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.