Fleabag Lit Up Perth: YUNGBLUD’s January 20, 2026 Night at The Ice Cream Factory
Perth didn’t just get a tour stop on January 20, 2026 — it got a full-blown YUNGBLUD takeover. The Ice Cream Factory in Northbridge is the kind of venue that feels close enough to taste the sweat and adrenaline, and that intimacy made the night hit harder. Long before the lights dropped, the mood outside was already buzzing like a festival queue trapped inside a city block: fans dressed like they’d stepped out of a music video, strangers trading stories about earlier Australian dates, and the shared sense that Perth was about to get something raw rather than polished. When YUNGBLUD finally appeared, it didn’t feel like he “arrived.” It felt like he detonated into the room.
He opened with “Hello Heaven, Hello” like he was kicking a door off its hinges. There’s a specific kind of confidence it takes to start that big in a room where the crowd is practically on top of you, but it worked because the energy wasn’t arrogant — it was hungry. From the first moments, he moved like a performer who refuses to stand still, scanning faces, leaning into the front rows, pulling the back of the room forward with sheer momentum. The Ice Cream Factory’s tight layout amplified everything: every shout, every stomp, every scream of recognition when a lyric landed. It immediately became obvious this wasn’t going to be a “watch the artist” show. It was going to be a “be part of it” night.
“The Funeral” followed and turned the temperature up another notch. Live, that song doesn’t sit neatly in one emotion — it’s equal parts chaos and confession — and Perth treated it like a personal anthem. The crowd didn’t wait for instructions. They were already yelling lines back like they’d been rehearsing in the mirror all week. What makes YUNGBLUD’s best shows work is that he understands the power of permission: he gives fans permission to be loud, messy, emotional, unapologetic, all at once. You could see people in the crowd switching from wild jumping to sudden stillness when a line hit too close. That emotional snap is what separates a “good gig” from a night you remember.
When “Idols Pt. I” arrived, it felt like a scene change rather than just the third track. The band tightened up, the pacing shifted, and the whole room leaned in as if they could sense something bigger brewing. Even in a small-to-mid venue, he performs like he’s telling a story with peaks and valleys, not just firing off songs in a row. Perth responded to that structure in a way that felt almost theatrical — not staged, but focused. The crowd wasn’t drifting to the bar or talking over quieter moments. They were locked in, eyes up, feeding off the tension-building parts because they knew the release would be worth it.
“Lovesick Lullaby” then cracked the room open again, turning that focus into movement. It’s one of those songs that makes a crowd bounce without thinking, and in a packed Northbridge venue it felt like the floor itself was reacting. YUNGBLUD has this talent for delivering pop-sized hooks with rock-sized impact, and live it lands like a chant you can’t escape. People who came with friends started singing at strangers. People who arrived guarded started throwing their arms up like they’d been waiting all day to let go. That’s the sneaky magic of a show like this: it doesn’t just entertain you, it rearranges your posture, your mood, your whole nervous system.
“My Only Angel” brought a different flavor, like a sudden spotlight on a more reflective side without killing the momentum. In the middle of a loud night, songs like this feel like you’re being reminded there’s an emotional engine under the noise. He didn’t deliver it like a “slow moment” where everyone checks their phones — he delivered it like it mattered, like it was a statement inside the set. The crowd responded in kind, singing with that specific intensity you only get when people truly know the lyrics. It felt like the room got closer, not physically — because there was nowhere closer to get — but emotionally, like a shared agreement that this wasn’t just background music. This was the point.
Then “Fleabag” hit, and this is where Perth’s night turned from explosive to legendary. The track already has that snarling, chaotic pulse, but live it became pure motion — a controlled riot. People jumped so hard the whole room seemed to move in waves, and YUNGBLUD rode that energy like he was surfing it with his voice. By the end of the song, he pushed the boundary between stage and crowd in the most literal way possible: he lowered himself into the pit and crowd-surfed, letting fans carry him before he made it back toward the stage. It wasn’t a gimmick — it felt like a trust exercise between artist and audience, and Perth passed with flying colors.
“Lowlife” kept the adrenaline spilling over, but with a different kind of swagger. After the chaos of “Fleabag,” this felt like the moment where the crowd realized they could go even harder because the show was safely in his hands. The song’s punchy rhythm turned the room into a bouncing machine, and the singalong sections sounded less like a chorus and more like a crowd trying to out-shout the speakers. You could see the faces in the front rows: sweaty, laughing, half-disbelieving, like they couldn’t believe this was happening in their city, in this room, tonight. It’s the kind of reaction you get when fans feel chosen rather than included.
The mood pivoted again with “Changes,” the Black Sabbath cover, and the shift was immediate. Suddenly the room felt softer, quieter, heavier — not in a sad way, but in a respectful, breath-held way. Covers can sometimes feel like a detour; here it felt like a communal pause, a moment that reminded everyone the show wasn’t just about being loud, it was about feeling something real. In a packed venue, you could hear the difference between noise and attention. Perth gave attention. People sang more gently, held their friends tighter, and let the song stretch out like a shared memory even if it wasn’t originally theirs. It deepened the whole night.
“Fire” snapped the room back into motion like a match thrown into petrol. The energy didn’t simply return — it surged, because that emotional detour made the adrenaline hit harder. YUNGBLUD’s strength is how he uses contrast as fuel: he’ll take you somewhere tender, then drag you back into the chaos with even more force. “Fire” felt like a rallying cry in that context, a song that turns the crowd into one moving body. You could feel the temperature rise again, hear the yelling intensify, and watch the room transform back into a jumping, shouting wave. It wasn’t random intensity; it was intensity with momentum.
“War” brought a tougher edge, giving the set a bite that felt especially sharp in a close-quarters venue. In bigger arenas, songs like this can feel like spectacle. Here, it felt like confrontation — not hostile, but direct, like he was pushing the audience to meet him at the same level. The crowd responded with that wild grin energy, the kind where people are tired but refuse to slow down. This stretch of the set was where you could see the show’s pacing intelligence: he didn’t let the audience drift. He kept resetting the pulse, reminding everyone that Perth wasn’t going to get a casual version of this tour. Perth was getting the full force.
“Ice cream man” then landed like an inside joke and a hometown nod wrapped into one, because the venue name made the moment feel strangely fated. It gave the night a playful twist without losing intensity, like the show was winking at the room while still keeping the engine roaring. You could feel the crowd savoring it — not just because it was a song, but because it felt like one of those “only here, only tonight” moments people talk about later. In concert storytelling, little moments like that become the glue. They’re what turn a setlist into a narrative tied to a specific place, not just another date on a tour spreadsheet.
“Loner” came in with that anthem-quality emotion that always hits differently in a crowd. There’s a beautiful contradiction in thousands of people singing about isolation together, and in a packed venue like this, the contradiction becomes almost poetic. The chorus didn’t feel like a performance; it felt like a release valve. You could see it in the way people stopped worrying about looking cool and just sang. No posing, no restraint, just a room full of people throwing their voices upward like they were trying to prove they belonged. It’s one of the strongest reasons YUNGBLUD has the fanbase he does: he makes the misfits feel central, not sidelined.
By the time “Ghosts” arrived, the room felt emotionally cracked open in the best way — loud, exhausted, affectionate. This is where great gigs start feeling like group therapy disguised as rock and roll. Perth didn’t just sing; they committed. You could see people with watery eyes, people clinging to friends, people filming not for clout but to keep a memory they could replay when life gets heavy. “Ghosts” has that kind of pull, and in a venue that intimate, it felt like the distance between stage and crowd vanished completely. It was less a song being played and more a moment being shared in real time.
And then “Zombie” closed the night like a final emotional exhale, turning everything that came before into a single, unified wave. The crowd became a choir — not the polite kind, but the full-throated kind where you can hear how badly people mean it. The song hit with catharsis, and the way YUNGBLUD delivered it made it feel earned rather than staged. When the final moments landed, it didn’t feel like an ending so much as a stamp on the night: Perth, night four of Australia, but for everyone in that room it felt like their night. As people spilled back out into Northbridge afterward, the energy didn’t disappear — it traveled, loud and buzzing, like the city itself had been pulled into the set.
