Hugh Cornwell

The Islington Town Assembly Hall

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Nosferatu in Islington: Hugh Cornwell’s Twilight Performance

The days are shorter and darker, the air is damp from a fresh downpour, and London feels a little more greasy than usual, as though someone’s rubbed petroleum jelly across our eyelids. We stomp into the Islington Assembly Hall, trying to shake off the cold and the drizzle, as if we’re expecting something warm, familiar and possibly dangerous. Not far from his old haunt of Kentish Town, the turf that shaped him long before fame, prison time and legendary-status set in; it’s strange to see Hugh framed by “no crowd-surfing” and “no flash or video photography” signs. A far cry from the renegade who once caught an eight-week prison stint in the ’80s after being nabbed with a cornucopia of party drugs stuffed into various pockets.

Cornwell, dressed in all black, feels at once spectral and authoritative. Smoke curls around the stage like an old-fashioned horror movie, and he opens with the intro to ‘Nosferatu’, followed by ‘Losers in Lost Land’, a slow, Lynchian odyssey. It’s puzzling, yes, but also undeniably compelling. Then comes a surprising cover of Cream’s ‘White Room’, which feels like a curveball thrown to remind the audience: he’s not just a composer, he’s into covers too.

From there, the set stiffens. On ‘Irate Caterpillar’, Cornwell and his band lean into something raw, gritty; there’s a touch of avant-garde chaos, not unlike the adventurousness of other modern post-punk acts. His guitar work is jagged, unruly, like a blade sawed through sheet metal. Synths swirl in, adding depth, but also a distancing effect, creating a spiral of sound that feels more studied than spontaneous.

Midway through, you realise something: this isn’t the boisterous, sweaty punk spectacle you might have imagined from his Stranglers heyday. There’s a crispness, a precision, and an odd restraint as his hand visibly trembles hovering above the strings. The backing tracks (for synths, additional guitar) raise the question: are we watching Cornwell’s true “band,” or a pared-down session trio backed by pre-recorded layers? For a £40+ ticket, you might expect more flesh-bone-and-blood chaos.

Visually, the show is similarly odd. On either side of the stage, marionettes are drawn up and hang against a loose white backdrop featuring a horned devil projected in strange dimensions, a gimmick that leans more theatrical than rock ’n’ roll. The bassist swaps hats, his third of the evening. For one song, he's in a bowler. Later, perhaps stuck in this monochrome, militaristic world flat cap, the band takes a break; only six songs in. Intermission hits early, and ‘Succubus’ hums quietly in the background to fill the void.

It’s during that drum break that you sense a lull: the crowd is polite but subdued. Up in the balcony, there’s room to move, to breathe. The spectacle loses a little steam. It’s not that Cornwell is bad, far from it, but the electricity feels dialed down.

When the show resumes, Cornwell tunes by ear, a rare and welcome vulnerability. He introduces ‘Dead Loss Angeles’ from The Raven (as confirmed on setlist-recordings of the night). When he launches into it, the audience, especially the die-hard fans, lights up. It’s a moment of genuine connection, the kind that reminds you why people came.

According to the announced bill, the show was billed as Nosferatu in full, plus Stranglers classics and solo staples, but by the time we’ve left (around halfway through the second half), things felt… a little tame. Both onstage and off, the energy was locked into a routine. Rather than an unpredictable gig, it felt like a meticulously delivered sermon, collection plate in hand yet respectful, lacking that edge of risk.

Hugh Cornwell is undeniably a legend, and seeing him still command a stage is worth it. But this particular night in Islington felt more like a nostalgic pilgrimage than a riot. The performance was polished, thoughtful, and at times haunting, but it didn’t quite catch fire. For fans who want reflection more than rebellion, it was a treat. For those dreaming of the strident, dangerous Cornwell of old, you might have walked away wanting more.

Luvcat

KOKO

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Stray-Cats & Scarlet Curtains: Luvcat’s Cure-Inflected Coronation at Koko

If you were on the socials in the latter part of October, you were guaranteed to see an uptick in horror memes, selfies with pumpkin-spice lattes; and Sophie Morgan Howarth a.k.a. Luvcat. Luvcat, seemed to erupt out of nowhere: a Sally-from-The Nightmare Before Christmas meets Amy Winehouse chimera suddenly colonising feeds across central London. And judging by the cavalcade now snaking down Camden High Street, it appears the rest of the city got the memo too.

We find ourselves at the tail end of that line outside KOKO, the word on the street being that it’s been growing unchecked since the morning. An eclectic flock chatters in high spirits, while my +1 frets about needing more makeup; “I need to put on more makeup,” he mutters, making his way towards the loo like he's auditioning for his own gothic cabaret. Rather than stress about the VIP queue we’ve been politely escorted out of, we detour instead into the pub, opting for the sloped path leading to seating which offers us a vantage point to keep an eye on the procession for movement and one elbow firmly on the bar.

When we re-emerge, a bit left of centre, the endless human serpent is nearly through the door. In our path, two loiterers casually necking Pinot Gris straight from the bottle block our path; classic Camden. Naturally we stall, chat, the bottle finds its way into our hands too, and suddenly that bottle morphs into lukewarm Sainsbos tins of gin and vodka. Oh my!. As long-time fans of Luvcat’s arc; from Paper Dress Vintage to MOTH to this sold-out KOKO climax, we ask what the fuss’s about. “She’s larger than life,” one says. “Like The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus but with heartbreak.” “It’s confessional. Swirling. Madness”, adds the other. We squint, trying to absorb it all, then realise we’ve missed the opener. We shove through the crowd, fighting for even a sliver of sightline towards the stage. KOKO is rammed.

Inside, the venue has been transformed into Luvcat’s crooked cabaret. A battered upright piano sits stage-left, draped in pearls and velvet gloom, crowned with a single green bottle glinting under the lights. Beside it stands Jack Fussey, casting sly glances between the pinstripes of his suit. Alongside him are Andy Richmond, Tom Fripp, and Will Jaquet; the four collaborators maintaining Luvcat’s orbit.

Sophie emerges, now Luvcat and drifts into view like a phantom with rehearsal scars; half-moon blonde hair, raven undercurrent, a tiny bow perched just so. The roar that greets her rattles the discoball. She begins at the piano, fingers trembling with theatre-born intent, opening with ‘Lipstick’, the crowd hanging on each phrase as though it were encoded with secrets.

Then the band shifts gears. Fussey’s chord rings out, jagged and heavy, and the stomping anthem ‘Matador’ hits like a firecracker in a tin can. The floor surges. People don’t just sing, they surrender. Shortly after, she returns to the piano for ‘Alien’, a dark confession of cosmic loneliness and horizontal heartbreak, the green bottle again catching the light like a silent witness.

Suddenly the theatre morphs. The drummer (whose kit lurks under the magenta haze) locks into a marching-snare rhythm; the band dons embellished jackets as though they’ve just walked off a stage set in 1920s Berlin. With a flourish she brandishes an accordion and launches into ‘Dinner @ Brasserie Zédel’, turning the room into a cabaret madhouse. Richmond and Fripp trade rhythmic punches; Jaquet perched on a high stool, keeping the chaos grounded.

Then comes the penultimate song: ‘Love & Money’. A slow build. Sophie grips the mic with both hands, voice low, tension taut. The crowd hushes. Then she unleashes a belt so raw it scrapes the air. Screams, tears, phones rising vertically like lighters, the moment fractures time. People clutch one another. We hold our breath. The stage is both altar and battlefield.

Finally, ‘He’s My Man’ closes the set; full circus, full heartbreak, full Luvcat. The band takes their bow, the curtain of red behind them soaking up the applause like velvet bruises. They toast. They linger. They leave us wanting more.

Stepping back into Camden, the city is different: glitter on collars, strangers arguing their favourite song, makeup smeared in cathartic victories. This wasn’t a “rising star” set, this was the moment after. KOKO didn’t just host a show, it witnessed a coronation. Luvcat didn’t just perform, she wove us together into her universe. We couldn’t help thinking this wouldn’t be the last we’d hear of this charming performer because in the words of the good Doctor Parnassus “You can’t stop a story being told.”

Automatic

Rough Trade East

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Living-Room Chaos in the Best Way

Not sure if it’s only us that feel this way, but there’s something undeniably special about catching an after-hours gig in a record store. Something about standing between neatly alphabetised vinyl while a band sound-checks feels both naughty and nice, like you’re watching a secret you’re not supposed to see.

This evening, hot off the heels of their latest drop, Is It Now?, L.A. natives Automatic are due to serenade and scribble on a stack of LPs at Rough Trade East. Judging by the swelling crowd, they’ll be signing long past closing; and icing their swollen wrists shortly after.

Doors technically open at seven, but someone clearly missed the memo on “and without further ado,” because there’s no opener and the band doesn’t appear until eight. With time to wander, we take in the details: an electric-orange, see-through drum kit, and a slatted-wood Moog that looks freshly teleported from the late ’60s. Very chic. Very mod. Fingers crossed it isn’t all style and no substance.

When the trio finally saunter onstage, they bring with them a tranquillity you’d be hard-pressed to score from a handful of beta-blockers. Whatever is happening internally is anyone’s guess, but outwardly they embody calm.

A soft tappa tappa tappa from the hi-hat opens ‘Calling It’, a bite-sized amuse-bouche of a song to whet the appetite. The pace is steady, almost meditative; but would the courses ahead offer variety? The bass quickly answers, pulling focus with a thumping insistence, less “Bloc Party punch” or “RHCP slap,” and more like the heavy-footed stalk of something curious in the dark. There’s even a touch of Sean Yseult’s (White Zombie) prowling, hypnotic vibe in the playing. Above it all, Izzy’s hands flutter across the keys with this cat-batting-at-a-candle’s-flame energy, peppering in melodies exactly where they’re needed.

‘Country Song’ follows, leaning into the once-trendy daydream of ditching the concrete for the countryside. But hang on; that’s not Lola on the drums. Who’s the long-haired stand-in? Wig? Doppelgänger? Izzy saves us from our spiralling: “It’s been three years since our last UK tour. We got here yesterday, we’re jetlagged — but happy to be running away from our problems in America, where bad things are happening.” A laugh. A wince. A shrug. And then the rhythm section snaps us back, the drums caffeinated and jittering in that Beck-adjacent way, the bass locking in with a playful, luring steadiness. Together they form a spine that keeps the entire set upright and twitching.

The music dips into influences from all over the indie-punk-electronic map; hints of Le Tigre, Iggy, The Strokes, even a dash of Interpol’s broody precision. Performance-wise, it's not quite garage and not quite basement; more “chaotic living room at 1 a.m.” A tambourine appears briefly, though the gig hardly needed an extra prop; the songs had enough pace and personality to hold attention without any stage distraction. Thirteen tracks, no lull, no drift.

At one point, Izzy introduces ‘MQ9’ with, “This next song’s about war.” Cue awkward laughter, quickly followed by, “Fun war — the song is fun, not war.” The mood recovers.

What begins as a fairly static performance loosens and unravels in the best way. For the finale, ‘Mercury’, Halle and Izzy swap spots so the latter can focus on vocals, a small shift that adds a welcome jolt of energy. No encore, just a crisp finish and a quick dash backstage before returning to face the snaking queue of fans circling the shop, each waiting for their pound of flesh at the signing table.

A solid gig overall, and those who also caught their Lexington show this week were doubly spoiled. Rough Trade got the living-room version of Automatic; warm, weird, steady, and tightly wound, and honestly, we wouldn’t have had it any other way.

King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard

Electric Brixton

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

A Rave from the Multiverse: King Gizz Melt Minds and Time Itself in Brixton

It’s hard not to imagine monumental destruction, loss of life, and air raid sirens in the distance when the name King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard comes thundering down upon your ears. With song titles like ‘Planet B’, ‘Crumbling Castle’, and ‘Gamma Knife’, it’s easy to hold eye contact while backing away carefully, limbs probing for a wall, anything that might lead to an exit. But stick around, friends; you might just be pleasantly obliterated.

There are only a few things you need to know about Melbourne: chicken parma, chicken salt, and the six lads who together form a power station of aural carnival delights. Since their inception in 2010, King Gizz have refused to slow down or stay still. Their sound mutates faster than their album count multiplies; and considering they dropped five releases in 2022 alone, that’s saying something.

Their name says it all: unbound, unbothered, unstoppable. Song length? Irrelevant. Genre? Please move, you’re blocking the view. Instrument count? As many as they can wire up before takeoff. After years of near misses, we finally caught night two of their sold-out run at Electric Brixton.

We arrive on Igor, a rattling bicycle held together by stubbornness and cable ties, and lock it up beside a serpentine queue of fans wrapping around the block. Both nights are sold out. Thankfully there’s a press entrance, less thankfully, our names are not on the list. A sweaty round of negotiation ensues as fans continue to flood in, the air thick with anticipation and patchouli. Eventually, a scaly thumbs-up from the door crew and we’re in.

Inside is chaos in high definition. Metalheads in sleeveless denim vests thrash shoulders with tie-dye dreamers in butterfly capes. Plush toys dangle from belts; glitter reflects from prescription lenses. Everyone looks slightly unhinged, but in that friendly, communal, “I’ve met God and he’s Australian” kind of way.

We make it four rows from the front, just in time for ORB (Organic Rock Band), who channel Hendrix and Sabbath in slow-motion. Someone beside us mutters, “Yeah, they’re good, but not Gizz good,” which in hindsight is like saying a sparkler’s fine, but you were expecting a supernova.

Then the lights drop.

The stage glows like a nuclear reactor; two tables of analogue synths tangled in cables, a drum kit, bongos, a sax, and a sci-fi flute wielded by frontman Stu. The crowd howls. The Rave Tour is underway, and every psych-rock expectation is about to be vaporised. The visuals and vibes are all @honeycomb (if you know you don’t, if you don’t, you should).

From the first surge of '2.02 Killer Year’, the floor becomes a living thing, every body moving in time with the bass that rattles your ribcage loose. By minute three, the first crowd surfers rise, human comets launched into a galaxy of hands. The visuals blur between pulsating waves, fractals, and cosmic decay, like watching the end of civilisation through a lava lamp.

By the third track, ‘Dreams’, we’re in uncharted territory. It’s a debut, and when it ends, the lyric page is torn from the stand and flung skyward. It spins like a mortar shell, catches the lights, and comes down on us like one too; landing squarely in our hands, promptly folded and tucked into the empty void where our heart used to beat. Safe. Secure. Sacred.

It becomes hard to tell where one track ends and the next begins; the set feels like a single, sprawling organism. You lose time, and you lose bearings. Maybe you lose yourself a little too.

After an hour and a half of rhythmic hypnosis, we slip out before the crush. Out on Brixton Road, the night air feels alien, like stepping back into the wrong timeline. Behind us, the venue still pulses like something alive.

The fans outside swap stories like war vets; Americans, Europeans (many of whom have met before abroad at Gizz shows), locals, all buzzing from the same cosmic current. Everyone’s got a reason for being here, but everyone leaves with the same glazed grin. King Gizzard’s power lies not in the songs, but in the experience; — a total rewiring of your musical DNA.

You don’t just see a Gizz show. You survive it, transformed, pupils dilated, heart temporarily misplaced.