03.13.19
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Skinny Lister and Wood Burning Savages – Leicester O2 Academy – March 9th 2019

It’s exhausting to simply watch Skinny Lister live on stage. Goodness knows what it must be like to actually be in the band. They just don’t stop moving, none more so than singer, Lorna Thomas. Quite how she still has the breath to sing without wilting is anybody’s guess. They’re certainly well practiced in this hard-partying performance lifestyle.

Indeed, this correspondent wonders whilst watching them at Leicester’s O2 on Saturday evening if there’s a band that he’s seen more times over the last five years than Skinny Lister. And if there is he’s not sure who. Be it hungover early afternoon at a festival or later at night at their own headline gig you always know what you’re going to get. This is a frantic, riotous folk, an exhilarating Clash-like head rush, a sharing-caring  united celebration, an opportunity to let your hair down whilst all else turns to shit. 

Ostensibly, Skinny Lister are here to promote their new album, The Story Is. And they take the opportunity to play a fair few of the songs from it. It might have only been out for a few days but the tunes already appear to have worked deep into the heads of the moshing crowd and the more-cautious types who position themselves just outside the throng. There’s no sign of discernible lull here when the band plays new ones. “This is not a drill”, we urgently sing reminding ourselves that life is to be cherished whilst also comprehending the stark situation described within set and album opener, 38 Minutes.

For Lorna (and her brother Max), Leicester is pretty much their homecoming gig. They tell us regulars once again that they remember Saturday lunchtime folk sessions at the old Phoenix (what days they were) – and a Skinny Lister gig in Leicester wouldn’t be what we love without an appearance from Party George, their Dad. He comes on stage during the traditional encore as do the rest of the touring entourage, support acts and shameless liggers, in a finale free-for-all knees-up. Six whiskies is the most exuberant of drunken excess party tunes and it’s hard not to delight in its playing tonight. 

 

I mention the support; we berate ourselves for missing the opener, Trapper Schoepp, but happily arrive just in time for the Wood Burning Savages. From Northern Ireland, they’ve got a neat take on the angry, the political and the human.  They’ve got a retro -rock anthemic sound not dissimilar to The Alarm (though I’m sure they’d baulk at such a comparison). “Put your name on our mailing list and you could become our First Minister“, says their lead singer, clearly as despairing of the state of things in Stormont as most are here about the impending Brexit gloom. 

 

Lorna dances with the punters; she dives into the mosh and crowd-surfs. The flagon of rum gets passed around as is tradition though I’m no longer close enough to the action to take a gulp. John Kanaka, Skinny Lister’s largely acapella call and response number, raises the roof like never before. 

This is a band at their very riotous heights. As they head off overseas with leg one of their UK tour done and dusted, the neatly reworked Scholars bar at the O2 knows it has witnessed a treat. 

03.08.19
by

Tetine, Fake Turins and Voodoo Rays – The Shacklewell Arms – March 7th 2019

My working week in London is nearly done. After a training day tomorrow, I head out to the countryside (well, Peterborough and Leicester) for a weekend break from the constant go. I can’t help myself. This is a city that never sleeps and so I oblige by rarely nodding off. It helps that the bed in this Airbnb is basically an instrument of torture.

 

But I won’t grumble. Instead I’ll just make myself scarce and head off to another free gig. Anywhere else they wouldn’t be free but there’s just too much choice in this town. It’s back to the Shacklewell Arms tonight. I enjoyed my first trip there (reviewed here) and this is a chance to see three more bands. 

I arrive just as Voodoo Rays begin. I don’t want to be ageist – indeed, I’m no spring chicken myself – but it’s fair to say that Voodoo Rays have age on their side. It’s something of a surprise then that life experience doesn’t seem to have given any of these losers insight into gig etiquette. They’re not astonishingly awful though I do find myself hoping that somebody will tell them they’ve over-run when they casually enquire ‘how much time have we got left’. They play ‘new ones’ which seems to be code for ones we’ve not fully rehearsed.

 

What really gets my goat – and swings my mind towards slamming Voodoo Rays – (regular readers of Sonic Breakfast will realise this is a rare occurrence) is their attitude post gig. There mightn’t be space to leave kit anywhere at the Shacklewell but it’s just bloody rude to spread yourself out alongside the wall with a shelf – the only place where punters can rest their beer glasses. The drummer excessively and possessively fiddles with kit like nobody else here matters. He’s oblivious to anybody else around him and by the time that he pretty much knocks my beer out of my hand, swinging the bass drum on his back like a snail on speed, Voodoo Rays music has long since ceased to matter.

Fortunately, things quickly take a turn for the better. There’s six, no make that seven, members of the Fake Turins crammed onto the Shacklewell stage but despite the tight fit they’re all more than aware of their personal space and role in the band. There’s no getting away from the Talking Heads comparisons here. Their lead vocalist takes the mantle of band leader in a manner reminiscent of David Byrne as he conducts the rest of the troupes through their funked-up art jams. Intuitively, they know when to build and when to fade. He takes a David Toop novel out of a jacket pocket and proceeds to read from it; the spoken word of the prose creating an effect not unlike that you’ll get from Bristolian stalwarts, The Blue Aeroplanes. Fake Turins are good and they know it; despite unnecessary interjections from recorder and cowbell, there’s more than enough bass, bongo and backing vocal to stop this from being a dud.

 

Tonight’s headliner, Tetine, are from Sao Paolo though I’m led to believe that they spend a fair bit of time in London these days. The duo of Bruno and Eliete originally present as a pretty traditional synth act with added bass. Full of beat and disco excess, they’re never anything but entertaining. Eliete leaves the keyboard to fend for itself and takes centre stage during Mata Hari voodoo, an early set-highlight that begins in contained control but ends with Eliete as a person possessed, speaking in tongues in squat position.

 

I don’t get to hear what the song title is but over the chorus of a disco-pop banger, the words ‘I was falling in love’ entices a couple in front of me, who are clearly in the first throes, to start dancing energetically. My smile is enduring.

Bruno’s bass is discarded with and Eliete again leaves the Roland running for Tetine’s very own ‘Beastie Boys’ moment. Lick my Favela is a Brazilian reworking of ‘Fight For Your Right’. It’s seedy and performed seductively. It’s only later that this correspondent realises that the Favela is not a body part but a slum area in Brazil. One suspects that there’s a political angle to this art and it’s not just a hedonistic party.

 

London’s given me another top night despite the slow start. I splash through the puddles on the way back to the Airbnb without a care in the world. 

03.07.19
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Suitman Jungle – 26 Leake St – March 6th 2019

I have no idea that the Leake St Arches might provide such a vibrant experience when I head there straight after work. The smell of spray-can paint is thick in the air; the juice of creative sorts rampant. Pop-Ups are popping up before the idea has even hatched out of its incubator; yep, down here underneath Waterloo some fine artistic pursuits are taking place.

I stop for a while and pause, pretty much paying homage, at a drying image of Keith Flint. 

I’m here to go to the bar at 26 Leake Street. In a reclaimed arch space, they’ve taken to scheduling gigs a few nights each week. Look to the ceilings and you’ll see two long rat murals, black and white rodents on a red canvas. It’s a Banksy apparently. It all fits with the surrounds. Bands and acts play at the far end of this cavernous tunnel whilst punters (art school beardsters, fashionistas and adventurous tourists) find space at tables to drink the local craft. It’s not as exclusive as I make it sound. I arrive in my office clothes and feel no snobbishness over my lack of effort.

Perhaps that’s because Suitman Jungle is also in his office clothes. Admittedly much more dapper than mine, Marc Pell (who is the Suitman) sports a nifty fitted-blue suit and tie. His hair, neatly combed to one side, tells tales of a man who’s anonymously sat behind a desk all day. Maybe he’s contributed to an office donation or opened up with a few words at a team meeting. But now is his chance for release as he takes to the 26 Leake St stage. 

And what a release it is. Just him, a minimal drum kit and electronic gadgets, he sets the most almighty drum ‘n’ bass into motion. In pauses between beats, he issues wise spoken word segments. This one is all about his walk to work through the ‘jungle’ of suits; and this one’s all about going up and down in the lift. In a break-heavy piece, he waxes lyrical about all manner of work breaks. 

When not riffing about work, Marc samples the voice of his young niece. You can tell why he’s a popular uncle such is his spirit of fun and mischief. 

It’s an exceptionally urban, essentially London sound that’s being created here. The perils, the opportunities, the frustrations and the joys of living here are laid out for all to see. It might only be a Wednesday night but the crowd at the front show every desire to dance their socks off. 

Suitman Jungle – made for the festival circuit, made in London. 

03.06.19
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Buke and Gase, Naomi Alderman and Polygrains – The Lexington – March 5th 2019

I missed my Monday gig. A friend was meeting the Home Office to talk post-Brexit business and we caught up for a few drinks in Soho. I’m resisting the urge to review the drag Karaoke we ended up at.

AirBNB could have been a disaster this week. I got the dreaded ‘host has cancelled’ message just hours before I should have checked in. Fortunately, another place was available. It’s cheap and functional with a bed that has a mattress in which you can feel the coiled iron springs poke at you after every twist and turn. This creaky bed of nails offers little chance of rest.

So, I choose to stay here for the minimum of hours and source a Tuesday night gig. American duo, Buke and Gase come recommended by a great PR company and endorsed by The National. After a lengthy hiatus, they’ve just returned with new album ‘Scholars’. I have a quick gander whilst multi-tasking at work. There’s enough within to hold my interest. 

“What sort of music is that?’, shouts a punter about a third of the way into their set at the rather ace Lexington venue. 

“Ha, I was thinking that whilst playing”, says Arone, one half of this male/female duo. “It’s an awfully interesting hoedown”, she kind of concludes. 

The punter isn’t alone in feeling the genre confusion; proud not to be pigeonholed, Buke and Gase play around with conventional sound, time signatures and musical practice to come up with something entirely off the spectrum. It’s prog, it’s math-rock, it’s abstact folk and obscure Electronica. It’s Tom Waits if put through a Daffy Duck filter. All told, a very complex, modern racket. 

It perhaps helps the overall artistic pursuit that little of this sound is created on traditional instruments. Indeed, Buke and Gase are the names of instruments designed by Aron and Arone. They might (or might not) have been retired now and given way to an Arx, a ‪device that allows them to trigger percussive sounds, change effects on their instruments, and control vocal harmonies all with the punch of an arcade button. Whatever, the whole effect is otherworldly and yet organic.‬

Before taking to the stage, Arone introduces us to Naomi Alderman, author of many works but here tonight to read extracts from her novel, The Power. It’s an enticing ten minute interlude. As Naomi recites a tale of graphic sexual abuse culminating in heroic justice, Arone layers a vocal swirl over the top. As tension builds in the storytelling so does Arone’s vocal flourish. Many decide to buy the book based upon this introduction. ‬

Polygrains is the support for tonight. ‬Vasilis Moschas is Polygrains. He stands, moustached and unassuming behind his array of beat-making tools. When he sings, his vocal is mostly gentle. He might be singing about very important things but it gets lost amidst the beeps. “I hope you enjoy this as much as I do“, says Vasilis. I’m not sure we do. But, this is electronica not without merit. It would go down well on Sonar’s Red Bull stage where oddness such as this is encouraged.

 

“There’s too much shit going on“, jokes Aron from Buke and Gase early in their set. And that’s a pretty fair insight into how this gig leaves your average punter feeling. I like the art that’s on offer here but might need to spend more time familiarising to truly appreciate. It’s a soundtrack to your most chaotic of dreams.

I sleep well on the well-worn mattress, the coiled springs waking me before the inevitable nightmares. 

 

03.05.19
by

Highasakite – Heaven – February 28th 2019

Norwegians are cool. I formed this sweeping generalisation of an opinion over the last year. Back at Eurovision in Lisbon (here), I met three in particular who just seemed to accept, with little notion of the sniffiness that often attaches itself to your typical British Eurovision outlook, that some of the cheesy electro-pop tunes and glorious ballads on offer are sometimes special. 

 

It might seem like a logical leap to some but the coolness of Norwegians is a thought that I ponder whilst watching Highasakite at Heaven on Thursday night. For this is a show, and I imply no criticism by this, that oozes Eurovision. 

It helps that every song sung by Ingrid and Trond and the rest of their troupe is a douze pointer; whether it’s upbeat banger or stylised ballad, the tunes are allowed to stand out here amongst the highest of production values. 

There’s theatre – I miss the skull and beating heart entrance because I’m in a queue for beer but can’t help approving as contours fizz in a graphic display behind the band. When the light show really gets going and the costume changes hit full flow (the red leather is discarded with) you see the sense in scheduling this slinky swagger of a show at Heaven, this most iconic of clubs nestling in the arches beneath Charing Cross station. 

The first show on Highasakite’s Uranium Heart tour is a triumph; roots tangle, veins do what veins do and the arteries block to point of explosion as the beating heart clogs with uranium. 

‘They sound so much better live than on record’, is the general tone of conversation as we file on out. 

And you have to concede that there’s something in that line of thought. 

In terms of music, I choose the Norway option.. 

 

 

02.28.19
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Getrz, Walt Disco and Cheap Teeth – The Old Blue Last – February 27th 2019

I’m back at the Old Blue Last for the second time this week.London sizzles in unseasonably warm temperatures and the heat in the Airbnb shows little sign of being any less stifling.I’m here for no other reason than my eye was caught by a band name; Walt Disco is a fine name for a band.

They’ve travelled all the way from Glasgow to be with us tonight. Perhaps that explains why they’re not topping the bill but are sandwiched between two others on this ‘Club Sabbath’ night. It’s a long way home.

Imagine it’s the early 1980’s and you’ve bagged a ticket for Top Of The Pops. Jimmy Savile, replete with gold lame jacket and fat cigar ‘accidentally’ fondles a young girl whilst half paying attention to the band he’s just introduced. A singer preens, pouts and warbles in a shin-length, woollen military jacket that temporarily covers his torso before he throws it to the floor. A keyboard player with bleached blonde hair plays notes from strange looking instruments perched perilously on an ironing board that’s seen better days. Harry Potter, not yet made famous by JK Rowling plays bass. This is the post-punk of Walt Disco. It’s got a pompous peacock strut, a strident theatricality and a pop sensibility. Phil Oakey, Ian McCulloch and Edwyn Collins better watch out. Here we have the new contenders. 

To my mind, the obvious derivations don’t matter. Walt Disco might wear their influences close to their chests but this is 2019 and we don’t want our indie to paint pictures of the Arctic Monkeys by numbers. With Walt Disco, you can feel both terrified and terrific; misfits and oddballs, there’s a lot here to like. 

 

Getrz (pronounced Getters apparently) are pretty normal by comparison. They headline tonight to a crowd that has diminished in size. This is a shame; you can see confidence wilting as the set progresses..From Swindon, you suspect that they’re local heroes in their own neck of the woods. But this is London and the crowd are a tad harsher. We’ve seen the gimmicks, the rock poses, the shirtless torsos and the audience forays before. 

“Have any lads out there got trouble with their Mrs?”, asks Getrz’s ginger, squat lead singer before launching into a song, perhaps called ‘Domestics’, that features a shouty chorus of “You’re fucked – and your Mrs. doesn’t like you”. The last bastions of yesterday’s masculinity, you want to like them for their no-nonsense straightness. They’re not far away from finding their own, distinct niche and, when they do, this’ll be a very real possibility. 

 

Openers for the night, Cheap Teeth are competent at what they do. They’ve travelled all the way from Edinburgh to be here. My notes suggest that they’re like a more raucous Franz Ferdinand and that they’ve clearly listened to ‘Peaches’ by the Stranglers. An interesting John Cooper Clarke like spoken word section in one of their tunes helps maintain my flagging interest. 

It’s no doubt hard to be original these days; somewhere, someplace it’s all been done before. And there’s nothing wrong per se with being in debt to your heroes. In different ways, all three acts on tonight’s bill have nailed that worship to a tee. Now, they need to give consideration to who they really want to be. 

02.27.19
by

The Lottery Winners and Depression, Baby – Sebright Arms – February 26th 2019

I’m glad that I went out tonight. Feeling a tad tired after last night’s restlessness (here), I almost did the unthinkable and curled up early. 

But this room is still sauna-like and frankly unpleasant. I’ve discovered the source of the difficulty though. There’s a thermostat in the corridor of this Airbnb and a guest in another room seems to think it a good idea to turn this up to max at every opportunity. I’m now switching it to something sensible whenever I leave the room. There are no compromises here; this is a ‘negotiation’ I will win by sheer bloody-mindedness.

In truth it wasn’t much cooler down in the basement of the Sebright Arms. Another new London venue, these trips out are delicious. The Sebright is a spacious and busy pub; upstairs the piped music is loud as it dwarves any commentary from the football being shown on the big screen. Nobody seems bothered by Bury vs Portsmouth anyway. 

The basement venue for music is functional, dark and sticky. Tonight, I’ll be watching The Lottery Winners. From oop north, I’ve been aware of the name for a while without paying them much attention. Initial pre-gig impressions are strong; two of them, beardy giants both, shake my hand as I enter the room. They’ve got a slightly blurry, fuzzy backdrop pinned to the wall behind the drum kit announcing the band’s name and some flickering old black and white TV sets dotted around for the same purpose. You suspect that The Lottery Winners mean business.

But first it’s the support for the evening, Depression, Baby. An initial sense that they might be trying a bit too hard to be cool gives way to a general feeling that they’re bloody good and that they’ve got fabulous tunes. It’s swathed in the past with bits of rock ‘n’ roll, doo wop and country coming to the fore. But, there are also cinematic sweeps and velvet flourishes that give this a decadence not unlike Father John Misty or The Last Shadow Puppets. They’ve got a fine vocalist, an interesting turn of phrase lyrically and a neat way of harmonising. New single, No Strangers, still has less than 1,000 Spotify plays and the band are keen to bump this. It’s a travesty that more haven’t listened. Give it time and their listens will surely rocket.

 

It’s also something of a travesty that more don’t know about The Lottery Winners. From the off you know that this is going to be a hoot. Larger than life singer, Tom, choreographs a last-minute band entrance to Push The Button by the Sugababes. He’s an effervescent ball of energy for a 20 stone man; always wise-cracking, corrupting and being mischievous, it’s a bit like watching Johnny Vegas front a band. The joking around and tomfoolery never gets tiresome.

That’s partly because The Lottery Winners have the material to back them up as well. Quite why this quartet from Leigh are still playing free London shows when, by rights, they should have hit the jackpot and be charging for the privilege, is anybody’s guess. The loyal fan base here tonight are already aware of their brilliance but they pick up other converts (including me) en-route. 

The offer is a sort of best of British pop; singalong choruses (‘a publisher’s dream’) harking back to Britpop highs, they freely comment on and criticise the state of life for young people today. Recent single ‘That’s Not Entertainment’, channels their anger about reality TV through a saucy-seaside postcard lens and ending up sounding like the Northern spit of Blur circa The Great Escape. 

Long-standing followers urge for The Lottery Winners to eventually release their album. “We thought we’d cut out the middlemen and put it straight into the charity shops”, quips Tim. “I wrote this one about my Mum, it’s called I don’t love you”, he states before playing a heartfelt lovely number. 

Loud Northern bastards they might be but they’re also the complete ticket. They have the tunes, the stagecraft and the girth. By the time that they get all baggy on us and recall what it’s like to be 21 again, the knowing lyrical nods towards the Inspiral Carpets (This is how it feels) feel almost throwaway. But one suspects that this cleverness is no accident. They encourage a crazy dancing chap to join them on stage, their very own Bez in the making. 

The room is less sauna-like when I eventually arrive home yet the sweat from the venue still lingers. I mightn’t have won the lottery but I’m winning my thermostat battle – and seeing great bands in the process. 

 

02.26.19
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Two Day Coma, Sunnbrella and Toothpaste – The Old Blue Last – February 25th 2019

Another Monday and it’s back to London for a week of transient, suitcase living. The AirBNB experience, a fine way to get to know my way around this big city, plonks me in a small flat that has its shortcomings; scruffy around the edges, the main problem is that I’m in a room in which the radiator chucks out a constant, oppressive heat. I open the window to be greeted by the noise of a nearby train-line. I have no option but to leave the window ajar; without doing so the room is a sauna.

Thank goodness for the free London gig scene. There’s no need to be a prisoner so I rush on out and up to The Old Blue Last. It’s been a frantic day of zooming from A to B and I mightn’t be the calmest I’ve ever been on arrival. Still, it doesn’t matter because live music can work its magic.

And I already know of tonight’s headliner, Two Day Coma. They suitably impressed me back at Farmfest in 2017 when I gave them a whole paragraph in my eFestivals review (here).

“We were camped near to Bristolian band, Two Day Coma, and had laughed from the comforts of our tent as we watched them trying to put their tent up in the windy rain (I did offer to help). Whilst this new band might have lacked in camping skills, they definitely didn’t struggle with soul. Up in the acoustic tent on Saturday evening, we relaxed and sat attentively as they produced a set of intense beauty. In lead singer, Tom Harris, they have a vocalist who has the ability to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention. Lyrically, they’ve got gentle phrases that slap you once you realise how loaded with sadness (and happiness) they are. They offer a very modern wistfulness and I’d suggest they might be ones to watch as their career develops.”

I cannot stress how entertaining it was watching Two Day Coma’s camping attempts at Farmfest. But, I’m surprised that my recollection of the band’s stage performance was so vivid; in reality a day of drinking scrumpy had left me barely able to string a sentence together when they played.

Tonight, at the Old Blue Last, I had all my faculties. It’s lovely to see these boys from Bristol make such a success of their first ever London headline set in this fine night promoted by ‘Down The Line’. Before Two Day Coma, there’s a couple of fine supports who are making the right sort of noise. Monday delays are what they are and I miss first support, Toothpaste, but will find time to watch them elsewhere. Sunnbrella play a dreamy and shimmering indie set. They’ve got the tunes and the confidence to warrant further attention. The get better as their set passes and their confidence grows. By the end members of the crowd are dancing. It’s been a triumph. 

 

“It’s great to be here in the nation’s great capital”, says Tom from Two Day Coma before launching into an early set highlight. They have a casual swagger, a laidback cool; it’s skiffle-folk done through a pop-soul filter. It must warm their hearts to see the decently-sized audience mouthing along to their poetry. And there’s no doubt that words are a key element in their armoury. Clever wordplay that twists and turns, their semi-rhyming couplets a joy to the ears in these days when lyrics are typically little more than an afterthought. 

Latest single and set closer tonight, Shudder, is a case in point. The symmetry of the interchangeable eye/I forming the lyrical basis for a fine ‘hamster in a treadmill’ moment. All those gathered tonight know that this has the potential to be a hit. And most leave believing that they’ve caught Two Day Coma early in their journey towards a Top Of The Pops set (if only the programme still existed).

I head back to the heat of the flat in a much calmer state than when I left. Monday’s mightn’t be all bad. 

 
02.21.19
by

LOYAL and Kudu Blue – The Moth Club – Wednesday 20th February 2019

It might only be Wednesday but it feels like a weekend here in Hackney’s Moth Club. The band on stage are ramping up their funky house and my limbs are involuntarily spasming out of control. Yes, I’d love to maintain my cool by standing still with arms folded, maybe just nonchalantly nodding my head in time with the beat. But I’m incapable. This is right up my street. 

LOYAL are the band. Not much is known about them in these quarters aside from the fact that they’re from Brighton. Gigs are sometimes better this way when you have no fixed idea about how a band will sound. 

They start like they’re a deep house Public Service Broadcasting tribute act; but the positive spoken word stuff (Light Up) is barely given time to register before the rest of the band join the lone sampler on stage. Female-fronted singing comes to the fore and for a while it’s like St. Etienne are playing a new track for our delight. 

We’re not far in and after a shuffle of the microphone stands a bearded chap takes to the stage. He’s a smooth soul singer; I might hear that he’s called Shannon but I can’t be sure. Whatever, LOYAL are showing that they’re a collaborative collective. They remind me of somebody.. 

Oh yes, it comes to me in a flash. I genuinely think that over the past twenty years there’s not been many better albums released than those by Bran Van 3000. I adore their collective approach, their crisply produced sound and the way they pass the parcel of vocal responsibility whilst they float between genres. LOYAL are a bit like Bran Van 3000 – this is a massive compliment. 

Before the delights of Loyal, another Brighton-based band, Kudu Blue, warm us up. In the same ilk as LOYAL, this is female-fronted electronic pop, a soulful and jazzy support. There’s moments when I find the singer’s voice a bit too shrill but that’s perhaps because I just want to be soothed tonight. Regardless, there’s enough within this to help you trial your dance moves for the main event.

 

The venue couldn’t be more appropriate. The Moth Club is all glitzy glamour and gold tinsel. A revamped working man’s club you might be forgiven for wondering when the bingo begins. On the far side of the hall, there’s some lovely red-velvet, half-alcove booths that you can perch in should you need a rest. A sign on the wall warns that ‘children must be off the dance floor by 9.30’. I guess it’s ironic.

LOYAL are taking this disco to another level; the words ‘space between us’ repeat as the crowd draw closer together. They’ve got a new tune out tomorrow we’re told and the band’s hopes are realised when the audience seem to like it. Nobody wants LOYAL’s set to end but we have to honour our workplace commitments tomorrow. 

Is it the weekend yet? 

 

 

 

02.20.19
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Sasha Siem – Fitzrovia Chapel – Tuesday February 19th 2019

I very much doubt that I’ll have many experiences in my London adventures quite like tonight. 

A few years ago now I wrote a review of a Sasha Siem album (here). It didn’t generate a great deal of chatter which disappointed me at the time because I thought the record was worthy of a listen – and I thought my writing about it hit the nail on the head in a way that I often don’t.

I tried to see Sasha’s set when I was at the Great Escape that year but got lost and waylaid turning up to only catch the final bars of her set.

And so, it was a bit of a surprise when I received an E-mail from Sasha’s PR person at the start of the year telling me about her new single that was to be imminently released. “We thought you might be interested in this because you’ve featured Sasha before”, suggested the mail. If only more acts that I feature did the same thing, I thought.

Hidden away in that press release was the announcement that Sasha would be playing a secret, intimate ‘family and friends’ show somewhere in London in February. Cheekily, I declared an interest.

This morning I got news that I was on the list for tonight’s show. A twenty minute walk from my office, I jumped at the chance to see Sasha Siem at the Fitzrovia chapel. 

At half seven, the small throng gathered outside was ushered into the grade 2 listed church, once part of the Royal Middlesex hospital but now surrounded by modern, glass-fronted development. A small oasis of calm, this chapel is kitted out to look ‘Italian Gothic’. Actually, only dating from 1929, the effect on entry is still one of ancient serenity.

I spy a small merch desk selling crystals, odours, mists and retreats amidst the more traditional fare of seven inch single and T-shirt. I quickly instruct my chakras to get into shape as I take a seat. There can be no more than 40 here. It really is imitate. 

More recital than gig, the peacefulness of the surround is amplified by a chap playing laidback notes of ambience on a keyboard at the front. It’s like the prelude to a wedding as you wait for a bride. Others clearly spend the time reacquainting with friends and contacts they’ve not seen for ‘a jolly long time’. The poshness is astonishing; I could well have gate-crashed a royal wedding. 

After a short introduction, Sasha is ushered to the front. She appears, looking radiant in a turquoise flowing dress and sits behind the keyboard. Graceful, slender and adopting a pose as far removed from a slouch as is possible, she’s a true, classical beauty. Her long dark hair is preened to perfection; rock ‘n’roll this is not. 

Mostly playing songs from her new album that’s due for release in June, Sasha admits to insecurities and vulnerabilities. She’s never been without a band before on stage and these stripped-back, intimate acoustic arrangements of her songs aren’t something that feel familiar. But this is a friendly crowd and we’re all urging her to succeed. When you shut your eyes and allow yourself to drift you can really get caught up in the combination of voice and keys; a spiritual magic is being spread.

In a break from keyboard action, a ukulele-wielding Sasha asks those with bells placed strategically under their seats to gently ring them during a number in which she saunters up and down the chapel aisle. Her cello gets the briefest of outings; one song from the back catalogue.

Back behind the keys, Sasha talks of enlightened moments when she forgave a betrayal. Motherhood has clearly had an impact on her outlook on life as she tells all about two year old, Dylan,

After a one-song encore, the performance ends. An unforgettable experience in stunning surrounds, it’s hard not to leave with your holy head held wholly high. I stroll back to the tube at Oxford Circus and re-enter the real world.