Surveying the sea of people at his first arena show, Yungblud considers what he’s lost. Pushing sweat-soaked hair from his face, the 25-year-old singer – real name Dominic Harrison – laments being further from his fans than he’s ever been. “I am Yungblud, you are Yungblud,” he says, jumping down to the outstretched arms at the barrier.
His sorrow rings true – as the head of a self-styled band of outcasts called the Black Hearts Club, he has attempted to build a fan community based on respect and acceptance. But it could also embolden detractors who view his musical style (Busted-style pop-punk meets emo-rap) and persona as cynical fakery aimed at commercial success.
And, because nothing is ever easy, both sides of the divide might leave this room feeling vindicated: tonight there is love, sadness and togetherness, but there is also off-the-rack rock star grandstanding, pyrotechnics and confetti. It’s when the two meet that Yungblud makes most sense.
Emerging from behind a screen displaying his silhouette alongside devil horns and angel wings – subtlety is not a concern – Harrison tears into 21st Century Liability, the synths and sirens of its recorded version crushed beneath the wheels of a band channelling the belligerence of nu-metal.
The initial momentum of the set is a revelation. Dressed in a striped long sleeve beneath an outsized work shirt, enormous black sunglasses in place, Harrison is a kinetic presence, resembling Liam Gallagher one moment and Bring Me the Horizon’s Oli Sykes the next. Songs from Yungblud’s recent self-titled LP dominate the first part of the set, meaning that he plays a decent wedge of his best material up front. The Funeral, all Billy Idol sneer and new wave pomp, ignites a raucous shoutalong, with Tissues’ dancing melody faring similarly well.
Sandwiched between them is Parents, which again highlights the way Harrison has updated his sound. This is not a great song – it’s lyrically ropey and runs on forced singsong snottiness – but here it is undeniable: a stomping blast of distortion and disaffection. Equally, Mars (dedicated to Brianna Ghey with the message “trans lives fucking matter”) swells into a cathartic anthem, leaving its glib Bowie tribute origins behind.
Still, three albums into his career, Harrison’s catalogue has a flabby middle populated by songs that undermine the anarchy of his image by being too trite or too dull. Played back to back, I Cry 2, Sweet Heroine and Kill Somebody slow the charge to a crawl, with the latter proving to be the one moment where his band’s extra rock heft produces only a grungy dirge.
At one point Harrison decamps to a secondary stage that’s decked out like a grotty bathroom. He sits on the toilet smoking a fag and reading a book, its words playing out as a voiceover and big screen video package. It’s almost a test of nerve: will the crowd stay with me through this? They don’t waver for a second. Yungblud hasn’t shed all his issues – but he’s found where he belongs.
• Yungblud tours the UK and Europe through February and March.
