The Lovely Eggs
By Captain Stavros
I’d like you to close your eyes and envision the word underbelly. Not a particularly palatable word, is it? Hold that thought, or better yet, feeling of repulsion and come with me on a journey below Charing Cross station. Let your mind drift along the sloping gutters that dump their sewage into the Thames. What’s that frothy scum floating atop that grey-water towards the proverbial underbelly otherwise known as Heaven, you may be asking yourself? Why it’s none other than The Lovely Eggs! If you’re unfamiliar with TLE, they’re a swear-y, thump-y, psychedelic two-piece from Lancaster, England, that formed in the mid 2000s (the height of indie sleaze). By some Frankenstein-esque miracle, they’re still alive and kicking today, and have even collaborated with the likes of the great Iggy Pop. Their latest release ‘I-Moron’ came out the same day as their London gig, and I had the unfortunate displeasure to come along for the skin crawling ride. In the 15+ years since forming, recording and touring the US, UK and EU, I feasted my eyes on what the remains of a deconstructed corpse only the ravages of time could have brought to fruition or, in this case, (near) complete rot.
With most of the tracks in The Lovely Eggs repertoire culminating at or around the three-minute mark, I find myself wondering how at present, about 30 minutes in, we’re only at song three? The thought doesn’t last long because it’s knocked out of the back of the head by a Poundland football. I guess you can take the band and audience out of Lancaster but you can’t take Lancaster out of the audience and band. Peroxided Holly Ross clad in a pink dress, yellow tights, and brown alligator loafers adjacent partner David (an off the shelf Joey Ramone lookalike with freshly dyed mop) Blackwell hung on to the stage like a drunk hangs off a bar, far longer than necessary. The goddamned gig was a cider-soaked monologue, full of clever quips and anecdotes, indulgent you say? Don’t mind if I do. We were regaled with what their kid had for tea that day, it lasted 5+ minutes. Or how checking out early from your hotel can help you beat a congestion charge. Or other classics like, “hey, are you drunk yet? How much have you had to drink? The bar’s closed now? Why is the bar closed? I’m going to take my phone out and call the venue! It’s ringing!” The only thing ringing for me was the sound of a bell calling a TKO, I left the gig. That’s not to say you should too, or even avoid going to see this diluted-duo!
Most of the audience was in their late 40s to mid 50s (I’m not an ageist, I’m old too but these lot looked closer to being in their 60s). I’ve never actually heard a couple next to me complain that their neck would ache from having to lean against and look up at an elevated stage for the duration of a performance. The clueless husk next to me in a flak jacket kept yelling ‘TURN THE GUITAR UP’ and answering every fucking rhetorical question fielded at the audience at full blast. The cherry on the Sunday was when Holly picked out the most pickled group and beckoned them to the front of the stage. Next to me. I was repeatedly accosted and groped by the three sloppily drunk women as they spilt their drinks all over themselves and me. If this sounds like you or someone you know, get yourself to a Lovely Eggs show near you, you’ll have a blast!
Don’t get me wrong there were some redeeming factors. Leaving early meant I beat the ‘crowd’. Also, it was pouring rain outside when I left which washed off the drinks spilt on me. There was also a great pre-gig playlist with hard worn classics like, Flaming Lips’ ‘Tangerine’ and Bikini Kills’ ‘Carnival’, and a great animated backdrop full of stop motion shorts paired with the performance. Hell, even TLE sound was excellent but nothing would be enough to have me swallow another century egg personally.