A beautifulkind of riot.

Jonah knew Violet as a teenager, before the records, the mythology and the carefully lit photographs. He remembers the unfinished songs and the embarrassing lyrics. Their shared musical shorthand runs deeper than any rehearsal.

As a solo artist, he moves between modern folk storytelling, the release of EDM and the physical rush of rock guitars. In The Riots, he brings the melodic nerve: the guitar line that stays with you, the second voice that knows exactly where hers is going.

Warm, dryly funny and quietly stubborn, Jonah can spot an honest line beneath three clever ones. He is usually the first to suggest keeping the rough take — especially when Violet meant every word.

Away from The Riots, Sloane is a commanding dark alt-rock vocalist: seductive, theatrical and entirely comfortable holding a room in the palm of her hand. She brings that same instinct to the band, with the confidence to support another voice as fiercely as her own.

Her bass gives the songs their weight, tension and pulse. She understands that a line can be as powerful for what it leaves out as for what it plays. When she sings, the temperature changes.

A sharp listener with a wicked sense of humour and very little false modesty, Sloane challenges Violet because she respects her. Their friendship is built on mutual nerve, raised eyebrows and the refusal to let each other settle.

Ezra is the architect of The Riots’ psychedelic direction: unusual melodies, shifting textures and whole worlds hidden inside an apparently straightforward indie song. A Glaswegian musician with albinism, his distinctive presence is matched by an unpretentious manner and an expansive imagination.

He listens before offering what he calls “a wee idea”. That might be a shimmer beneath a chorus, a synth passage that bends the room out of shape, or a sound nobody can quite identify but everybody misses when it disappears.

Bone-dry humour keeps his more cosmic instincts grounded. Ezra loves an experiment, but only keeps it if it serves the song. He is the reason the band can sound familiar one moment and beautifully impossible the next.

Cass wants a band, not a solo career. She loves the collaborative risk: listening closely, catching the change in a room and knowing when four other people are ready to jump with her.

Her drumming can turn a confession into a confrontation, or hold almost everything back until the song has earned its explosion. She hears rhythm in speech, footsteps and awkward silences. The pulse matters more than the display.

Direct, observant and unexpectedly funny, Cass is the practical heart of The Riots. She notices when someone needs a break or a meal, carries what needs carrying, and counts everyone back in. Her loyalty is rarely announced. It is there in the timing.