hey Scenesters!, the pace was relentless. The band's newer material slotted in seamlessly, with tracks like Never the Same and Summer Seizures sitting comfortably amongst the classics. 

When they finally slipped into Another Number, they barely needed to try. Just the first four notes of that unmistakable riff rang out before they paused, letting the crowd take over completely. 

The band’s between-song banter was, as ever, spot on. They joked the single was simply ahead of its time - “three years later, and it would’ve cleaned up in the ringtone charts.” A throwaway line that spiralled into talk of missed fortunes and hypothetical islands, before quickly backtracking - “maybe not an island… given everything going on.” It’s that self-awareness and dry humour that’s always made them feel close to their audience.

Midway through, the floor told its own story. The crowd might be older now, but there’s been no softening. Pints were flying, bodies colliding, and the mosh pit surged like it always has with a room full of people refusing to let go of that energy. It was hard on times to remember it was in fact midweek, and not a rowdy Saturday evening in the capital.  

Musically, the contrasts remain one of their greatest strengths. Looking for the Wrong Guy brought a softer, more yearning moment, before being blown apart by the grungy, full-throttle assault of Back to the Bolthole. They’ve always known how to balance melody with abrasion, and here it felt as sharp as ever.

By the time the set closed out with the classic Be Safe, there was no sense of a band coasting on legacy. If anything, The Cribs feel more locked in than ever - still loud, still scrappy, still entirely themselves. Two decades on, they haven’t chased trends or softened their edges, and that’s exactly why they matter. The indie landscape might have changed around them, but they’ve remained constant, and somewhere along the way, that’s been their key to harbouring such success.

i:  https://www.instagram.com/thecribs/   

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