M for Montreal

The Old Blue Last

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

QUÉBEC SPRING BLOWS THE ROOF (AND THE PLUMBING) OFF THE OLD BLUE LAST

Ballsy and Alix Fernz ignite M for Montreal’s 20th with soaked ceilings, soaked riffs and soaked shoes
 

It’s bucketing down in Shoreditch and the roof at the Old Blue Last is leaking like it’s on strike, but that’s hardly enough to drown out the buzz as M for Montreal hits town. Celebrating 20 years of building transatlantic bridges between Québec’s artful misfits and the UK’s music heads, the Canadian crew are throwing a party worthy of their rep, and yeah, the bar’s open and the pizza’s free. Good luck topping that, Camden.

First up, it’s Ballsy, and she’s not easing anyone in. Launching her set like a confetti cannon at a kindergarten rave, she’s all heart, hooks and heavy pop glow, the kind that makes you feel like you’re twelve again at your rich mate’s birthday bash. Except this time, the sugar’s swapped for wine and the cake’s a fridge full of free booze.

Her blend of dream-pop and indie grit, fresh off debut EP Bisou, has all the fizz of someone who’s not here to “warm up” the room; she is the room. “We just wanna have a fun time and party with you tonight,” she says, all swagger and sincerity. At one point, there’s talk of death by electrocution, “If I die tonight, someone clear my search history,” she quips, eyeing the water leaking from every crevice. It’s Montreal-in-May levels of damp, but Ballsy’s defiance is electric enough to dry socks.

There’s no drummer, but who cares? The beats are tight, the vibes are looser, and by the time she hollers, “Let’s get fucking weird on this one,” we’re already there. Closing with a shout-out that lands like a manifesto — “Fuck transphobia, fuck genocide, and fuck Donald Trump”, it’s clear: Ballsy isn’t just a party starter, she’s throwing Molotovs at the status quo and handing out glitter for the fallout.

Next up, Alix Fernz, in his UK debut, steps up like he’s been playing these shores forever. No filler, no chat, just a relentless, propulsive stream of fuzzed-out post-punk and lo-fi synthwave nightmares. If Ballsy lit the match, Alix is the firestorm after. It’s all in French, a bold choice that feels like a flex, and it works, tapping into that Molchat Doma-style otherness that makes lyrics feel secondary to vibe.

Imagine early-2000s French indie dragged through a dystopian wormhole and spat out in a leather jacket. There’s a gritty, magnetic stage presence that feels part Iggy Pop, part space crash survivor. At times, the band sounds like they’re playing inside a collapsing satellite, all chaotic drum assaults, upstroked bass lines like twitchy nerves, and synths that glue the madness together.

And yeah, that sound? It is like love songs interpreted by wild animals. There’s something rabid and romantic in the way the disjointed rhythms and maniacal vocals spiral together – and it turns out, they may owe part of the process to mushrooms. Alix is the rare kind of performer you can’t look away from, not because he’s begging for your attention but because you’re afraid you’ll miss something important if you blink.

It’s keenly, violently interesting. A showcase that proves “performance art” and “punk” don’t have to sit at opposite ends of the room, they can pull the pin, then calmly finish the verse.

As the night ends, the crowd spills out into the soaking London streets with cheap pizza slices and a buzz you can’t fake. M for Montreal’s London takeover is more than a showcase, it’s a reminder that the next wave of musical greatness doesn’t always come from LA lofts or East London basements. Sometimes it’s born in snowy provinces and explodes outwards, loud, weird and proud.

If this is your intro to the Québec Spring scene, consider it your call to action. Fernz plays The Lexington on Friday. Ballsy’s still gigging across the UK. The rest of the M for Montreal crew, from Geneviève Racette’s haunting folk to the post-genre chaos of Patche and Truck Violence, are dotted around the country like sonic landmines. Step on one. Trust me.

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.

Spear of Destiny

100 Club

By Captain Stavros

A Post-Punk Resurrection

The 100 Club on Oxford Street transformed into a crucible of raw energy and nostalgia as Spear of Destiny took the stage.  Led by the ever-charismatic Kirk Brandon, the band delivered a performance that was both a nod to their storied past and a testament to their enduring relevance.

The evening marked a significant moment in the band's journey, serving as a live unveiling of their ambitious new project, JANUS.  This double album revisits and reimagines two of their seminal works: 1987's Outland and 1988's The Price You Pay.  Brandon, reflecting on the project, explained, "Some may say why re-record... the reason is that I wanted them to sound as close to what I originally thought they should have sounded like”.

Opening with ‘The Wheel’, the band immediately set a tone of urgency and passion.  Brandon's vocals, still as potent as ever, wove through the dense tapestry of Adrian Portas's guitar riffs and Clive Osborne's evocative saxophone lines.  The rhythm section, with John Bourne on bass and Danny Farrant on drums, provided a formidable backbone, driving the songs forward with relentless momentum.

The setlist was a well-curated journey through the band's extensive catalog.  Classics like ‘Grapes of Wrath’ and ‘Pilgrim’ sat comfortably alongside newer tracks, showcasing the band's evolution without alienating longtime fans.  The crowd, a mix of seasoned devotees and curious newcomers, responded with fervor, their voices rising in unison during the anthemic ‘Never Take Me Alive’.

Throughout the night, Brandon engaged the audience with anecdotes and reflections, bridging the gap between performer and spectator.  His storytelling added depth to the performance, providing context and insight into the songs' origins and meanings.

The encore was a triumphant culmination, featuring ‘Radio Radio’, ‘Rainmaker’, and ‘Liberator’.  Each song was met with roaring approval, the crowd's energy undiminished even as the night wore on.

In an era where many bands from the '80s are content to rest on their laurels, Spear of Destiny's performance at the 100 Club was a powerful reminder of their continued vitality.  They didn't just revisit the past; they reinvigorated it, proving that their spear still strikes true.

Rival Consoles

Here at Outernet

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

A Lurching, Luminous Descent into Sub-Bass Serenity

They say competition is the mother of all invention. At Here at Outernet on Thursday night, there was certainly competition, for elbow room mainly, but invention was left to the man behind the synths. Rival Consoles, the electronic moniker of Ryan Lee West, turned a packed crowd into a mesmerised mass, uniting heads in rhythmic sway and hearts in analog tension.

It was our first outing to the venue, which lies deep in the sensory-overloaded underbelly of Oxford Street; all LED vertigo and neon sensory assault at the entrance. Inside, it’s a different story. Blacked out, multi-tiered, and faintly futuristic, the space feels somewhere between a Bond villain’s lair and a Nordic techno temple. It’s already jostling for bronze on our local venue podium, just behind The Social and the 100 Club.

Opener Forest Swords, offering a slow bleed of ambient haze, drifted in like a prelude to something far more kinetic. Though texturally intriguing, it felt less like live performance and more like the audio equivalent of descending gently into a K-hole. The crowd bobbed, but there was a certain listlessness in the air, waiting.

Then, without much warning, aside from a cheer that hinted the true contest was about to begin, Rival Consoles emerged. A mop of hair flailing gently behind the synth racks, West looked every bit the dark maestro. His setup resembled an IKEA shelving unit mid-meltdown, cables like tangled serpents spilling from its guts. And from that nest came the noise.

What followed was not so much a setlist as a sculpted journey. Sound carved into crescendo, texture, and restraint. Opening with an electronic harpsichord motif, the night slowly unspooled into layers of rich synth, shadowy bass and feverish modulation. Each movement felt precise, almost architectural. A Jekyll and Hyde of sound; calm one moment, seething the next, kept the room taut with anticipation.

The visuals, fogged, flickering and more than a little phantasmagoric, suggested either the inside of a rotting firework or a ride through a decomposing circulatory system. Maybe both. Either way, not one for the photosensitive.

By the halfway point, there was a brief moment to breathe, a short intermission that primed the room for what was arguably the emotional apex of the set: ‘Catherine’. A track that pulled at something deep and human beneath all the circuitry, it silenced the room in the best way possible. That rare hush you get when electronic music manages to feel completely alive.

Transitions throughout were seamless, the pacing meticulous. Watching West’s right hand flutter anxiously across knobs and keys felt like watching a fever dream being meticulously mapped in real time.

In the end, Rival Consoles didn’t just play a gig. He constructed a low-lit cathedral of oscillating pressure and release. No shouty crowd, no smashed guitars — just a full house bound together by bass, light, and a sense of something quietly profound.