Jens Lekman

EartH

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Something Borrowed, Something Bleak

It’s been more than two decades since Jens Lekman first drifted onto our radar — back when both he and we had hair, and the internet still felt like a series of whispered secrets rather than a shouting match. One of those secrets arrived in the form of a grainy clip: Lekman, unfussed, sardonic, wedged between the fuzz in the back of a police van. It was enough to hook you. It just took 22 years for the story to come full circle.

Fast forward to a brisk Saturday night at EartH — a venue that feels less like a gig space and more like an H.R. Giger-designed shuttle hangar dropped into Dalston — where those paths finally crossed. Cavernous, a little cold, faintly surreal: the perfect setting, as it turns out, for Lekman’s peculiar brand of emotional theatre.

This wasn’t a standard tour stop. The evening hinged on Songs for Other People’s Weddings, a collaborative project with author David Levithan, who appeared intermittently throughout like a narrator slipping between dimensions. Opening the set with spoken word — unconventional, a touch disarming — Levithan set the tone for a performance that refused to sit still.

Visually, it was somewhere between a wedding reception and a fever dream. The band looked like they’d raided a jumble sale en route: grooms, ushers, a rogue cowboy. No cohesion, yet entirely cohesive. Off to one side, a guitarist tuned up beside a conjoined mannequin, its arm threaded eerily through a jacket sleeve — the kind of detail you might miss if you blink, but once seen, impossible to forget.

Lekman himself eased things into motion with a series of cooing nonlexical vocals — delicate, precise, quietly magnetic. It’s always been his trick: drawing you in not with bombast, but with something subtler, stranger. His songs live in the in-between — the emotional grey areas most artists sidestep — and here, that sensibility felt magnified.

There was a tension running through the performance: the band, visually stiff and almost statuesque, while their sound moved with fluidity and warmth. Clarinet, saxophone and flute weaved through the arrangements — a reminder of how rarely these textures get their due in live indie shows. Meanwhile, lyrics danced between sincerity and mischief, casually dropping references as jarring as “the human centipede” into songs ostensibly about love and marriage.

And then there’s Lekman himself — the quiet one you don’t quite trust. The kind who, if a chair suddenly collapsed beneath you, might be found moments later with sawdust on his cuff and a hacksaw tucked out of sight. There’s a playfulness to him, but also a sense that he’s always one step ahead of the room.

Levithan would reappear at intervals, prompting the crowd — at one point urging everyone to shout where they’d come from. The response was chaotic, global, human. His musings veered philosophical: “last” as an adjective, “last” as a verb. In the context of weddings — and by extension, relationships — it lingered in the air. End, or endure?

Backlit, Lekman cast long, wavering shadows across the amphitheatre walls, his silhouette dancing high above the aisles as if the venue itself had become part of the performance. And vocally? Time has done nothing to dull him. If anything, his voice has deepened, gained a resonance that anchors even the lightest moments.

After a two-hour first half — yes, really — the shift was inevitable. Ceremony gave way to party. Jackets were slung over mic stands, drinks appeared in hands, the band loosened. Lekman announced it plainly: the wedding was over, now came the celebration.

What followed was a run through the back catalogue that felt both generous and inevitable. For the die-hards, it was the moment everything clicked into place. Songs that had lived in headphones for years finally breathed in the room — and didn’t disappoint.

By the time the encores roll around, the atmosphere has tipped fully into something communal. Lekman shares a story about a Japanese band covering one of his songs — he’d been enjoying it, blissfully unaware, until the slow realisation dawned that it was his own work being reflected back at him. There’s something quietly profound in that: the rare chance to experience your art without the weight of authorship.

It brings to mind Scott Walker, who once said he’d listen to an album exactly once after finishing it — loudly, intensely — because he knew he’d never return to it again. A kind of self-imposed distance between creator and creation. Back to Lekman, and you get the sense he’s lived in that same space for years, only now catching a glimpse of his music as the rest of us hear it.

We’re reminded, too, of a hazy encounter with Bat for Lashes’ Natasha Khan — somewhere between tequila shots and poor decisions — asking her what it felt like to create the very music she loved dancing to. The answer? Lost to the night, somewhere between the bar and The Dolphin. But the question lingers here, in this room, as Lekman stands centre stage, hearing his songs come back to him from a hundred different voices.

The night closed, fittingly, with ‘Black Cab’ — a request bellowed early and answered late. As Lekman softly strummed, the crowd took over, singing it back to him in full. A quiet, collective handover. Performer to audience. Creator to creation.

Multiple standing ovations followed, though leaving proved harder than applauding — bottlenecked exits forcing everyone to linger just a little longer. Not that anyone seemed to mind. The performance had already settled in, refusing to be shaken off too quickly.

Some gigs entertain. Others stick. This one — strange, funny, thoughtful, quietly subversive — did the latter.

Having a bit of Lambchop (@lambchopisaband) on an Easter Sunday, what could be more traditional? Inside of EartH, a huge venue which more closely resembles a derelict space dock consisting of a massive berth where space freighters dry docked whilst selling space spice. Fever dreams aside the acoustics of its high and far reaching ceiling are superb being practically three storeys above the ground at their highest points. Unlike most groups I've seen in recent months which spread out and utilize every bit of stage space Lambchop by contrast bunch together, like the herd animals of the Serengeti. Clustered together in the middle of the stage are dual drumkits, a grand piano, steel guitar and tall stool with 'Lambchop' stickered on the back of it. Atop the stool resides a closed tan and weathered '40s era suitcase having seen considerable mileage. What's inside the case you ask? Well unlike Pulp Fiction's glowing mystery we'll soon collectively discover 12 lyrical treasures reside within.  

Shortly after nine Kurt (Vocals/Guitar) and the gang make their way on stage and to their instruments in an unhurried pace. Their manner reminds me of the way a group of long time friends might sit around an old table for an evening meal. Everyone's familiar with the setup after years of ritual and ready to eat with a relaxed air, think alfresco dining in the Mediterranean. The members look as varied as their instruments, some in blazers and button down shirts in smart/casual footwear while others are in blown out jeans, faded t-shirts and rundown sneakers. There's a woodcraft hobbyist meets suburban garage band vibe going on .

Kurt sports his usual 'CO-OP' trucker hat and thick framed glasses as he leans into the mic, "we're just going to play some music for a while" kicking off the informal set with 'The Air Is Heavy' and 'I Should Be Listening To You' (thanks Setlist FM!). I'm sitting cross legged at stage level about 15 feet away from the band. As always the instruments and tones are perfectly balanced with each lending to the other in a series of  perfectly timed hand-offs. This is the second time I'm seeing Lambchop sitting down. The last time was nearly 7 years ago to the day. In March of 2012 I caught them at The Barbican ahead of their 11^th album release, we're now at album 13 and one thing still remains true, the band is consistently brilliant. Both times I remember thinking what perfect and beautiful control the musicians have over their instruments while making it look effortless. Last time the drums (a 1 piece) were front and center, this time (both drum sets) at the back. At The Barbican the drummer started playing, I was in the middle of the second row from the stage and remember seeing the drum sticks moving but hearing no sounds until they wanted me to, this time was no different. Over my shoulder I hear a pair in hushed tones say, "you have no idea how complicated what they're playing is." He was right, but it didn't stop me or them from enjoying ourselves because Lambchop don't over-complicate the matter. The music and lyrics lend themselves well to both music aficionados and appreciators alike.           

As you'd expect the performance went off without a hitch, 25 years worth of practice'll do that for ya. There were however a few conversations about an errant pigeon that seemed to concern the band and staff however the sky rat never made an appearance and to the best of my knowledge no one was dropped on. The acoustics as previously mentioned were absolutely excellent. Although only using a fraction of the massive stage at EartH their presence reverberated off ceilings and walls alike filling the vast auditorium completely. In terms of personal preference I've got a few bones that need picking. I think Kurt has one of the loveliest voices in the biz and superb control over its range and hushed tones. That being said why he'd go and put it through the equivalent of a cheese grater using processing effects for a large majority of the gig for reasons I cannot fathom. Maybe he's like the rest of us and isn't a fan of the sound of his own voice? Doubtful but I'm clutching at straws here racking my brain trying to understand why. For the finale 'Up With People' he's got the processing turned up to 11. Sitting as close as I was you could clearly see even Kurt himself put off by the sound. He quickly stands back from the mic and turns the processor's dial way down. Processed vocals on this dudes magical pipes are like face tattoos, maybe, but you know probably not a really great idea. Also, they did not play 'Is A Woman' the first track I ever heard by them which will always hold a special place in my heart.

Aside from that I could not ask for a better way to spend my Sunday afternoon. I got to sit down and listen to some glorious tunes from a couple of legends and even heard a few hilarious jokes from Tony Crow (Piano/Vocals) who assured Kurt that everything was under control because even though he was high he also practices high, so it's cool. Kurt mentions something about heading home after this tour to get back to friends and loved ones and maybe even some 'action' to which Tony replies. “My sex life is like the song 'Freebird', it's a 5 minute solo. Life goes on, we get older, nothing we can do about it", sage advice. Some music, bit of humor throughout the evening involving a couple of birds, a bit of wisdom and that's a wrap.