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.

Luvcat

KOKO

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Stray-Cats & Scarlet Curtains: Luvcat’s Cure-Inflected Coronation at Koko

If you were on the socials in the latter part of October, you were guaranteed to see an uptick in horror memes, selfies with pumpkin-spice lattes; and Sophie Morgan Howarth a.k.a. Luvcat. Luvcat, seemed to erupt out of nowhere: a Sally-from-The Nightmare Before Christmas meets Amy Winehouse chimera suddenly colonising feeds across central London. And judging by the cavalcade now snaking down Camden High Street, it appears the rest of the city got the memo too.

We find ourselves at the tail end of that line outside KOKO, the word on the street being that it’s been growing unchecked since the morning. An eclectic flock chatters in high spirits, while my +1 frets about needing more makeup; “I need to put on more makeup,” he mutters, making his way towards the loo like he's auditioning for his own gothic cabaret. Rather than stress about the VIP queue we’ve been politely escorted out of, we detour instead into the pub, opting for the sloped path leading to seating which offers us a vantage point to keep an eye on the procession for movement and one elbow firmly on the bar.

When we re-emerge, a bit left of centre, the endless human serpent is nearly through the door. In our path, two loiterers casually necking Pinot Gris straight from the bottle block our path; classic Camden. Naturally we stall, chat, the bottle finds its way into our hands too, and suddenly that bottle morphs into lukewarm Sainsbos tins of gin and vodka. Oh my!. As long-time fans of Luvcat’s arc; from Paper Dress Vintage to MOTH to this sold-out KOKO climax, we ask what the fuss’s about. “She’s larger than life,” one says. “Like The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus but with heartbreak.” “It’s confessional. Swirling. Madness”, adds the other. We squint, trying to absorb it all, then realise we’ve missed the opener. We shove through the crowd, fighting for even a sliver of sightline towards the stage. KOKO is rammed.

Inside, the venue has been transformed into Luvcat’s crooked cabaret. A battered upright piano sits stage-left, draped in pearls and velvet gloom, crowned with a single green bottle glinting under the lights. Beside it stands Jack Fussey, casting sly glances between the pinstripes of his suit. Alongside him are Andy Richmond, Tom Fripp, and Will Jaquet; the four collaborators maintaining Luvcat’s orbit.

Sophie emerges, now Luvcat and drifts into view like a phantom with rehearsal scars; half-moon blonde hair, raven undercurrent, a tiny bow perched just so. The roar that greets her rattles the discoball. She begins at the piano, fingers trembling with theatre-born intent, opening with ‘Lipstick’, the crowd hanging on each phrase as though it were encoded with secrets.

Then the band shifts gears. Fussey’s chord rings out, jagged and heavy, and the stomping anthem ‘Matador’ hits like a firecracker in a tin can. The floor surges. People don’t just sing, they surrender. Shortly after, she returns to the piano for ‘Alien’, a dark confession of cosmic loneliness and horizontal heartbreak, the green bottle again catching the light like a silent witness.

Suddenly the theatre morphs. The drummer (whose kit lurks under the magenta haze) locks into a marching-snare rhythm; the band dons embellished jackets as though they’ve just walked off a stage set in 1920s Berlin. With a flourish she brandishes an accordion and launches into ‘Dinner @ Brasserie Zédel’, turning the room into a cabaret madhouse. Richmond and Fripp trade rhythmic punches; Jaquet perched on a high stool, keeping the chaos grounded.

Then comes the penultimate song: ‘Love & Money’. A slow build. Sophie grips the mic with both hands, voice low, tension taut. The crowd hushes. Then she unleashes a belt so raw it scrapes the air. Screams, tears, phones rising vertically like lighters, the moment fractures time. People clutch one another. We hold our breath. The stage is both altar and battlefield.

Finally, ‘He’s My Man’ closes the set; full circus, full heartbreak, full Luvcat. The band takes their bow, the curtain of red behind them soaking up the applause like velvet bruises. They toast. They linger. They leave us wanting more.

Stepping back into Camden, the city is different: glitter on collars, strangers arguing their favourite song, makeup smeared in cathartic victories. This wasn’t a “rising star” set, this was the moment after. KOKO didn’t just host a show, it witnessed a coronation. Luvcat didn’t just perform, she wove us together into her universe. We couldn’t help thinking this wouldn’t be the last we’d hear of this charming performer because in the words of the good Doctor Parnassus “You can’t stop a story being told.”

Automatic

Rough Trade East

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Living-Room Chaos in the Best Way

Not sure if it’s only us that feel this way, but there’s something undeniably special about catching an after-hours gig in a record store. Something about standing between neatly alphabetised vinyl while a band sound-checks feels both naughty and nice, like you’re watching a secret you’re not supposed to see.

This evening, hot off the heels of their latest drop, Is It Now?, L.A. natives Automatic are due to serenade and scribble on a stack of LPs at Rough Trade East. Judging by the swelling crowd, they’ll be signing long past closing; and icing their swollen wrists shortly after.

Doors technically open at seven, but someone clearly missed the memo on “and without further ado,” because there’s no opener and the band doesn’t appear until eight. With time to wander, we take in the details: an electric-orange, see-through drum kit, and a slatted-wood Moog that looks freshly teleported from the late ’60s. Very chic. Very mod. Fingers crossed it isn’t all style and no substance.

When the trio finally saunter onstage, they bring with them a tranquillity you’d be hard-pressed to score from a handful of beta-blockers. Whatever is happening internally is anyone’s guess, but outwardly they embody calm.

A soft tappa tappa tappa from the hi-hat opens ‘Calling It’, a bite-sized amuse-bouche of a song to whet the appetite. The pace is steady, almost meditative; but would the courses ahead offer variety? The bass quickly answers, pulling focus with a thumping insistence, less “Bloc Party punch” or “RHCP slap,” and more like the heavy-footed stalk of something curious in the dark. There’s even a touch of Sean Yseult’s (White Zombie) prowling, hypnotic vibe in the playing. Above it all, Izzy’s hands flutter across the keys with this cat-batting-at-a-candle’s-flame energy, peppering in melodies exactly where they’re needed.

‘Country Song’ follows, leaning into the once-trendy daydream of ditching the concrete for the countryside. But hang on; that’s not Lola on the drums. Who’s the long-haired stand-in? Wig? Doppelgänger? Izzy saves us from our spiralling: “It’s been three years since our last UK tour. We got here yesterday, we’re jetlagged — but happy to be running away from our problems in America, where bad things are happening.” A laugh. A wince. A shrug. And then the rhythm section snaps us back, the drums caffeinated and jittering in that Beck-adjacent way, the bass locking in with a playful, luring steadiness. Together they form a spine that keeps the entire set upright and twitching.

The music dips into influences from all over the indie-punk-electronic map; hints of Le Tigre, Iggy, The Strokes, even a dash of Interpol’s broody precision. Performance-wise, it's not quite garage and not quite basement; more “chaotic living room at 1 a.m.” A tambourine appears briefly, though the gig hardly needed an extra prop; the songs had enough pace and personality to hold attention without any stage distraction. Thirteen tracks, no lull, no drift.

At one point, Izzy introduces ‘MQ9’ with, “This next song’s about war.” Cue awkward laughter, quickly followed by, “Fun war — the song is fun, not war.” The mood recovers.

What begins as a fairly static performance loosens and unravels in the best way. For the finale, ‘Mercury’, Halle and Izzy swap spots so the latter can focus on vocals, a small shift that adds a welcome jolt of energy. No encore, just a crisp finish and a quick dash backstage before returning to face the snaking queue of fans circling the shop, each waiting for their pound of flesh at the signing table.

A solid gig overall, and those who also caught their Lexington show this week were doubly spoiled. Rough Trade got the living-room version of Automatic; warm, weird, steady, and tightly wound, and honestly, we wouldn’t have had it any other way.