Dean Johnson

Old St Pancras Church

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Sad Songs, Swear Words, and a Purple Pen

Say what you will about Christ, but the guy knew his acoustics, almost as well as Dean. The Old St Pancras Church, tonight moonlighting as a sanctuary for deadpan cowboys and neon desperadoes, played host to Dean Johnson, whose presence can only be described as “Father John Misty’s father”. If that father had been more disappointed, more talented, and somehow more magnetic in his plank-stiff delivery.

You wouldn’t expect a cowboy to take the pulpit at Old St Pancras Church but here we are. Beneath stained glass and high arches, Dean Johnson delivered a set so bone-dry in humour and razor-sharp in execution, the only thing holier was the reverb.

Outside, it’s 28 degrees. Inside, it’s a Tex-Mex fever dream: rhinestones, day-glo western wear, and more cowboy hats than communion wafers. A man in a Hawaiian shirt fans himself with a programme. We’re two weeks into a run of leftfield gigs, and this one’s already threatening to become lore.

Dean took the stage like a man surprised to be witnessed. Johnson opens solo, standing plank-straight, guitar in hand and posture like he’s been nailed to the spot. “Thanks for being here on a Tuesday,” he says. “It’s Wednesday!” comes the cheer. “Really?” he replies, perfectly deadpan. It’s not a bit. It might be. You can’t tell — and that’s half the charm.

The first song, ‘Old TV’, is a lonely song made lonelier by a solitary figure framed by light. The backstory about a friend whose dad told him never to pass a busted telly without smashing it open for copper wire adds more questions than it dispels. “Fatherly advice,” Johnson says, before launching into a song that’s equal parts sorrowful and sweet, a shadow stretching long behind him on the chapel wall.

There’s an art to solo performance, and Johnson’s got it down to an accidental science. He moves between obscure tunings like it’s second nature, his playing rich with nuance, a quiet tap here, a pause there, subtle shifts in rhythm that stop it all from feeling static. It’s a hypnotic ride.

Between songs, the humour continues. Introducing ‘Possession’, he warns us: “These next few are about jealousy and obsession. I’m gonna try and get through them.” The crowd laughs, not just out of politeness but recognition. Later, he talks about a free spirit who made him realise he wasn’t one. Cue more laughter. And a sigh.

‘Acting School’ arrives with a strange preamble: “This one’s weirdly popular with babies,” he shrugs, “though I think it’s because it’s got the F word in it.” Sure enough, the entire church erupts in a gleeful chorus of expletives. It’s the closest you’ll come to a spiritual awakening at a gig this side of Lent.

There’s a choose-your-own-adventure moment with ‘Blue Moon’, where he asks the crowd which strum pattern they prefer. The newer tracks; ‘Mother Nature Song’, ‘Faraway Skies’, and a Buddy Holly-inspired number about dreams and plane crashes, prove that the upcoming second album isn’t just real, it’s already promising.

Mid-set, someone in the crowd whispers to us: “How do you know about Dean Johnson?” We didn’t have a good answer. Maybe it’s the voice; warm, melancholic, deceptively strong. Maybe it’s the lyrics; deceptively simple, then suddenly devastating. Maybe it’s that he seems genuinely surprised we’re here, and more surprised still that we’re singing along.

The penultimate track is a Lucinda Williams cover, ‘Lake Charles’, cracked midway by the church bells striking ten. Johnson chuckles, admits he forgot a verse, and soldiers on. The mistake only adds to the magic.

He closes with ‘Nothing From Me’, introduced as “kinda blasphemous, but it’s a comedy song, so it’s fine.” The crowd laughs, again. Maybe at the joke. Maybe because they don’t want it to end.

Johnson has five more shows left on this European tour. Chances are you won’t catch them. But if you do, brace yourself for a night of gorgeous gloom, unexpected punchlines, and a set that manages to feel both loose and flawless, with a set of pipes as smooth as velvet on broken glass. His playing? A study in restraint; all minor shifts, capos, alternate tunings, and clever plucks that build a whole world out of six strings and a stiff spine.

And yes, he’ll sign anything. He’s got a purple pen.

Brown Horse

@ Rich Mix

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Brown Horse Ride Tall, With a Saloon-Stirring Set of Cosmic Country and Twangy Catharsis

Strolling into Rich Mix a casual fifteen before curtain, it was hard not to feel like an extra in a spaghetti western: empty floors, shadowy corners, and one rogue dust bunny playing tumbleweed under the stage lights. But, by the time Brown Horse floated on near 9pm, the ghost town had bloomed into a bustling saloon, packed and primed for a showdown of sound.

They opened with ‘Verma Bloom’; a scene-setter if there ever was one. The gentle strum of guitar met the drawl of a steel slide. The whole thing radiating the warmth of ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’ if it were filtered through East Anglian skies. Just as you thought you’d settled into a soft groove, the track took flight with a sharp turn; hooky, bright, and full of quiet intention. Minor complaint: the accordion was there (our sharpest-eyed spotters clocked it during setup) but got drowned out in the mix. A shame, as it felt like the unsung hero waiting for its cue.

From there, the set rolled on like a cattle drive under moonlight. ‘Dog Rose’, a dog by any other name, brought a dusty, nostalgic sway that evoked the likes of Ambulance Ltd, all loping rhythm and wistful twang.

‘Come Back Logan’ ebbed and flowed like coastal tide, elegant and muscular in its rises and falls. Then ‘Wisteria Rose’ shook things up with instrument-swapping between the band members; a move always endearing, and one that speaks to a group in sync and unafraid to keep things fluid.

‘Corduroy Couch’ arrived like a fired shot, the kind that comes after someone finally says “enough,” packs up their life, and hits the road in search of something softer. It moved with the energy of someone seeking their rippled relaxer and might just be the song to soundtrack the decision.

Then came ‘Radio Free Bolinas’—the emotional crescendo of the night. This time, the accordion got its moment: cracking open like an egg, opening like a sail, and finally locking into perfect harmony with the steel guitar. But it was the bass that stole the spotlight here; a dominant, driving force that called to mind the best of Bloc Party's spiky intensity and the Flea-flavoured bounce of early Chili Peppers, grounding the track with a confidence that had the room moving in unison.

‘Wipers’, a brand-new cut dripping in early Wallflowers-style melancholia; moosey, wounded, and undeniably emotive. It left the crowd hushed, swaying, and wanting more. Fortunately, an encore was on the cards with Brown Horse closing out their set with ‘Shoot Back’.

As die-hard fanboys of all things western, whether it’s the gun-slinging grit of Leone films, the cosmic cowboy stylings of Gram Parsons, or just the sweet, lonesome clop of hooves on dust, it was a treat to watch Brown Horse steer London’s East End away from musical theatre and tired indie clichés, and straight into a twilit sonic frontier.

Brown Horse aren’t just passing through; they’re laying track, picking up steam, and hell-bent on riding their cosmic americana all the way to the stars.

Pale Blue Eyes

Islington Assembly Hall

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

There’s a certain charm to bands who look like they’ve just walked out of a staff meeting and straight onto a stage. For British Birds, tonight’s openers at Islington Assembly Hall, that charm came with the faint aroma of dry erase markers and crushed dreams. Like a group of sixth form teachers living out their midlife fantasy, they launched into their set with the tightly drilled enthusiasm of Battle of the Bands finalists who've done their homework. Maybe too much of it.

Any attempt at earnest self-promotion, “We’ve got a new album out”, was met with a thunderous “Fuck off” from somewhere deep in the crowd. Undeterred, British Birds soldiered on, their drummer miming the lyrics with the exaggerated glee of a pantomime villain. It's hard not to admire their gusto, even if the vibe veered uncomfortably close to the PTA Talent Show.

By the time Pale Blue Eyes took the stage, the room was still politely half-empty. The balcony, untouched. The air heavy with anticipation or, perhaps, just a lack of fresh oxygen. Their opener, ‘TV Flicker’, drifted in with the ease of background music in a dentist’s waiting room; relaxed, inoffensive, and oddly numbing.

Large industrial fans were positioned dramatically onstage, presumably to whip up that music video aesthetic; hair tousled just so. But instead of cinematic flair, we got the frontman’s locks lifting unnaturally skyward like startled pigeon wings, creating a visual dissonance somewhere between spooky and slapstick.

A drummer who bore an uncanny resemblance to Noel Fielding offered the evening’s most visually compelling element, but the rest of the band felt like living rations; pale, portable blood banks with synths. The songs, while pleasant enough, bled into one another like watercolour on wet paper. What might have once been a cohesive sonic identity, now felt like a diluted formula, repeated until the flavour ran out.

They closed with ‘Chelsea’, a track that promised something cinematic but barely rose above the level of a grey Sunday. It wasn’t bad, exactly, but it wasn’t much of anything.

Verdict: British Birds flapped and squawked with gusto; Pale Blue Eyes drifted by like clouds on Prozac.

Better Joy

The Old Blue Last

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Exploding into the audience to greet friends with exaggerated and gesticulating gestures Better Joy, Manchester’s Bria Keely, negotiates her way between instruments, cables and mic stands. Bria, overwhelmed by their joy of being in London, tells the audience so. Tonight, there would a fine line between pandering and a banal performance. Better Joy’s headline gig at the Old Blue Last teetered on the edge of both. The buzz around her has been building thanks to a glowing debut EP (Heading Into Blue), comparisons to The Cure and The Smiths, and co-signs from BBC Radio 6 . So, when she took the stage at one of Shoreditch’s most beloved (former) sweatboxes, the expectation was for something quietly transcendent. What we got was...well, just quiet.

Keely opened with ‘Waiting On Time’, and for a brief moment, it seemed like we were in for something. The guitars chimed, the band found a groove, and her vocals were as breathy and animated as they are on record. But then things started to blur, and not in the dreamy, shoegaze-y way she might’ve hoped for, but more like our eyes before bedtime. Songs melted into one another with little contrast, like a Spotify playlist that forgot to shuffle.

There’s something to be said for restraint in performance; intimacy, nuance, etc., but there’s also a reason why even Phoebe Bridgers occasionally smashes a guitar. Keely remained composed to the point of being nearly invisible. A few murmured “Thank you”s here and there, but little to break up the mood-board of mid-tempo melancholy. The set lacked spark, urgency, or anything that might be mistaken for joy.

To be fair, the band sounded tight. The arrangements were well rehearsed and had potential. You can see the architecture of something taking shape underneath the potato sack facade of a performance. Great songwriting doesn’t always equal a great show, especially when the performance feels like it’s happening behind a velvet rope of middle-aged men without their children present. There were moments, like ‘Couldn’t Run Forever’, where her voice cracked with genuine feeling, but they were fleeting. By the end of the set, the audience had started checking their phones with the kind of glazed reverence usually reserved for midweek tube rides.

Keely clearly has the tools: a distinctive vocal tone, a knack for melancholic melody, and a sound that fits neatly into the indie-pop revival of the moment. But live, she’s still learning how to wield them. If Better Joy wants to make the leap from playlist darling to fully formed performer, she’ll need to bring a bit more chaos, or at least caffeine, to the stage.