​You’d think Neon 194 was primed for absolute carnage. A couple next to us looked like they’d reached the pinnacle of their come-up, a shot girl wobbling under a tray of Jägerbombs that could’ve doubled as a buffet spread, a bar in the back, and a crowd so rammed it felt like a tube strike. 

Scratch the surface and it’s a different story. The couple? Sixties, gurning like they’d just discovered MDMA, giving the death stare to anyone who made eye contact. The shot girl ended with arms like Popeye’s, having flogged maybe five of her 500 shots. And the bar? Charging oligarch prices for bottles of warm lager. 

Luckily, the gig had its own personality. Brooke Combe tears into ‘This Town’ like she’s settling a score, and the place goes feral—for about ten seconds. 

Then there’s an apprehensive silence, like someone’s nan tripped over the power cord. 

But it’s not a bad silence. It’s endearing, and this isn’t new for Brooke’s shows. 

Nobody’s whispering, nobody’s nipping for a pint. They’re just… glued. Her voice is a gut-punch, her presence fills the room like incense, and that warmth? It’s the kind that makes you wanna buy her a drink and spill your life story. 

The problem is, you sometimes get the sense she’s yearning for this messy, energetic silliness you find in the epicentre of a mosh pit, not playing to a gawping crowd. If there was a pit last night, there’d be a few broken hips.

Even her bulletproof charisma struggled to crack the room’s weird, reverent hush last night.

There were moments, amongst the covers of Angie Stone’s ‘Wish I Didn’t Miss You’ and ‘Summer Breeze’, some of the classics and towards the end as people finally settled in, but the audience’s energy didn’t bubble far beyond deep-rooted inward appreciation (apart the two on pingers next to us).

Brooke’s got this knack for feeling like your mate’s cool younger sister—open, real, but with a spine of steel. One minute she’s pouring her heart out, thanking the crowd like they’ve saved her life; the next, she’s torching a heckler without breaking stride. It’s seamless. It’s beautiful.

Last night could’ve been one for the ages, but the vibe was off—like the a party where everyone’s waiting for someone else to make the first move. Brooke’s up there, blazing, but the crowd’s giving this eerie, church-like silence. 

A few flubbed keys and a restart or two can usually be ignored, but there was a sense that something wasn’t right. Could there have been a frost between her and Danny (lead guitar)? Too hungover? Just a bizarrely unreceptive crowd?

Still, even if it didn’t hit mythical status, it towers over most gigs in its lane. Brooke’s got that forever thing—emotion that cuts like a blade and a humility that doesn’t feel like an act. The tracks in Dancing at the Edge of the World are pointing to a bright future. 

Friction or not, she’s on a rocket to wherever she bloody well pleases, and I’d strongly recommend following her.