PHOTOGRAPHY Chelsea Savage
On Saturday 25th October, the sky above Alexandra Palace burned pink as the air hung thick with Friday-night tension – a sense that something wild was about to break loose. Inside, the palace pulsed with life: bodies pressed together, plastic cups spilling, the scent of beer, hairspray, and anticipation blending into pulsing electricity. Amyl and the Sniffers were about to take the stage. Four Australians who once played to thirty people in sticky-floored bars were now ready to own the palace on the hill.
Openers Floodlights and The Menstrual Cramps set the tone, the former all sprawling guitars and melancholic shimmer, the latter a riot of queer punk brilliance. By the time the house lights dropped and Crystal Waters’ “Gypsy Woman (She’s Homeless)” hit, the entire room was bouncing. It was the perfect Amy Taylor entrance: ironic, sexy, chaotic, tongue-in-cheek.
Then she appeared, the lady in red. Corset, tights, studs. The Aussie frontwoman looked like she’d stepped straight from the flames and onto the stage. The roar that followed was worship. She paced like a boxer before the bell, grinned, and laid down the law: “Don’t touch anyone who doesn’t wanna be touched.”
From the first riff, the room became one heaving organism of limbs, leather, sweat, and rhythm. I felt like I was in a lost Title Fight tape – bodies flying, energy boiling over. If there’d been less security, people would’ve been stage-diving just to get close to the flame that is Amy Taylor (but in a distinctly respectful way). “Chewing Gum” ripped through the speakers, sending a shockwave through the floor. Amy spat every word, walking the fine line between chaos and precision. The Sniffers played like their songs were chasing them; fast, feral, yet tight as hell.
From the first riff, the room became one heaving organism of limbs, leather, sweat, and rhythm. I felt like I was in a lost Title Fight tape – bodies flying, energy boiling over.
When “Guided by Angels” hit, the palace erupted. A collective howl shook the walls, sweat dripping from the ceiling. Amy stomped across the stage like she was summoning something ancient. A bald Aussie uncle on someone’s shoulders screamed every lyric. Two girls in fishnets kissed so hard they nearly fell over.
God, I love it here.
“Big Dreams” brought a flicker of tenderness, a melody that makes you want to sprint downhill barefoot without a care in the world. Then “Security” snapped everything back into motion. Amy prowled the stage’s edge, eyes flashing, voice flipping from sugar to snarl in an instant.
“Our first London gig was the Shacklewell Arms – can you believe it?” The crowd roared. You could feel the disbelief and gratitude: from pub stage to palace.
The crowd itself was a true masterpiece of humanity – goths with perfect eyeliner beside dads in Ramones tees, Aussie bikers, East London punks, queer kids, corporate types. All howling together. Watching everyone scream along to “Tiny Bikini” felt transcendent.
By the time “Jerkin’” tore through the final chorus, the room was feverish. People flying, mascara streaked, Amy grinning like she’d just burned down the world.
As the lights came up, everyone looked ruined and radiant, cups on the floor, sweat on every surface, strangers clutching each other, laughing. Punk rock isn’t dead. It’s sweaty, respectful, and gloriously alive.
As the lights came up, everyone looked ruined and radiant, cups on the floor, sweat on every surface, strangers clutching each other, laughing. Punk rock isn’t dead. It’s sweaty, respectful, and gloriously alive – screaming from the top of Alexandra Palace, wearing a red corset and no pants, proving that chaos can still have kindness.
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