I very nearly didn’t go out. A tiring day at work and a quick pint on my meander home meant that I had to summon up all sorts of reserve energy to head to the Victoria in Dalston. I can’t underplay how glad I am that I did. This was a night to cherish.
The Victoria will always have a space in my heart. It was here, just a few months ago, that I began this ridiculously rewarding schedule of night-time London gigs. I’ve not been back since but probably should have. The friendly, accessible vibe remains.
I plump for food (an adequate Chicken burger) whilst the first act plays. Unlike at most other gigs, there are no sheets pinned to walls here with set-times on so it’s anybody’s guess who is on. I’ve forgotten to charge my phone so can’t make the brief memory-prompt notes that I’m typically prone to.
I think, though can’t be sure, that the first act I see is Aunt Lucy. A newcomer on the scene judging by comments they make (“I wrote this last week”) they seem well supported by friends and family. It’s disco-sludge (not in a bad way) presented by a person who slithers around the stage in a black bin-bag of a catsuit. The lyrics sound funny; comical tales of everyday partying wrapped up in a cautious charm. Definitely one to watch both tonight and into the new-romantic future.
Memorials of Distinction are the promoters of tonight’s show. I’m pretty sure I’ve not been to one of their gigs before but, way before the evening ends, I make a note to check out more. They’ve evidently got an eye for the theatrical; each of tonight’s act know the value of performance and have thought about their stagecraft. This feels like an emerging scene of arty glamour and I want in.
And that promoter ethos more than holds true for Vanity Fairy, the sub headliner. I’m captivated from the off and can barely remove my gaze. Dressed in vintage white fairy robes, she’s a full-size version of the thing that fantasists might find at the bottom of their gardens. An exquisite crocheted bonnet plays host to knitted fruit; the gown ebbs and flows as Vanity poses around the stage. It’s all done with backing tape which is fine but you also wonder how epic this could be with fully-choreographed band. Vocally, there’s more than a dash of Kate Bush involved; presence wise, it’s Madonna when she was good. More than anything, this porcelain doll, face painted white with rosy cheeks, stays on the right side of artistic fun. And I love it.
The headliner, Crying High, is from Toronto. I get early sense that this might be equally theatrical to what’s gone before when, from a merch desk at the back of the hall, two loud girls encourage adoption of the ‘free’ merch on offer. There are cardboard face-masks of Crying High (who is one person) with elasticated cord attached; we’re encouraged to wear these on the back of our heads. I take one along with a tiny comic book and a postcard.
Crying High comes to the stage with an electric guitar wrapped across his shoulders. He proceeds to play a sad country tune of longing that’s interspersed with a whistled chorus. The voice, strong and powerful, is a bit Hawksley Workman (God, how I loved his live show). This isn’t the slowed-down disco the PR promised but it’s entertaining all the same.
“I’ll do a slow one, then a fast one, then a slow one and then…” – we get the pattern and Crying High is good to his word. The more upbeat numbers are programmed into a synth that runs riot. Crying High holds two mics for maximum vocal effect. He throws his all into it; angular, strutting postures whilst the now-modest crowd looks on in appreciation.
I’m aware of photographers taking pictures of the mask that’s fixed to the back of my head. We’ve all got them on. The final images must be strange; an act watching an act perform. I love this detail. I have loved this night. More, more, more of the same please.