KING TUT’S is a benchmark for up-and-coming grassroots musicians. It’s the feeling you get when you finally sit on that outside bench below the stairwell after a sweaty half-hour set in front of a packed Glasgow crowd, breathing in second-hand smoke and catching, at the corner of your eye, your band name drawn across the blackboard in coursing white chalk as the lights illuminate the legendary logo in the Glasgow night. For Yes and Maybe, it was the end of a long European tour, culminating in whirlwind excitement, emotion, and perseverance in a city that one half of them called home. But is touring abroad a necessity for Scottish bands, and how does the infrastructure compare to Britain?
As I climbed the narrow stairway, whose steps are paved with the names of legendary bands and artists before, it became clear why the venue feels so different: you ascend rather than descend, unlike most Glasgow venues. Entering the standing area, the band were grouped in technical discussions about the upcoming show, with staunch professionalism and perfectionist ideals. Even after a lengthy tour, these guys were serious about giving their fans the best they could, even if sleep-deprived.
It’s easy to see why King Tut’s is a coveted venue to play. It’s a major venue in miniature. The stage raised high, the lights beaming down, the barrier in front giving the illusion of a huge venue, the sound always spot on. The bands even get their own green room away from the carnage. It was in this box-like, classic space – adorned with its own fridge and a classic carryout – that I chatted to the band about their tour and journey so far. Their expressions were of exhaustion, but their passion for their craft and their willing persistence to keep the Scottish scene alive ensured their fire still burned. Even an outsider to the touring world could tell this final gig really meant something.
Here’s the thing about Yes and Maybe. They don’t make sense on paper.
Yes is from the east of France, near Lyon and Geneva. Maybe is from Glasgow. They met years ago working on other people’s songs, stayed friends, and then – without ever deciding to form a band – wrote eight tracks in two weeks over WhatsApp. The debut album, finished remotely, produced across borders, mixed by Yes in Brussels or nowhere or wherever he happened to be sleeping that week. Their first time on a stage together was at Nice N Sleazy’s, and by their own admission they were playing like shit and dressing like shit and hadn’t yet figured out what any of it meant.
“What kinda happened was we never set out to actually write together,” Maybe tells me, leaning back in the green room, still wearing the suit. “It was more just to write some cool songs. And then within two weeks we’d written maybe eight of the tracks of the album.”
They’ve since written around thirty. Picked the best fifteen. The band’s name isn’t a placeholder. In life, Yes is the one who booked America, who pushed for Europe, who keeps saying let’s go let’s do it let’s cross another border. Maybe is the Scottish half who would have been content to just play Scotland and call it a day. But in the music, it flips. Yes’s production is happy, French-touch, bright. Maybe’s lyrics are depressing. The contradiction is the point.
“We are total opposites in life,” Yes says. “But in the music, the way we work, we are connected. He does what I cannot do. I do what he cannot do.”
They have a rule. When one of them sends a song, the other doesn’t reply for a week. Let the ego deflate. Then come back with the truth.
The economics of this are not abstract.
There is no tour manager. They cannot afford one. Yes builds the lighting rig himself. He weighs every cable before crossing a border. Every single piece of equipment logged, every kilogram accounted for. The van is small. There is no bus. They drive from Yes’s flat in Brighton to wherever they’re playing, then back, then out again. The German leg of the tour got cancelled because it was logistically impossible.
“Crossing the border with some gear is crazy,” Yes says, not complaining so much as stating a fact. “I didn’t know that before.”
Then he says something bigger.
“I feel from my point of view, since in Europe we have so much funds from governments for gigging – venues have a lot of money. If [Scottish bands] have enough money to go there, they will definitely play more and have better fees, better crowds. Europe is giving so much money for every venue. It’s crazy.”
In France, bands with small fanbases and modest streams tour constantly. Not because they’ve gone viral. Because the government funds the rooms. The infrastructure exists. Here, venues close. Here, the burden is entirely on the band – the van, the gear, the customs, the content creation, the social media algorithm, the photoshoot, the outfit, anything except the actual music.
“There’s bands that are still doing really well from just the music,” Maybe says carefully. “We’re maintaining the hope that people just want to come and see live music in the future.”
He shrugs. No words. Just the shrug.
The content pressure is real. The music isn’t going viral anymore. It’s the behind-the-scenes, the photoshoot, the outfit. Yes and Maybe are trying to stay true to themselves while bridging that gap.
“We don’t want to lose sight of why we made the music in the first place,” Maybe says. “Everything we’ve made, down to the artworks, the music, the content, has come from the two of us. It is a full-time job being in a band.”
The crowds are different everywhere they go. Glasgow wants it heavier. Paris wants it more pop. The album bridges both. In Paris, Maybe tells me, you could sense which tracks people reacted to. Not the same ones as here. The European audience isn’t just a financial necessity – it’s a creative conversation the band is having that they can’t have at home alone.
“Do you find it hard gigging here?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Yes says. “Because in Europe, venues have so much money from governments. It must be hard for someone from here to go to Europe because of the cost of the tour. But if they have enough money to go there, they will definitely play more.”
That’s the trap. You need money to get to the place where the infrastructure makes touring viable. You need to already have made it to the place that would help you make it.
The tour ended where it began.
“What does it mean to end the tour in Glasgow?”
Maybe pauses. “Well, it’s where we did our first gig, so I mean – it feels like, for me, it’s obviously coming home.”
Yes nods. “Definitely.”
“For you,” Maybe says, turning to Yes, “I mean, it is your second home.”
“Yeah,” Yes says. “It’s coming home too.”
“Right, I’m fucking ending that there, I think,” I exclaim, chuckling as I cut the recording.
If they had seemed nearly asleep during the interview—and understandably so—there was no way to tell once they hit the stage. Their performance crackled with the same electric energy as their very first gig I was lucky enough to attend, back when they were fresh newcomers in a heaving, claustrophobic Nice n’ Sleazy a year ago. The crowd’s buzz echoed that night’s, too: the unmistakable hum of an audience that knew they’d witnessed something worth remembering. It’s these nights and memories—recounting the same band from one Glasgow venue to another—that do make me retain my assurance that the scene still has teeth, and isn’t going anywhere too soon.
Glasgow gave them a full house and sent them home. The question isn’t whether this city still has it. It’s whether the conditions that created it will survive long enough to do the same for the next band coming up the stairs.
