Tramhaus at YES - Manchester

Credit: Patrick Rhys Atack

There’s something dark and dirty about descending from a well-lit and buzzy bar to a dark, concrete, cold basement. The smaller of the rooms at Manchester’s YES venue is a near perfect example of the kind of space I’m talking about. It makes me think this is what people like my dad experienced at the 100 Club in the 70’s, and what people we’re both jealous of got to do at CBGB in that mythical place, the Lower East Side. 

Dutch quintet Tramhaus drew me down into the dark on Wednesday, and proceeded to scream, howl, drawl and purr their way into my heart. 

Some bands that call themselves post-punk feel more like cosplay, but not this band. Every member seemed to be dressed in/from/by a different decade. The speaking voice of (obviously) very tall frontman Lukas lulled the modest crowd into a false sense of security, or perhaps anticipation. But within half a song it was clear the boundary of the stage was the boundary of said modesty. 

With string holding up his trousers, a purposefully too-small-for-him tee, and a strut that managed to echo the recently passed David Johansen, Mick Jagger, and Lou Reed all at once, he let out a roar that told me immediately I was wrong to not listen to the 2024 album The First Exit at anything less than full volume. 

Frankly, he’s too tall for the stage down there. The tee, the bent neck, the whole vibe acted to give the impression he was slightly stretched; had he been victim of a medieval torture device backstage? 

There’s a projector hanging from the centre of the ceiling that I was worried was going to end the gig in a enthusiastic jump and hurried call to A&E. Luckily I think he’s dealt with such obstacles before, and it was deftly swerved by way of the elasticity of youth, and perhaps the Stella he swigged (swug?) in between tunes. 

And I mean tunes. There’s a strain of modern punk that places the importance of sheer noise above much else, but that’s not Tramhaus. 

Stand-out bass playing led the band through more than half the set, followed and joined by a starkly serene drummer bashing out beats to inspire angry missives to an ex. 

The duo on guitars swelled in a 90’s FILA top and a red-and-cream bowling shirt, respectively. They pulled out classic rock riffs and bounced them between each other until they turned, almost imperceivably, into grungey punk screeches. 

I doubt I Don’t Sweat was written with Prince Andrew in mind, but such, umm, talents might have helped in the once cold and now stifling basement. I don’t think many more people joined us after I entered the room, but the music doubled the atmosphere and yanked anyone not moving raucously out of their shells. My ears were ringing for a good few hours, though that was mainly my own fault for forgetting earplugs. 

Yet, unlike some bands with energetic singers, there was no spitting of phlegm or swears to the crowd [no disrespect to those who do, it’s a different vibe that’s all], the Dutchies spoke in a calm, polite, oh let’s be honest, very Dutch way to the crowd and the sound techs on shift. 

“That was a proper band, that,” I overheard as I climbed back up to street level to catch the bus home. 

I couldn’t put it any better myself. So I won’t try.