The Paper Kites

The Roundhouse

By Captain Stavros

Softly Does It: The Paper Kites Cast a Spell Over Camden

On a rain-slicked February night in Camden, The Paper Kites didn’t just play The Roundhouse — they shrank it. February 24 saw the Australian outfit turn the cavernous former engine house into something unexpectedly close-quarters, the kind of gig where even the bar queues seemed to move in a hush.

From the smoky sway of ‘Morning Gum’, it was clear this wouldn’t be a bells-and-whistles affair. Frontman Sam Bentley’s voice — warm, frayed at the edges and completely unshowy — drifted over brushed drums and slow-burn guitars, while harmonies stacked up like dusk settling over the city. It’s a sound that doesn’t beg for attention; it earns it.

Touring behind their latest record, the band feel looser, deeper in the pocket. Earlier material once flickered with indie-folk fragility; now the newer cuts stretch and simmer. ‘Black & Thunder’ rolled in on a bluesy undercurrent, all tension and release, while ‘Without Your Love’ built patiently before blooming into a full-room singalong that caught even the balcony off guard.

What makes The Paper Kites compelling live isn’t volume — it’s control. They trust the space between notes. They’re happy to let a song hang for a second longer than expected. In a capital city hooked on sensory overload, that kind of restraint feels quietly defiant.

Between tracks, Bentley kept things easy, grinning about spotting the band’s name plastered across Camden earlier that day — still sounding faintly surprised by it all. That grounded energy bled into the performance itself: no grandstanding, no forced drama, just songs delivered with total conviction.

What makes The Paper Kites compelling live isn’t bombast — it’s patience. They let songs breathe. They let pauses linger. In a city addicted to noise, that restraint feels radical. Even Bentley’s easy charm between tracks — wide-eyed about seeing their name lit up on Camden streets — only deepened the sense that this was a band quietly astonished by their own journey.

By the time the encore closed, the Roundhouse felt lighter, like the room itself had exhaled. No fireworks. No gimmicks. Just songs, played beautifully, hanging in the air long after the lights came up.

By the encore, the Roundhouse felt stilled in the best way — not subdued, but settled. No gimmicks, no overkill. Just a band confident enough to let subtlety do the heavy lifting.

And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

The audience at the Roundhouse stand waiting in anticipation while the clock projected onto the screen at the back of the stage counts down the minutes. As zero hour approaches, the crowd chant – “five, four, three, two, one”. Low walk onto the stage. If sinister three-piece husband/wife Mormon slowcore is what you’re looking for, then you’re in the right place. There is a black and white projection of a waterfall running down the backdrop of the stage. As they walk on, the outlines of Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker create silhouettes on the back wall, an effect both hypnotic and sinister, adjectives one could use as a fairly apt description of Low.

 They kick off with new album, Ones And Sixes opener, ‘Gentle’. Electronic, scattershot drums like a eulogy, their audience are immediately rapt. They follow with lead single from the album, ‘No Comprende’ - the muted 4/4 of the guitar underpinning Sparhawk’s croons, “The house is on fire and your hands are tied…” Things are equally as menacing on ‘The Innocents’, with Parker’s gentle, lilting “all you innocents, might be done for it...” Low’s music has always resisted interpretation, the repetition of single lines forcing their listener to engage with a song as a sonic landscape, rather than reading the words like a narrative. No verse/chorus here, only the slow teasing out of a theme. Low stand quiet onstage - no hints, no chat, no clues. Just three shadows on a black and white backdrop.

Now entering their third decade as a band, Low have never rested on their laurels. Although thematically Low albums often reference each other, every new release represents a band constantly moving forward. Ones And Sixes is as far removed from the lush, Tweedy-produced guitar songs of previous effort, The Invisible Way as that album was from the icy beauty of 2011’s C’mon, or the electronic bleeps of 2007’s Drums And Guns. Although their music has never stayed the same, the seam that runs through all Low records though, is that sense of foreboding - the feeling that while the band are standing onstage singing, there is something in the corner of your eye, something approaching.