catfish & the BoTTLEMEN @ varsity theatre, minneapolis

Sophie Mitchell

It’s middle America, it’s a hot and sticky Tuesday night, and it’s probably one of the last places a spunky rock band from Wales would expect to succeed so greatly. Enter Catfish & The Bottlemen at Minneapolis’ Varsity Theater, supported by Brooklyn trio Highly Suspect. With the help of Zane Lowe, I stumbled into Catfish in the spring of last year. Admittedly it was a shallow fall, flirting with just two tracks (singles ‘Homesick’ and ‘Kathleen’) through the summer season. It wasn’t until September, following the release of their first full-length, The Balcony, that I took a hard tumble into the realm of the Welsh rockstars.

I zipped down to the venue, croons of various Catfish choruses stuck behind me on the soggy freeway. With an hour till opening act, the place was already buzzing with a diverse slew of show goers. Moms in the front row, twenty-somethings lingering around the balcony, dads clinking beers off to the side, and a hefty load of uni-age kids crowding the middle ground.

Highly Suspect started off the night with a sultry, gritty, and highly narcissistic swell. Screeching guitar, intoxicating bass, and a front man a little too into himself, they were annoyingly fun to listen to. Their track ‘Lydia’ was a highlight because, sparing the vocalist’s eye-seduction, the song itself did seedy, sexy rock pretty well. The group performed five tracks before a final bout of welcome applause, and then came the main attraction.

The lights dimmed for the second time and three rows from the front I felt embarrassingly dizzy. This was the first time in a while I was seeing a band I really liked, and as the Bottlemen took to the stage it felt a bit like locking eyes with my 6th grade crush from across desks. As Johnny, Bob, and Benji worked out a rhythm, Van crept around stage bobbing his head and ticking his guitar. The crowd was electric, and as the band ripped into Rango it was evident we were in for something special.

Equal parts humble and horrendously talented, front man Van McCann greeted us with boyish charm before diving into second song of the night, Pacifier. McCann - blunt, gutsy, and refreshingly sheepish all at once - was a fireball of musical fervour. With impeccable vocals and infectious energy, McCann whirled around stage in a shower of lyrical quips, guitar riffs, and perspiration.

After playing some order of Homesick, Sidewinder, and Kathleen, the group hit a personal favourite, Business. “I wanna make you my business / I wanna tolerate drunk you, honey,” we cried to an elated McCann; grins and head thrashes abounded. The song ended, the rest of the band slipped backstage, and it was nothing but McCann and an acoustic guitar. As he started in on Hourglass, the audience was transfixed. His transition from spry, cheeky frontman to candid, tender vocalist was spellbinding. That track melted the crowd with potty-mouth honesty and gentle vocals (Cause I wanna carry all of your children / And I wanna call ‘em stupid shit) and ended to a gush of praise for the coy McCann. The rest of the group returned, a bashful McCann became daring frontman once more, and the band continued with track 26.

With the start of Fallout, another favourite, I was verse-wailing and head-shaking in seconds. The band, the crowd, and the song were electrifying. I was singing, I was dancing, I was... crying? Yes! 

“See I, I was a test-tube baby / That’s why nobody gets me,” I yelled, tears streaming in Van-McCann-Is-The-Goddamn-Man euphoria. ‘I FUCKING LOVE THIS BAND,’ I thought. But then - ‘I’M NOT A TEST-TUBE BABY. WHY AM I CRYING?’ So I settled on ‘VAN MCCANN IS THE GODDAMN MAN.’

The penultimate track was crowd-treasured Cocoon, whose surging riffs and memorable chorus sent them roaring. Tyrants, the final track on The Balcony, was the final track of the night. The nearly minute-and-a-half long instrumental ending sent the theatre into a tizzy. Guitars howling, drums booming, McCann flailing, and the audience swelling in waves of inebriated ecstasy. Damp and drunk from a cocktail of humidity and adrenaline, the band plucked their final notes before disappearing beneath a haze of white confetti.

The crowd spilled towards the street in clouded contentment, our expectations fulfilled to the highest degree. Four sailor-mouthed Welsh punks had turned a sweaty Tuesday night into the rock show of our dreams. Almost a year ago to the day they’d played the same dinky venue to an equally dinky crowd. “I promised we’d come back and sell the place out,” Van yelped. “And,” he laughs, “we did.”