The Wombats Command Toronto with Infectious Energy at the Danforth Music Hall
Written and Captured By | Zach Hood
Toronto doesn’t often get The Wombats, and judging by how quickly the room filled up, no one was taking any chances. By the time the lights dimmed, the floor was standing-room only—jackets tied around waists and a low buzz of people arguing about what the opening act would be.
First up was Red Rum Club, who hit the stage with unadulterated confidence. The six-piece from Liverpool sauntered on as if they owned the place, and for the next 30 minutes, it felt as if they did. Lead singer Fran Doran is what’s known as a multi-dimensional frontman—not only does he sing into the mic, but he also covers the stage in constant motion, the mic cord swaying as he swings and moves with it, his voice steady through every change. It’s a kind of charisma that fills a room instantly.
Trumpeter Joe Corby provided the band’s signature sound, stepping into the spotlight between verses and giving the chorus another of those cinematic moments that have defined the band’s essence since their earliest tracks. And yes, the tambourine made its own dramatic entrances, shaking out its sound with the sheer aplomb that can only come from being a Liverpool band.
Then Only the Poets took over the stage. The four-piece from Reading offered up a completely different tonal ball of energy—smooth, emotional, and altogether inspirational. In recent years, they’ve amassed a solid following in the UK. Their sound is polished yet deeply personal. They’re one of those bands that make you feel like you’ve heard the songs before—not because they’re predictable, but because they hit something familiar.
When The Wombats finally graced the stage, the crowd’s screams reached new levels. Frontman Matthew Murphy constantly switched between keyboard and guitar, juggling the two as if he had practiced every move a thousand times (he probably had). His vocals never faltered, even as he threw in the occasional smirk between lines. Guitarist Tord Øverland Knudsen might as well have been powered by caffeine alone; he never stopped moving. He jumped, spun, leaned into the crowd, and sprinted across the stage like it was a sport.
The setlist was stacked—one of the longest Danforth has seen this year. They hit every era of their catalogue: Moving to New York, Cheetah Tongue, Techno Fan, Greek Tragedy, and of course Let’s Dance to Joy Division, which turned the entire room into one giant chant. Fans were word-perfect, loud enough that Murphy barely needed to sing the choruses.
Midway through, the night took a hilarious turn when a member of The Wombats’ team appeared on stage in a full wombat costume, trumpet in hand, joining in for part of a song. It wasn’t random—it was planned—but still absurdly funny. Watching a trumpet-playing wombat dart between the band members while the crowd screamed was the kind of chaos that makes sense only at a Wombats show.
After two solid openers and a marathon headline set, it still felt like the energy hadn’t run out. For the ticket price, this was a full-course concert: three unique acts, all playing like they had something to prove. If you walked out into the cold Toronto air that night after hearing The Wombats for the first time, you probably left with your ears ringing and a new favorite band—or three.