“Lyrical Wit and Lo-Fi Hits: Half Man Half Biscuit Bring Bethesda to Life”
- Desh Kapur
- Apr 5
- 2 min read
Updated: Apr 5
Neuadd Ogwen, Bethesda April 4, 2025
WORDS MATTY BEZ / IMAGES DESH KAPUR
“References, and razor-sharp riffs: Half Man Half Biscuit take Neuadd Ogwen by storm—then quietly leave through the side door.”
Tucked away in the heart of Bethesda, Gwynedd, Neuadd Ogwen is one of North Wales’ most distinctive and beloved independent venues. A former 19th-century village hall, it has been lovingly restored into a vibrant arts and music space that combines character, intimacy, and serious sonic credentials. With its rustic charm, exposed brick walls, and a stage that has welcomed everything from folk collectives to post-punk legends, Neuadd Ogwen is more than just a venue—it’s a cultural hub that champions grassroots music and community spirit. On April 4th, it played host to indie cult heroes Half Man Half Biscuit, and the result was an unforgettable night of wit, noise, and brilliantly British absurdity.
There are few things in life you can rely on: a warm welcome in Bethesda, Greggs being open at 7am, and Half Man Half Biscuit turning up, playing bangers, and leaving before anyone can ask for an encore or directions to the nearest Travelodge.
Tonight at Neuadd Ogwen, Birkenhead’s finest brought their usual blend of lyrical mischief, lo-fi musical muscle, and references so specific they might require a PhD in British regional trivia to fully decode. Where else could a gig contain mentions of Subbuteo, John Peel, and Clitheroe all in the same verse?
Nigel Blackwell shuffled onstage looking like a bloke who accidentally wandered into a gig and just decided to front the band. He opened with a dry “Alright?” in Welsh —which counts as ecstatic in HMHB terms—and proceeded to lead us through a set that included Trumpton Riots, National Shite Day, and selections from The Voltarol Years—their 2022 album that proves they’re still sharper than a Lidl bread knife.
Between songs, Nigel offered a running commentary that veered between semi-coherent anecdotes and muttered observations about someone in the front row’s hat. At one point he described Bethesda as “a fine place to lose your keys and your will to live, in that order.” It brought the house down.
The band were on point: tight without trying too hard, like a pair of budget jeans on wash number 12. The guitar tone was crunchy, the drums were solid, and the bass rumbled with the comforting warmth of a diesel engine on a ferry to Holyhead.
The crowd? A beautiful mix of ageing punks, indie diehards, and at least one bloke who looked like he’d been dragged there by a mate and left a full convert by the third song. Everyone sang, laughed, and nodded sagely at references they pretended to understand. A woman near me shouted “I LOVE YOU NIGEL” with such force it may have legally bound them.
Half Man Half Biscuit aren’t just a band. They’re a cultural service. NHS? No, HMHB. Tonight, Bethesda was the epicentre of dry wit, absurd brilliance, and the kind of rock and roll that’s powered by sarcasm and strong tea.
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