The Molotovs

Some nights you walk into a venue. Other nights you walk into a warzone that just happens to have a bar. The Molotovs’ gig at 16 Toneladas on December 2nd was the latter—the kind of night where the air crackles, the sweat runs hot, and the floor feels like it’s vibrating with the heartbeat of some feral rock ’n’ roll deity that has just woken up after a 50-year nap and decided to reclaim the throne. Valencia didn’t just witness a concert; it got detonated by a band whose very name is a health warning!

This was stop number whatever on their first-ever Spanish tour, and if the rest of the country has any structural integrity left after The Molotovs pass through, it’ll be a small miracle. They hit the stage like a gang of teenage insurgents who’d swallowed the entire British rock cannon—The Who, The Jam, The Libertines—then ignited it from the inside.

The crowd, a buzzing stew of locals, expats, punks, nostalgics, and people who definitely didn’t expect to be baptized by fire on a Monday-ish night, was hooked from the first chord. Because here’s the thing: The Molotovs don’t play gigs. They attack them.

For the uninitiated—those who haven’t already heard the whispers or the warnings—The Molotovs are a London outfit forged out of the strange cosmic accident of way-too-young musicians playing way-too-well for anyone to feel comfortable. Frontman Matthew, all razor-wire intensity and volcanic charisma, stalks the stage with the confidence of a man who knows he’s holding the detonator. Behind him, Noah and Issey hit the drums and bass like they’re trying to pound their way through the earth’s crust.

They’ve opened for The Libertines, toured the UK like fugitives with guitars, and built a reputation as the young band proving rock isn’t dead, isn’t dying, and frankly is probably more dangerous than it has been since the 1970s.

From the first note, the room snapped into place—like someone flipped the “riot” switch.“Wasting My Time”,“Popstar", “Come on Now” - Tracks delivered like uppercuts, hooks swung like bricks through windows.

Mathew Cartlidge snarled into the mic like he was summoning the ghost of Joe Strummer and handing him a can of gasoline. Issey Cartlidge's bass rattled the ribcages of everyone within a 10-meter radius. Noah Riley's drumming was less “keeping time” and more “starting a street revolution.”

Guitars buzzed. The amps growled. People danced like they were trying to exorcise their rent payments. Someone lost a shoe. Someone else found God. Someone else spilled half a beer but refused to break eye contact with the stage. It was that kind of night—unhinged, alive, sacred.

The Molotovs didn’t leave Valencia with survivors—they left with believers. And just in time too, because the band dropped the final grenade of the night: Their first full-length album is coming in January 2026!

If what they unleashed at 16 Toneladas is any indication, this debut is going to be the kind of record that doesn’t just enter the scene—it sets the scene on fire. A blast of post-punk grit, rock ’n’ roll swagger, high-octane youth energy, and unapologetic British attitude ready to tear into the new year like a pack of wolves.

You could smell it in the sweat-soaked air: this was one of those shows people brag about in the future.“Yeah, I saw The Molotovs at 16 Toneladas before they blew up.”“They nearly took the roof off.”“My ears still ring when I think about it.” This wasn’t nostalgia.This wasn’t revivalism.This wasn’t throwback rock.This was The Molotovs—raw, reckless, and rising fast.

A band on the edge of ignition.A crowd willing to burn for it.And a night Valencia will be talking about long after the plaster stops falling from the ceiling. If this was their first Spanish tour, Spain better hold onto something sturdy—because they’re definitely coming back, and the next time might not leave anything standing.

For more information: The Molotovs

Words and photos: Rhyan Paul