Everyone Says Hi

The Lexington

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Playing it safe at The Lexington

Everyone Says Hi; great name for a band, and it fits. There’s a broad appeal baked right in, and the room at The Lexington proves it: a mix of everyone and everything, all their noggins noddin’.

ESH wander on from stage left, right on cue, to a spaghetti-western intro. We want to say The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, but we were too busy being disgusted by an overly sweet 2.5% grapefruit beer to be entirely sure. Regardless, the drummer, and, incidentally, ourselves, were in full western regalia. Pure happenstance, not planner-stance (is that a word? PATENT PENDING!). Glenn Moule, formerly of Howling Bells, even gave us a sideways look when we peeled off a layer at the bar to reveal our vintage Japanese rockabilly number. Before bending the elbow. Eat your heart out.

Back at the stage, the set opens with ‘Somebody Somewhere’, a track begging to soundtrack a Sofia Coppola number. “Imagine your worst day got a little bit worse,” floats over the crowd, sung back by everyone except us; we didn’t know the words, but the sentiment landed. A little too well, maybe.

‘Lucky Star’ follows, and by then they’ve fully slipped into their groove, hardly surprising considering each member’s been in the spotlight once or twice before. The sound is clean, confident. A warm hum spills from mic to speaker to crowd.

The room is into it. Not much pandering, but plenty of new material on the menu. The jokes? Not a ten. The laughs? Generous.

By ‘Communication’, Nick Hodgson’s given up the fight with his suit jacket. He thought he could tough it out; he couldn’t. A besweated frontman reneged. The kick-drum-and-bass pairing, though, was glorious; a thump-thump-thump that punched through bodies straight to the back wall. “A miracle is happening but nobody noticed,” Nick sings; the crowd at least got the gist.

But around ‘Holding On To Let Go’, the set sags into a predictable lull. Our attention drifts. Eyes wander to rhythm guitarist Tom Dawson, who’s pinned the hem of his trousers so they don’t skim the stage grime. The vibes land somewhere between “should I start paying for dry-cleaning?” and “should I move out of my parents’ basement?”

And then, just like that, ‘Just Like That’. A new one, strong out the gate, splashed in ‘80s keys and easily the least formulaic thing they play. It snaps us back. Another new track follows, ‘Don’t Underestimate Yourself’, written for Nick’s daughter. Sweet, sure. Also a bit on the nose. Our attention falters again, and we make for the exit.

Not easy, mind. The place is properly packed, a great sign for them. And honestly, it’s all very easy to dip into. But to hang onto? That’s another story. It’s pleasant, polished, entirely inoffensive, like stumbling on a skilled busker: they catch your ear for a moment, then disappear into the night as quickly as they arrived. There's absolutely a place for it. And the crowd clearly loves them.

We, however, spent the last few songs thinking about the commute home.

Death Valley Girls

The Lexington

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

A Laughing Gas Gospel of Joy and Noise

As Bonnie Bloomgarden's supernova grin burned through the haze and her golden sax player sent sunbeams bouncing into the crowd like cosmic flares, it was clear from the first shimmer of ‘Abre Camino’ that Death Valley Girls weren’t here to mess about. They were here to bless us, baptise us, and blow the roof off The Lexington.

That opener? A psychedelic swirl more Marrakesh than L.A., the sax solo hanging over the crowd like incense while the rhythm section kicked in with piston-force precision. Bass thumped, kickdrum pounded, and then that guitar, slung high and scratching down the fretboard like nails on a chalkboard, announced the real arrival. You didn’t just hear this gig; you were wrapped in it. Full, rich, and beautifully balanced, loud enough to shake the room, never enough to drown it.

Bloomgarden, all gothic-Harley Quinn energy and spearmint bravado, slithered her vocals through the mic cable like a conjurer, weaving between the heavy and the heavenly. She looked like she’d been born grinning and never stopped, even mid eye-contact stare-downs that felt part flirtation, part spiritual intervention. Was it a hit of the gas? A higher power? Unclear, but whatever it was, she had it, and we were under her spell.

Death Valley Girls, rotating members or not, sounded locked in. Like a coven three weeks deep into a joyfully possessed tour. Everyone on stage had a mic. Everyone sang. Everyone meant it. The harmonies didn’t just land, they hovered, holding space between punk yelps and doo-wop dreams. Tracks like ‘I’m A Man Too’ were cheeky, righteous mantras in motion, a lo-fi surf-punk hymn for anyone who ever felt like the cool kids were missing the point.

Then there was the moment Bonnie swan-dived offstage, hugging every woman in the front row like some glitter-swathed spirit guide. It wasn’t a gimmick. It was the whole point.

As the set edged toward its finale, Bloomgarden turned to the crowd and cut the theatre: “This is the encore — right now, be here now.” No on-off pantomime, no need for formalities; just three final tracks delivered straight, sweaty, and soul-first.

‘Magic Powers’ hit particularly hard, a track that sounds like what you'd get if John Waters formed a girl gang and made them play garage rock under a full moon. By the time the set closed, there was no doubt: this was church for the beautifully weird. A last night of tour turned full rebirth.

As the last notes rang out and the stage lights melted down, you didn’t feel like you'd seen the end of something. You felt like you’d stumbled into the beginning of a better timeline, one with more saxophones, more spearmint, and more Bonnie Bloomgardens to remind us that joy can still come loud, proud, and slightly off-kilter.