Everyone Says Hi

The Lexington

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Playing it safe at The Lexington

Everyone Says Hi; great name for a band, and it fits. There’s a broad appeal baked right in, and the room at The Lexington proves it: a mix of everyone and everything, all their noggins noddin’.

ESH wander on from stage left, right on cue, to a spaghetti-western intro. We want to say The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, but we were too busy being disgusted by an overly sweet 2.5% grapefruit beer to be entirely sure. Regardless, the drummer, and, incidentally, ourselves, were in full western regalia. Pure happenstance, not planner-stance (is that a word? PATENT PENDING!). Glenn Moule, formerly of Howling Bells, even gave us a sideways look when we peeled off a layer at the bar to reveal our vintage Japanese rockabilly number. Before bending the elbow. Eat your heart out.

Back at the stage, the set opens with ‘Somebody Somewhere’, a track begging to soundtrack a Sofia Coppola number. “Imagine your worst day got a little bit worse,” floats over the crowd, sung back by everyone except us; we didn’t know the words, but the sentiment landed. A little too well, maybe.

‘Lucky Star’ follows, and by then they’ve fully slipped into their groove, hardly surprising considering each member’s been in the spotlight once or twice before. The sound is clean, confident. A warm hum spills from mic to speaker to crowd.

The room is into it. Not much pandering, but plenty of new material on the menu. The jokes? Not a ten. The laughs? Generous.

By ‘Communication’, Nick Hodgson’s given up the fight with his suit jacket. He thought he could tough it out; he couldn’t. A besweated frontman reneged. The kick-drum-and-bass pairing, though, was glorious; a thump-thump-thump that punched through bodies straight to the back wall. “A miracle is happening but nobody noticed,” Nick sings; the crowd at least got the gist.

But around ‘Holding On To Let Go’, the set sags into a predictable lull. Our attention drifts. Eyes wander to rhythm guitarist Tom Dawson, who’s pinned the hem of his trousers so they don’t skim the stage grime. The vibes land somewhere between “should I start paying for dry-cleaning?” and “should I move out of my parents’ basement?”

And then, just like that, ‘Just Like That’. A new one, strong out the gate, splashed in ‘80s keys and easily the least formulaic thing they play. It snaps us back. Another new track follows, ‘Don’t Underestimate Yourself’, written for Nick’s daughter. Sweet, sure. Also a bit on the nose. Our attention falters again, and we make for the exit.

Not easy, mind. The place is properly packed, a great sign for them. And honestly, it’s all very easy to dip into. But to hang onto? That’s another story. It’s pleasant, polished, entirely inoffensive, like stumbling on a skilled busker: they catch your ear for a moment, then disappear into the night as quickly as they arrived. There's absolutely a place for it. And the crowd clearly loves them.

We, however, spent the last few songs thinking about the commute home.

Ist Ist

229

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

When the Floor Turns Red and the Lights Turn Blue

Once again, we find ourselves at 229’s tall stage and tall ceilings a few minutes before the headliner; cloudy cider in hand, hooked on the stuff since childhood, don’t judge. It’s rained all the way here but, soon enough, Ist Ist would reign supreme within these waterlogged walls. A thundering crash snaps our ears to attention, vibrations rising through our soles, instinct tugging us from phone screen to drum kit. Except… the stage is still empty.

Bukowski once said, “it began as a mistake.” He was talking about a dead-end post-office job, but tonight someone’s miscalculated blood sugar and collapsed directly behind us. The scene unfolds like the opera moment in The Talented Mr. Ripley; a fan of red-red-groovy spreading across the floor beneath what used to be the straight line of the man’s nose. We duck down, take a pulse, find a beat, roll him into the recovery position, and snag a chair as he blinks back into consciousness. A crowd forms; once he’s upright, we split. One of the most intense starts to a gig in recent memory, but it wouldn’t do Ist Ist any justice to let that overshadow the music.

Ironically, a few moments later they launch straight into ‘I Am The Fear’. You truly can’t make this shit up. There’s a strong NIN influence lurking in the machinery, but Adam Houghton’s baritone is pure Interpol. They follow with ‘Something Else’ off Light A Bigger Fire. The vocals remain clean and commanding throughout, but the instruments feel a bit anaemic, whether that’s the venue, the mix, or intentional minimalism is anyone’s guess. When Houghton sings “let’s go home and wait out the storm” it feels painfully accurate for this soaked-through London night. Unpredictable beats meet controlled monotone, like walking in slow-motion while the background runs on double-speed.

Having caught this lot a few years back at Omeara, the only real change is that the fog isn’t from a machine this time, it’s from Adam’s vape pen, and much more subdued. The die-hards remain, though: lyrics shouted back, fists punching the air, and, just like last time, everyone hitting the merch table and immediately changing into their freshly bought shirts. The band themselves have evolved aesthetically from Casual Friday to full black-leather jacketed graduation: Chelsea boots, Ray-Bans, the works. A sharper silhouette for a sharper band.

About halfway in, we get a new one: ‘I Remember Everything’, a preview from their February release. It slots neatly into their formula; brooding, industrial-tinged, tightly wound.

You cannot accuse Ist Ist of slacking. Their fifth self-released album is as technically solid as anything they’ve done. They’ve hit gold with a formula and stuck to it, but hard work and consistent output aren’t always the recipe for evolution. In 1874, as photography took off for its speed and accuracy, painters found themselves at a crossroads: keep competing with the camera, or peel off the shackles of realism and try something wilder. The Impressionists chose the latter. We’re not saying Ist Ist should go full Yoko, but a bit of Radiohead-on-OK-Computer ambition wouldn’t hurt. Let the freak flag flutter at least.

They close (for us, and quite a few others slinking out before the gig finishes) with ‘Emily’, a track we’ve had on heavy rotation since the Live album. The bass roll around the three-minute mark, right as “Emily, we’re sick of crying over you” comes in, lands with the same gut-pull as ever, and provides the perfect moment to make our exit. Clearly we weren’t alone; people filtered out like the end of a food challenge where the taste buds finally give up around burger thirteen. Great catalogue, but a one-hour-plus set with little variation started to wear us down.

On the way out we spot our type-2 casualty (what a trooper!) plugging his nose with tissues, rocking his head back and forth gently in his chair; hopefully to the beat, not drifting between this realm and the next. Ist Ist are touring next month. You should check ’em out. But maybe do a first-aid course before you do.

His Lordship

229

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Three Men, Ten Tons of Noise (Suck it Sheffield, we cheer louder!)

Who knew you could disappear into the dimly lit belly of an affluent paediatric hospital on a Friday night and not end up escorted out by security and thrown on some list? Yet just off Great Portland Street station, down a staircase that feels like an exclusive “earlobe-tug-and-nod” members’ club, sits venue 229; a bunker with attitude. And tonight, it’s heaving.

Warming the room is Gary The Tall, dropping a two-hour cocktail of northern soul, deep-cut garage, and current tracks that sound like deep cuts (the Alla-Las moment went down very smoothly). Compliment the man on his taste and he’ll flirt back at you with amorous appendages but, honestly, you can’t fault the set. The crowd is a glorious collision: early punks, denim with a crease in it, biker lifers, and mums in sparkling silver trainers who told their partners they were “just nipping out.” A perfect prelude to something rowdy.

Gary signs off with a distorted blast of ‘Assembly of the Buglers’ bleeding into a warped snippet of ‘God Save the Queen’. An anthem in meltdown. A warning shot across the bow. The room shifts: His Lordship are coming.

A Big-City Detonation. If you mixed the sleaze-strut of Eagles of Death Metal, the blues punch of early Black Keys, and bottled the lightning from a Roadhouse bar fight, you’d only approximate His Lordship. They arrive like they’ve been plugged into the national grid. ‘I Live in the City’ fires the starting pistol, a full-tilt opener delivered at near-illegal tempo. The energy isn’t at 11; it’s snapped the dial clean off. Drugs do them for kicks, not the other way around.

On guitar and vocals, James Walbourne (The Pretenders / Pogues alum) is a study in commitment: buckets of sweat but the Western jacket stays on. A slave to fashion, a slave to rhythm, and a menace with a six-string. Beside him touring bassist, Dave Page, holds down bass duties with quiet authority; the unflappable third pillar in this touring trio. And then there’s Kristoffer Sonne: a drummer who looks like The Descendents’ cartoon mascot Milo grew up, stole a kit, and started drinking double espressos. His glasses fog, the spotlights halo him like a rock’n’roll poltergeist, and by midway through the set he’s paddling an invisible canoe across the stage to a speaker cabinet before mounting and fellating the microphone. Having toured with Elton John and Willie Nelson, he’s clearly no stranger to flamboyance or smoke. He drums like he’s possessed by something. The three of them make the noise of ten.

Rock’n’Roll Frenzy. The set barrels forward: raucous, relentless, and joyfully unhinged. At one point, a disabled gent near us pauses from tapping at his betting up as he absolutely begins to shake with joy and excitement so hard that he nearly bounces out of his chair, filming absolutely nothing with his iPhone and having the time of his life. Remember to buckle up big fella! Hard to watch the gig when pure bliss is happening right beside you, but it only adds to the night’s electricity.

Then the chaos narrows. The lights lower. Walbourne steps forward, voice softening: “This one’s for a friend who taught us some bad things… but he taught us a lot more about good things.”

He eases into ‘Gin and Fog’, the song he wrote in tribute to the late Shane MacGowan; a hush settling over 229 as it unfurls. For the final bars, Walbourne leans gently against the kick drum, as if anchoring himself to the pulse of the friend he’s remembering. It’s tender, raw, and easily the emotional spine of the evening.

A beautiful goodbye and then, like any good wake, the room snaps back into motion.

A ripping cover of ‘The Way I Walk’ lands with swagger, grit, and absolute precision. Fucking love The Cramps and they nailed it.

Closing Fire.

The only downside?

Just one encore.

The upside?
It’s a scorcher — the crowd howling back the immortal line: “My girl is red hot — your girl ain’t doodly squat!”

Chuck Berry meets Marty McFly at the Enchantment Under the Sea dance, but wired, wilder, and significantly louder.

One of the best gigs we’ve reviewed all year.

Three men. Ten tons of noise.

And if you didn’t think it was red hot… you, my friend, don’t know doodly squat.

Hugh Cornwell

The Islington Town Assembly Hall

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Nosferatu in Islington: Hugh Cornwell’s Twilight Performance

The days are shorter and darker, the air is damp from a fresh downpour, and London feels a little more greasy than usual, as though someone’s rubbed petroleum jelly across our eyelids. We stomp into the Islington Assembly Hall, trying to shake off the cold and the drizzle, as if we’re expecting something warm, familiar and possibly dangerous. Not far from his old haunt of Kentish Town, the turf that shaped him long before fame, prison time and legendary-status set in; it’s strange to see Hugh framed by “no crowd-surfing” and “no flash or video photography” signs. A far cry from the renegade who once caught an eight-week prison stint in the ’80s after being nabbed with a cornucopia of party drugs stuffed into various pockets.

Cornwell, dressed in all black, feels at once spectral and authoritative. Smoke curls around the stage like an old-fashioned horror movie, and he opens with the intro to ‘Nosferatu’, followed by ‘Losers in Lost Land’, a slow, Lynchian odyssey. It’s puzzling, yes, but also undeniably compelling. Then comes a surprising cover of Cream’s ‘White Room’, which feels like a curveball thrown to remind the audience: he’s not just a composer, he’s into covers too.

From there, the set stiffens. On ‘Irate Caterpillar’, Cornwell and his band lean into something raw, gritty; there’s a touch of avant-garde chaos, not unlike the adventurousness of other modern post-punk acts. His guitar work is jagged, unruly, like a blade sawed through sheet metal. Synths swirl in, adding depth, but also a distancing effect, creating a spiral of sound that feels more studied than spontaneous.

Midway through, you realise something: this isn’t the boisterous, sweaty punk spectacle you might have imagined from his Stranglers heyday. There’s a crispness, a precision, and an odd restraint as his hand visibly trembles hovering above the strings. The backing tracks (for synths, additional guitar) raise the question: are we watching Cornwell’s true “band,” or a pared-down session trio backed by pre-recorded layers? For a £40+ ticket, you might expect more flesh-bone-and-blood chaos.

Visually, the show is similarly odd. On either side of the stage, marionettes are drawn up and hang against a loose white backdrop featuring a horned devil projected in strange dimensions, a gimmick that leans more theatrical than rock ’n’ roll. The bassist swaps hats, his third of the evening. For one song, he's in a bowler. Later, perhaps stuck in this monochrome, militaristic world flat cap, the band takes a break; only six songs in. Intermission hits early, and ‘Succubus’ hums quietly in the background to fill the void.

It’s during that drum break that you sense a lull: the crowd is polite but subdued. Up in the balcony, there’s room to move, to breathe. The spectacle loses a little steam. It’s not that Cornwell is bad, far from it, but the electricity feels dialed down.

When the show resumes, Cornwell tunes by ear, a rare and welcome vulnerability. He introduces ‘Dead Loss Angeles’ from The Raven (as confirmed on setlist-recordings of the night). When he launches into it, the audience, especially the die-hard fans, lights up. It’s a moment of genuine connection, the kind that reminds you why people came.

According to the announced bill, the show was billed as Nosferatu in full, plus Stranglers classics and solo staples, but by the time we’ve left (around halfway through the second half), things felt… a little tame. Both onstage and off, the energy was locked into a routine. Rather than an unpredictable gig, it felt like a meticulously delivered sermon, collection plate in hand yet respectful, lacking that edge of risk.

Hugh Cornwell is undeniably a legend, and seeing him still command a stage is worth it. But this particular night in Islington felt more like a nostalgic pilgrimage than a riot. The performance was polished, thoughtful, and at times haunting, but it didn’t quite catch fire. For fans who want reflection more than rebellion, it was a treat. For those dreaming of the strident, dangerous Cornwell of old, you might have walked away wanting more.