Matthew C. Whitaker at The MOTH, London (Live Review) Featured
- Written by Captain Stavros
Matthew C. Whitaker
The MOTH
Words & Pics by Captain Stavros
Biscuits, Banter and the Omnichord
A glitter-bombed stage and a curtain of gold tinsel greeted the audience at The MOTH last Saturday — the sort of shimmering, slightly tacky décor that feels half cabaret, half community hall disco. Front and centre sat Matthew C. Whitaker, looking like he’d wandered in from a sun-bleached coastline somewhere, with an open Hawaiian shirt and a mane of hair that had the air of seaweed dried in salty wind.
Whatever the room lacked in subtlety, the music quickly made up for it.
This was a seated show, which suited the mood. As the lights dimmed and the usual pre-gig chatter dissolved into a sea of polite shushing, Whitaker was already deep into a feverish strum — something that felt faintly indebted to the flamenco urgency of Spanish Caravan. His small-bodied acoustic guitar sat perched on his thigh like a prized catch, the amplified tone crisp and articulate.
The opening number, ‘You Can Only Let Us Down’, set a sombre tone. Whitaker himself acknowledged it moments later with a grin: “A bit of a downer, wasn’t it? Just had to get it off my chest.”
From there, the set loosened up. Violinist Alan Shunya joined him on stage, adding texture and variety to the follow-up material. Whitaker joked about “pitting up my songs with his bits and bobs,” but the pairing worked beautifully. Tracks from the upcoming album Songs for the Weary — including the jaunty ‘Chestnut Tree’ — brought a warmer, more playful energy. A smooth undercurrent of bass hummed beneath delicate strings, the whole thing vibrating with quiet confidence.
Whitaker’s stage presence is half the charm. Between songs he bantered freely with the crowd, interrogating a front-row punter about quitting cigarettes before abruptly deciding it was time to get on with the show. The audience lapped it up — heads nodding in rhythm, a steady ripple of laughter throughout the room.
Material from his first album, Feud, made an appearance too. Whitaker delivered a cheeky low-key brag about selling out the vinyl pressing (“all gone… three years ago”), before launching into a piece that sounded like revenge on horseback — galloping rhythms and inherited grudges wrapped in warm folk instrumentation.
A highlight came midway through the set with a sprawling mini-suite drawn from Songs for the Weary: a megamix-like overture that eventually flowed into ‘Mind How You Go’. The instrumental introduction stretched luxuriously, electric keys sliding in alongside a newly electrified bass. It built into a kind of sonic smorgasbord — part folk, part experimental gadgetry — even featuring a tiny theremin-like flourish. It was easily the most technically adventurous moment of the night, and the crowd responded with an enthusiastic (and slightly premature) “wooo” from somewhere behind the bar.
Whitaker acknowledged the interruption with a smirk. Apparently, it had never happened before.
Later came ‘Bones’, driven by sharp skeletal plucks that clattered through the mix while softer strums floated around them. The mood tipped toward the eerie — an intrepid little ghost story in musical form. Around this point, plates of biscuits mysteriously began circulating through the audience, passed along the rows like communion wafers for the mildly folk-curious.
Not everything landed equally. A couple of songs from the Henge project felt more like curiosities than centrepieces, and even Whitaker seemed slightly tentative performing them. Still, the occasional rhythmic wobble was handled with good-natured humour, and the audience remained firmly onside.
Before the end came perhaps the most unexpected moment of the night. As Whitaker introduced a Suzuki Omnichord, promising “sleazy jazz beats” if there were any children in the room, his bandmate quietly slipped off stage mid-show — apparently for a swift and entirely unannounced bathroom break. Whitaker carried on regardless, coaxing frantic foxtrot rhythms from the Omnichord at maximum speed while the temporary absence became part of the evening’s loose, slightly chaotic charm.
The encore — ‘Whisky Cats’ followed by ‘Valerian Tea’ — closed things on a slyly comedic note. The latter, in particular, had the unmistakable feel of a lost sitcom theme: the most Peep Show-adjacent tune you’re likely to hear outside the show itself.
Even if folk-leaning oddities like this aren’t normally your thing, Whitaker’s charisma and musicianship make it difficult not to get swept along. Beneath the jokes, biscuits and omnichords lies a genuinely talented songwriter — one capable of turning a glitter-drenched room into something quietly captivating for an evening.
