7ebra

The Shack

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Sleepy Swedish Duo Deliver a Charm Offensive at The Shack 

As the dying crackle of The Brian Jonestown Massacre’s 'Anemone' fades into the ether, a pair bearing an uncanny resemblance to Ghost World’s Enid and Rebecca drift onto the stage at The Shack.

Famously hailing from Sweden—having pulled a bleary-eyed all-nighter just to make it to the venue—7ebra are tired, disoriented, and rattling with a palpable undercurrent of stage fright. It is completely, disarmingly endearing.

A false start ripples through the air as Ella addresses the room from the wall of keys which lay atop a high-stool, chalking the hiccup up to nerves while half-apologising to her sister, Inez. Inez, meanwhile, is already deep into set-opener 'Lime Green Jell-O', entirely too busy coaxing hypnotic tones from her guitar to care about false starts or apologies.

When the synth drops out, a shorthand only true twins possess takes over: mysterious keys yield to the slow, muted jangle of a guitar. And then comes the revelation—that relentless backbeat isn't a drum machine at all. Peeking out from beneath a Frankensteined rig of keys are electric drum pedals, operated in real-time by a pair of Converse see-sawing back and forth. It’s a first for us, and gets the Tarantino-forehead-beaded-with-sweat of approval immediately granted. Every thump hits like a velvet-gloved gut-punch.

'I Like to Pretend' rolls in carrying an unusual, intoxicating sonic cocktail: high-gain guitar grinding against circus-organ keys, establishing a rulebook that refuses to stay written. By the time 'Normal People' arrives, we’re straddling a strange, exhilarating sonic faultline. Imagine club-anthem grandeur meeting dark-wave gloom—club-wave? dark-anthem? Either works. Had the room been any sweatier, we’d be mainlining electrolytes by the chorus.

Another false start arrives, this time courtesy of 'Dinner and a Movie'. Inez throws her hands up: “I always do this wrong! It's not right!” Third time’s the charm, but not before Ella chimes in with a quintessential piece of sibling ping-pong: “We’re tired—no, sorry, nerves. Wait, no. I'm not tired, I'm nervous. I'm tired.” By the end of the banter, we’re exhausted just listening. But the crowd creases up, the tension breaks, and when the track finally drops, it’s gloriously gravelly and rumbly in the tummy. Throughout the set, this running dialogue makes it feel less like a gig and more like we’ve been invited behind the fifth wall.

“We’re going to play an old one. We also played some new ones before. We'll be playing old ones and new ones, that's the plan.”

It’s wonderfully unpretentious. Any early slip-ups are met with total grace because the music and the anxiety are locked in a permanent, fascinating tug-of-war. 'Patient Boy' and 'Lean' follow—the former easily stealing the crown with its hypnotic xylophone-key motif and a guitar finally coming into its own, snarling with purpose.

By the time the finale 'I Have to Buy Stuff' rolls around, whatever nerves they brought onto the stage have burned off like vodka in a hot pan. It’s full steam ahead, delivered with a cheeky, self-aware wink that gently herds us toward the merch table.

To top it all off, a surprise cameo from label-mate Stephanie Gilbert and her band (fresh off supporting duties the night before at The Social) turns the room into one big happy family reunion. We spent some time trading anecdotes with the sisters, Steph and co leaving us wishing we could bottle the night up and live in it forever. But, they’re touring, so go share these spooky vibes at a dive near you. 

Gone Future

@ The Social

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Gone Past, Gone Present, Gone Future

Gone Future’s 'Nightcap' came across our desk back in June, around the time we were enjoying a nightcap of our own. Nicki Dar’s voice has a tone that cannot be ignored, for good or ill, and it caught our attention immediately. There was no word of tour dates at the time, but we kept our peepers peeled. Perseverance paid off.

With the warm glow of summer long gone and autumn's golden tones settling in, a Swedish invasion swept through London this past week, eventually landing at The Social. Sandwiched between label-mates Stephanie Gilbert and Sibille Attar, the punk slime outfit Gone Future would do more than simply etch their name into the walls of this subterranean bunker. But they would have to fight for their place.

By contrast to the upbeat psych vibes of Stephanie and Sibille's Big Soft Heart, Gone Future's sound is premeditated gloom, throbbing doom and a seasonal must with Halloween around the corner. The set opens with 'The Middle', its yawning synths and prominent drums finally given room to breathe in the flesh. Released almost a year ago, it's a relief to see the track escape the confines of the record and come alive onstage.

'A New Hit' follows, a freshly rejected track that was apparently shopped around to Eagle-Eye Cherry before finding its way here. As Nicki tells us, ‘but he didn’t want it’. His loss, perhaps. There's an Infinite Sadness-era Smashing Pumpkins vibe pulling you in close, all dark surf-rock undertow and bruised melody. You know the flavour.

Dar's face accidentally meets the microphone in a too-close-for-comfort encounter, which she laughs off. ‘We’re so happy to be here, do I have lipstick all over my face?’ she asks, apparently to no one in particular, before announcing the band's forthcoming debut EP, Signs, due December 4.

Then the applause dies down, only for another clap to emerge from the speakers. We know this clap. This is a VERY familiar clap. It's Peaches' 'Fuck the Pain Away', and it's a great cover, to be sure. What we're less sure about is whether the audience deserves it.

This should be the point where the room descends into Sodom and Gomorrah. Instead, a bimbo at the booth across from us carries on her conversation as though the band were merely providing background music to her evening. Apparently, saving it for the interval is beyond the realms of possibility. She bellows like a goddamned foghorn between beats, trampling over a cover that deserves considerably more than to be treated as an inconvenient soundtrack to somebody else's social life.

The tracks bleed into one another like watercolour until the drums and bass hit back like an exploding border, tearing through the haze and sending the sound crashing towards us. This is mother's milk to us: the tail end of grunge steeped in a dark tea, bitter in taste and just as rich in sound. Gone Future might be looking backwards, but there's nothing tired about the view. Catch them when they swing back around. And when you do, remember that the band are there to be heard, not talked over. STFU until the last note dies.

Exploding Flowers

The Waiting Room

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

The Wallflowers Are Ready To Bloom

The LA guitar-pop veterans bring three albums worth of jangling history — and a glimpse of what comes next — to The Waiting Room.

There are worse things than playing to a disappointingly small room. For Exploding Flowers, the consolation is that The Waiting Room feels almost perfectly suited to their particular brand of guitar-pop: intimate, unflashy and just a little bit tucked away from the main event.

And if the turnout is the first thing to disappoint, it’s also pretty much where the disappointment ends.

The Los Angeles quartet arrive sounding impressively rehearsed and, more importantly, optimistic. This is music built on the belief that a good guitar line, a proper rhythm section and a melody worth remembering remain perfectly adequate reasons to start a band. In 2026, that almost feels radical.

The set reaches back to their self-titled 2011 debut with ‘Capturing The New Frontier’, dips into 2020’s Stumbling Blocks with ‘A Daunting Thought’, then spends considerable time mining last year’s Watermelon/Peacock: ‘All In Stride’, ‘A Colour Box’, ‘The Grass Grows On’, ‘Beneath Our Feet’, ‘Life On A Timeline’, ‘Across A Sea’ and ‘Build A Bridge’ all get their moment.

For anyone already inside the Exploding Flowers universe, it’s a gratifying reminder of just how coherent that catalogue has become. For newcomers, it’s a pretty good argument for going back and doing your homework.

The oddest thing about watching them live is just how contemporary they sound without seemingly making any attempt to sound contemporary. Close your eyes and the effect is immediate: chiming guitars, subtle keyboards, a locked-in rhythm section and melodies that seem to arrive fully formed. Open them again and there’s a strange disconnect. In a musical landscape increasingly obsessed with blacked-out aesthetics, maximalist noise and looking like you've just escaped from a distressed denim factory, Exploding Flowers are dressed like a band who have accidentally wandered in from another decade.

But listen to the music and they’re arguably ahead of the curve. The newer material — including ‘The Middle Way’, ‘Space In Between’ and the recently released ‘Spinning Carousel’ — sits comfortably alongside the older songs, suggesting that the forthcoming fourth album isn't going to represent some dramatic left turn. Instead, Exploding Flowers appear to be refining a language they've been speaking for years.

There are no great surprises in the set, but there are no spoilers either. The band move through the songs with the rhythm and confidence of a particularly good house band, never overplaying their hand. It’s an entirely pleasant experience — perhaps too pleasant at times.

Because here's the nagging question: what makes Exploding Flowers stick out from the crowd?

They have the craft. They have the history. They have the influences — Big Star, The Soft Boys, Paisley Underground, Flying Nun — without sounding like a tribute act. And Watermelon/Peacock demonstrated that the songwriting can be genuinely gorgeous.

What they could use, perhaps, are a few more hooks capable of kicking the door down.

For now, Exploding Flowers remain the wallflowers of guitar-pop: quietly excellent, slightly overlooked and seemingly unconcerned by either fact. But with a fourth album on the way, perhaps it's time people started looking over. For now, they remain a quietly compelling band: familiar enough to feel like an old friend, strange enough to make you want to listen again. Pleasant? Absolutely. Entertaining? Certainly. But perhaps it’s time these Flowers grow outside their comfort zone.

Fink

Rough Trade East

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Wishing For Bluer Skies: Fink Bring Warmth to a Rain-Soaked Rough Trade East

London had spent the day dressed in every shade of grey imaginable. Rain, drizzle, more rain. The sort of weather that makes you question leaving the house at all. Thankfully, Fink had arrived at Rough Trade East armed with a remedy.

The album launch show wasn't some grand spectacle. No dazzling production, no dramatic reveals. Just three musicians seated on stage with acoustic instruments and a room willing to meet them halfway.

The trio eased into opener ‘Wishing For Blue Sky’ and immediately settled the room into their pace. A palpable warmth radiated from the stage. The acoustic bass — a rarity these days and a charming sight in itself — provided a deep, resonant thrum that seemed to travel through the floorboards and into the audience. Whether intentional or not, its low-end hum became one of the afternoon's defining features.

Outside, East London looked determined to drown beneath leaden clouds. Inside, ‘Wishing For Blue Sky’ felt like a small act of resistance.

The relaxed atmosphere wasn't accidental. Introducing the material, Fin Greenall admitted, "It's only the second time we've played any of these songs." There was no attempt to hide the rough edges. With no guitar tech waiting in the wings, tuning breaks became part of the performance. "We're not going to regale you with anecdotes," he joked, "talk amongst yourselves." The audience laughed, though few seemed interested in talking. They were too busy listening.

A twelve-string guitar took centre stage during ‘Memorise Your Senses’, its finger-picked patterns dancing over that ever-present bass. The sound was rich without becoming cluttered, each instrument occupying its own pocket while still contributing to a remarkably full acoustic arrangement.

What stood out most wasn't technical prowess, though there was plenty of that on display, it was the ease between the players. They carried themselves less like seasoned veterans launching a new record and more like friends playing together in the corner of a pub on a dark winter evening. Drinks sat nearby. Heads nodded throughout the crowd. Even the musicians seemed unable to keep still, their feet bouncing in exaggerated rhythms beneath their stools like a Looney Tunes character thumping the ground after receiving an unexpectedly enthusiastic kiss.

By ‘I Buried All The Answers’, much of the audience had their eyes closed, allowing the music to wash over them. There was little need for visual spectacle when the songs themselves held the room so completely.

After four new tracks, Greenall announced, “This'll be the last one from the new tunes and then we'll do a couple from the old set”. ‘Two Magpies’ brought the debut run of new material to a close and showcased the understated confidence running throughout the afternoon. The newer songs sounded strong when stripped back to their essentials, their melodies and textures carrying the weight without any need for embellishment.

Meanwhile, Rough Trade's famously informal atmosphere continued to produce its own side stories. At one point, a small child appeared to have wandered backstage and into the photo pit, armed with a plush toy and a sippy cup, coughing cheerfully at my feet as though this was the most natural place in the world to spend a Saturday afternoon. Nobody seemed particularly concerned. Least of all the band.

When the familiar opening notes of ‘Not Everything Was Better in The Past’ arrived, the audience responded with appreciative whoops. The title itself felt oddly fitting for an album launch show — a reminder that nostalgia only gets you so far and that there is still value in looking forward.

The afternoon closed with ‘Looking Too Closely’, delivered in a mellower arrangement that traded some of the studio version’s tension for reflection. It proved the perfect ending for a performance built on intimacy rather than spectacle, sending the crowd back out into the East London drizzle with heads still nodding and melodies still lingering.

This wasn't the kind of performance that leaves a venue buzzing with adrenaline. It wasn't trying to be. Instead, Fink delivered something rarer: an hour of warmth on a cold, wet London day, played by musicians comfortable enough in both their songs and their company to let the music do the talking.

Sometimes that's more than enough.