A former police officer assigned to airport duty in 1975 has described a day that Glasgow still talks about — the moment the Bay City Rollers returned home and unintentionally brought the city to a complete halt. According to the officer, more than 3,000 fans gathered outside the airport that afternoon, and when the band’s motorcade began moving toward their hotel, the crowd followed it on foot, turning the journey into a rolling wave of screaming, tartan-covered excitement.
The officer said the crowd began forming early in the morning, long before the band’s flight was scheduled to land. Teenagers wrapped in tartan scarves lined the fences, chanting the band members’ names in cycles. By early afternoon, the group had swollen so large that airport staff had to redirect foot traffic. Police expected enthusiasm — but nothing on the scale that unfolded.
“When the plane touched down, the sound outside the terminal was like a stadium goal,” the officer recalled. “You felt it in your ribs.”
As the band stepped out into the public area, the crowd surged forward, forcing officers to form a tight cordon to prevent injuries. Fans pressed against the barriers, waving homemade signs, reaching over shoulders, and shouting greetings the band could barely hear. The moment the Rollers entered their vehicles, a spontaneous chain reaction began — fans started running alongside the cars, matching their speed.
“It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t organized. The crowd just moved as one,” the officer said.
What followed resembled a slow-moving parade, except the participants were there by pure impulse. The motorcade, intended to drive smoothly into the city, was forced to crawl at walking pace as thousands of teenagers followed it down the long airport road. Some waved flags. Some sang. Others simply ran with wide eyes, unable to believe they were so close.
Drivers stuck behind the procession had no choice but to stop. Buses idled. Delivery trucks stalled. People stepped out of their vehicles to watch the unbelievable sight — a sea of tartan patterns, bobbing and swirling around the cars like a human river.
Shop owners along the route came out to their doorways. Office workers leaned from windows. Children perched on fences, trying to see above the heads of the crowd. According to another officer stationed near the city center, the noise carried several blocks ahead of the group, giving residents a full minute of warning before the motorcade arrived.
“It felt like the whole city tilted toward them,” he said.
When the vehicles finally approached the hotel, the situation intensified. Fans packed the surrounding streets until the hotel entrance was no longer visible. Police formed several layers of protection, guiding the band inside while the crowd continued to chant long after the doors closed behind them.
Inside the hotel, the Rollers reportedly looked out from an upper window in disbelief, watching thousands of people singing together in a single, unified voice. Outside, traffic remained frozen for nearly an hour as the crowd slowly dispersed, laughing, crying, and reliving the moment with anyone who would listen.
For those who witnessed it, the day became a symbol of an era — a snapshot of a city overwhelmed by devotion, energy, and the kind of youthful frenzy that can’t be planned or repeated.
“It wasn’t a concert,” the retired officer said. “It was a movement. One afternoon when Glasgow belonged to them.”