Exploding Flowers

The Waiting Room

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

The Wallflowers Are Ready To Bloom

The LA guitar-pop veterans bring three albums worth of jangling history — and a glimpse of what comes next — to The Waiting Room.

There are worse things than playing to a disappointingly small room. For Exploding Flowers, the consolation is that The Waiting Room feels almost perfectly suited to their particular brand of guitar-pop: intimate, unflashy and just a little bit tucked away from the main event.

And if the turnout is the first thing to disappoint, it’s also pretty much where the disappointment ends.

The Los Angeles quartet arrive sounding impressively rehearsed and, more importantly, optimistic. This is music built on the belief that a good guitar line, a proper rhythm section and a melody worth remembering remain perfectly adequate reasons to start a band. In 2026, that almost feels radical.

The set reaches back to their self-titled 2011 debut with ‘Capturing The New Frontier’, dips into 2020’s Stumbling Blocks with ‘A Daunting Thought’, then spends considerable time mining last year’s Watermelon/Peacock: ‘All In Stride’, ‘A Colour Box’, ‘The Grass Grows On’, ‘Beneath Our Feet’, ‘Life On A Timeline’, ‘Across A Sea’ and ‘Build A Bridge’ all get their moment.

For anyone already inside the Exploding Flowers universe, it’s a gratifying reminder of just how coherent that catalogue has become. For newcomers, it’s a pretty good argument for going back and doing your homework.

The oddest thing about watching them live is just how contemporary they sound without seemingly making any attempt to sound contemporary. Close your eyes and the effect is immediate: chiming guitars, subtle keyboards, a locked-in rhythm section and melodies that seem to arrive fully formed. Open them again and there’s a strange disconnect. In a musical landscape increasingly obsessed with blacked-out aesthetics, maximalist noise and looking like you've just escaped from a distressed denim factory, Exploding Flowers are dressed like a band who have accidentally wandered in from another decade.

But listen to the music and they’re arguably ahead of the curve. The newer material — including ‘The Middle Way’, ‘Space In Between’ and the recently released ‘Spinning Carousel’ — sits comfortably alongside the older songs, suggesting that the forthcoming fourth album isn't going to represent some dramatic left turn. Instead, Exploding Flowers appear to be refining a language they've been speaking for years.

There are no great surprises in the set, but there are no spoilers either. The band move through the songs with the rhythm and confidence of a particularly good house band, never overplaying their hand. It’s an entirely pleasant experience — perhaps too pleasant at times.

Because here's the nagging question: what makes Exploding Flowers stick out from the crowd?

They have the craft. They have the history. They have the influences — Big Star, The Soft Boys, Paisley Underground, Flying Nun — without sounding like a tribute act. And Watermelon/Peacock demonstrated that the songwriting can be genuinely gorgeous.

What they could use, perhaps, are a few more hooks capable of kicking the door down.

For now, Exploding Flowers remain the wallflowers of guitar-pop: quietly excellent, slightly overlooked and seemingly unconcerned by either fact. But with a fourth album on the way, perhaps it's time people started looking over. For now, they remain a quietly compelling band: familiar enough to feel like an old friend, strange enough to make you want to listen again. Pleasant? Absolutely. Entertaining? Certainly. But perhaps it’s time these Flowers grow outside their comfort zone.

Fink

Rough Trade East

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Wishing For Bluer Skies: Fink Bring Warmth to a Rain-Soaked Rough Trade East

London had spent the day dressed in every shade of grey imaginable. Rain, drizzle, more rain. The sort of weather that makes you question leaving the house at all. Thankfully, Fink had arrived at Rough Trade East armed with a remedy.

The album launch show wasn't some grand spectacle. No dazzling production, no dramatic reveals. Just three musicians seated on stage with acoustic instruments and a room willing to meet them halfway.

The trio eased into opener ‘Wishing For Blue Sky’ and immediately settled the room into their pace. A palpable warmth radiated from the stage. The acoustic bass — a rarity these days and a charming sight in itself — provided a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to travel through the floorboards and into the audience. Whether intentional or not, its low-end hum became one of the afternoon's defining features.

Outside, East London looked determined to drown beneath leaden clouds. Inside, ‘Wishing For Blue Sky’ felt like a small act of resistance.

The relaxed atmosphere wasn't accidental. Introducing the material, Fin Greenall admitted, "It's only the second time we've played any of these songs." There was no attempt to hide the rough edges. With no guitar tech waiting in the wings, tuning breaks became part of the performance. "We're not going to regale you with anecdotes," he joked, "talk amongst yourselves." The audience laughed, though few seemed interested in talking. They were too busy listening.

A twelve-string guitar took centre stage during ‘Memorise Your Senses’, its finger-picked patterns dancing over that ever-present bass. The sound was rich without becoming cluttered, each instrument occupying its own pocket while still contributing to a remarkably full acoustic arrangement.

What stood out most wasn't technical prowess, though there was plenty of that on display, it was the ease between the players. They carried themselves less like seasoned veterans launching a new record and more like friends playing together in the corner of a pub on a dark winter evening. Drinks sat nearby. Heads nodded throughout the crowd. Even the musicians seemed unable to keep still, their feet bouncing in exaggerated rhythms beneath their stools like a Looney Tunes character thumping the ground after receiving an unexpectedly enthusiastic kiss.

By ‘I Buried All The Answers’, much of the audience had their eyes closed, allowing the music to wash over them. There was little need for visual spectacle when the songs themselves held the room so completely.

After four new tracks, Greenall announced, “This'll be the last one from the new tunes and then we'll do a couple from the old set”. ‘Two Magpies’ brought the debut run of new material to a close and showcased the understated confidence running throughout the afternoon. The newer songs sounded strong when stripped back to their essentials, their melodies and textures carrying the weight without any need for embellishment.

Meanwhile, Rough Trade's famously informal atmosphere continued to produce its own side stories. At one point, a small child appeared to have wandered backstage and into the photo pit, armed with a plush toy and a sippy cup, coughing cheerfully at my feet as though this was the most natural place in the world to spend a Saturday afternoon. Nobody seemed particularly concerned. Least of all the band.

When the familiar opening notes of ‘Not Everything Was Better in The Past’ arrived, the audience responded with appreciative whoops. The title itself felt oddly fitting for an album launch show — a reminder that nostalgia only gets you so far and that there is still value in looking forward.

The afternoon closed with ‘Looking Too Closely’, delivered in a mellower arrangement that traded some of the studio version’s tension for reflection. It proved the perfect ending for a performance built on intimacy rather than spectacle, sending the crowd back out into the East London drizzle with heads still nodding and melodies still lingering.

This wasn't the kind of performance that leaves a venue buzzing with adrenaline. It wasn't trying to be. Instead, Fink delivered something rarer: an hour of warmth on a cold, wet London day, played by musicians comfortable enough in both their songs and their company to let the music do the talking.

Sometimes that's more than enough.

Eel Men

The Social

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Sweat, Smog and Sharp Hooks: Eel Men Electrify The Social 

It’s the first properly sleeveless evening of the year — aided, in part, by the thick fug of central London hanging over Little Portland Street like a nicotine-stained duvet. Outside The Social, clusters of smokers and lager-sweating punters blur together in the heat, tongues wagging as loudly as the traffic. Before long, drinks are downed, cigarettes stubbed, and the crowd is funneled downstairs into the venue’s low-ceilinged concrete bunker to witness Eel Men launch their latest release.

We snag a booth right at the lip of the stage — where sticky wood meets chipped concrete — and clock a crescent-shaped chunk missing from the corner of the table. Less wear-and-tear, more bite mark. You wonder what kind of night caused that. Perched awkwardly sideways and narrowly avoiding the swinging headstock of Snub’s bassist every few minutes, it already feels less like a gig and more like surviving inside one.

On what was then the hottest day of the year, Eel Men emerge dressed like office workers caught in the wrong dimension: shirts, ties, jumpers, jackets — everyone wilting except the drummer, the only member with the common sense to wear a T-shirt. The music, though, is gloriously unbothered by climate or comfort. Gritty, stripped-back and claustrophobically textured, the band tear into ‘Bad Eggs’ from 2025 EP, Stop It! Do Something, with enough twitchy energy to knock the room sideways.

Then comes ‘Archetype’ — track three and already the point where the oxygen fully disappears. Ghostly psychedelic riffs slink down the fretboard like a stray pressed against a darkened alley wall while the crowd relentlessly surges forward. Bodies compress. Pints spill. Suddenly the venue’s single entrance/exit feels like deeply irresponsible architecture. Nobody cares. If the place catches fire from the smouldering tunes, so be it, at least the soundtrack will be phenomenal.

What’s remarkable is just how clean everything sounds despite the room feeling vacuum-sealed. Every bassline lands with a satisfying thud, every jagged guitar line cuts through the sweat haze. On ‘Motives’, frontman Jimmy Elliot delivers the line “would you kiss your mother with that mouth?” before smooching the hot mic with even hotter results.

Special guest Steph Anderson — multi-instrumentalist extraordinaire whose CV already reads like a mini-festival lineup (Yassassin, Findlay and countless others) — joins the band for ‘Glass Hammers’, adding shimmering synth textures via a tiny Korg perched stage-right. From there on, the set barely pauses for breath. Songs collapse seamlessly into one another with almost no between-track chatter; just relentless momentum and heads whipping from stage-left to stage-right trying not to miss a second.

New track ‘Autobahn Eyes’ lands like it’s already a fan favourite, signalling the final act of the set as the room descends into full-body heatstroke delirium. By now jackets and ties have been discarded onto the stage floor, the band visibly pushing themselves to the limit while never losing control of the set’s razor-wire precision. Steph Anderson, meanwhile, remains somehow immaculate throughout — silver trousers gleaming under the lights while delivering a standout performance on ‘Sore Eyes’, where even the tambourine parts demand your full attention. Not many people can make a tambourine feel like a headline instrument. She manages it effortlessly.

‘Pink Ones’ arrives with a bassline filthy enough to rattle fillings loose, while ‘Beschemel’ proves the night’s most unhinged moment: frantic, fast and impossible not to move to. An absolute slammer.

The set closes with a razor-tight double encore and the kind of applause that feels less polite than necessary. Looking around the room afterwards, there are familiar faces everywhere — Voices Radio’s Babe El Oued, Billy and Jackson formerly of Loose Tongues now dipping in and out of various projects, plus other musicians and scene regulars all exchanging the same knowing nods. The sort of crowd that tells you this band’s reputation has already spread long before the algorithms catch up.

Those in the know clearly already know.

Now you do too.

Eel Men are touring across Europe through the end of June following their album release. Miss them at your own peril.

Monday Night Meltdown

The Grace

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Dork Magazine x Footsteps x M for Montreal x Mothland bring the heat

There are countless theories about spontaneous combustion and, as a child, I was deeply invested in every single one. Scientifically speaking, it’s what happens when heat can’t escape anymore; pressure builds, matter ruptures, something ignites. Oily rags. Friction. Damp organic material packed too tightly together. A room with no ventilation and too many bodies moving at once.

Sounds a bit like any gig worth its salt, really.

Monday night at The Grace had all the right conditions. M for Montreal x Footsteps x Mothland x Dork Magazine — essentially the cultural equivalent of throwing aerosol cans into a microwave — somehow still had enough fuel left after The Great Escape for one last detonation.

And ignite they absolutely did.

Mothland once again left the back door open for us and we slunk our way inside just as Boutique Feelings had started spilling onto the stage. A six-piece from Montreal crammed onto a platform built for maybe four people maximum, already threatening structural integrity before the first chorus properly landed.

We’d caught them the day before at The Old Blue Last, so we knew broadly what was coming. That still didn’t prepare us.

Karim Lakhdar moves with the same twitchy conviction as a young Zack de la Rocha — all kinetic urgency and barely-contained fury — but without feeling derivative for a second. Between cuts like ‘Long Sure’ and ‘If You Were Me’, the band swing violently between wiry post-punk, freeform jazz eruptions and politically-charged art rock. Before the second track properly kicks in, Lakhdar deadpans: “We don’t think it’s normal to scroll past a kitten, a war and a plate of pasta in less than a minute,” which earns the kind of uncomfortable laugh that only lands because everyone knows he’s right.

Lines like, “It’s when they start to take it all that you begin to fucking care,” hit especially hard against the backdrop of the current global mess. You don’t really watch Boutique Feelings so much as get swept into their frequency whether you intended to or not.

Flautist Vanessa Ascher, shoulder-to-shoulder with Lakhdar throughout, weaponises her instrument entirely. At points it sounds less like a flute and more like suppressive fire aimed directly at the patriarchy.

Then, suddenly, it’s over. The set closes with a surprisingly gentle, “Come chat with us by the merch table,” as though the previous forty minutes hadn’t felt like being trapped inside a politically conscious pressure cooker. We lean against the wall trying to catch our breath.

Needing a moment to cool off, we find a nook near the decks where a familiar face is soundtracking the downtime with Gary Numan’s ‘Cars’. Track after track, banger after banger, the room somehow keeps moving between sets instead of collapsing in on itself.

Only later, while scrolling through tagged photos after the gig, do we realise the DJ was none other than Nuha Ruby Ra, who we’d caught tearing apart The MOTH not too long ago. Had we clocked it at the time we probably would’ve gone completely tongue-tied, but instead she was warm, approachable and effortlessly cool in the way genuinely talented people often are. Given the moves she’s making over the next few months, it’s safe to say she’s one to keep both eyes on.

Then came Annie-Claude Deschênes.

Helping launch Quebec Spring’s M for Montreal clearly wasn’t enough excitement for one lifetime because she emerged onto stage like Leatherface armed not with a chainsaw but a microphone, immediately holding the entire room hostage. Backed by Boutique Feelings drummer Anthony Piazza — operating a cycloptic wrist-mounted spotlight camera that projected warped live footage behind them like some cursed voyeuristic surveillance reel — the whole set felt genuinely nightmarish in the best possible way.

Tracks like ‘Menace Minimale’ and ‘Les Manières De Table’ slithered around the venue with this grotesque electro-punk swagger; all chrome, sweat and predatory tension. It dripped from the ceiling like condensation in a slaughterhouse.

Another absurdly strong set.

Later in the evening we caught Annie outside the venue and, much like earlier encounters throughout the night, she was disarmingly easy to talk to. In the space of five minutes we somehow ended up discussing everything from being managed by Desire, to getting approached by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs for touring — influences you can absolutely trace through both her sound and stage presence. We passed along a cryptic message to a mutual acquaintance back in Montreal, both immediately cackling like cartoon villains before disappearing back into the night.

Tiny world.

Time folds strangely at gigs like this, but somewhere in the blur we spot the long, slender silhouette of Ellis-D standing beneath the glow of a running-man exit sign. We gush a bit about the set we’d caught at 100 Club and the mythical aura surrounding it. Demure as ever, he brushes it off with a shy, “Oh gosh, that feels so long ago.”

Naturally, all that humility evaporates the second he hits the stage.

Ellis-D spends most of the set climbing over PAs, launching himself into the crowd and generally treating personal safety as an optional extra. By the time closer ‘Drifter’ stretches into its sprawling finale, the room feels one bassline away from total collapse.

And then Lemonsuckr arrive to finish the job.

A completely new band to us, though judging by the amount of merch already in the crowd, absolutely not to anyone else there.

Dressed like sleazy sixth-formers from some lost 1982 public access broadcast — leather jackets, shirts, ties, already drenched in sweat before the first song properly lands — they treat the stage less like a performance space and more like a vague suggestion. Cables whip through the audience. Microphones migrate into impossible places. People get tangled together like human extension leads.

It’s total chaos.

An intensely British, deeply unwell version of Kraftwerk.

By the time they tear through ‘Dead Disco’, ‘Instant Kinks’, ‘H.E.A.T.’ and new single ‘Stain’, it feels like they’ve absorbed residual energy from every set before them and completely overloaded. There’s something impossible to pin down about Lemonsuckr; grimy but magnetic, detached but euphoric, like finding a rave flyer in a puddle and deciding to follow it anyway.

After the set we end up outside with the Mothland crew and the band themselves, attempting to convince them that Montreal needs to import whatever the hell this is immediately. Negotiations continue over post-loadout kebabs before the reality of it being a Monday night finally catches up with everyone.

Somehow, after an entire festival weekend, every band still turned up ready to empty the tank completely. By the end of the night, The Grace didn’t feel like a venue anymore so much as the smouldering remains of a very controlled accident.

Days later, the smoke still hasn’t cleared but we’re happy to report that we’ve not gone up in flame, yet.