Eel Men

The Social

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Sweat, Smog and Sharp Hooks: Eel Men Electrify The Social 

It’s the first properly sleeveless evening of the year — aided, in part, by the thick fug of central London hanging over Little Portland Street like a nicotine-stained duvet. Outside The Social, clusters of smokers and lager-sweating punters blur together in the heat, tongues wagging as loudly as the traffic. Before long, drinks are downed, cigarettes stubbed, and the crowd is funneled downstairs into the venue’s low-ceilinged concrete bunker to witness Eel Men launch their latest release.

We snag a booth right at the lip of the stage — where sticky wood meets chipped concrete — and clock a crescent-shaped chunk missing from the corner of the table. Less wear-and-tear, more bite mark. You wonder what kind of night caused that. Perched awkwardly sideways and narrowly avoiding the swinging headstock of Snub’s bassist every few minutes, it already feels less like a gig and more like surviving inside one.

On what was then the hottest day of the year, Eel Men emerge dressed like office workers caught in the wrong dimension: shirts, ties, jumpers, jackets — everyone wilting except the drummer, the only member with the common sense to wear a T-shirt. The music, though, is gloriously unbothered by climate or comfort. Gritty, stripped-back and claustrophobically textured, the band tear into ‘Bad Eggs’ from 2025 EP, Stop It! Do Something, with enough twitchy energy to knock the room sideways.

Then comes ‘Archetype’ — track three and already the point where the oxygen fully disappears. Ghostly psychedelic riffs slink down the fretboard like a stray pressed against a darkened alley wall while the crowd relentlessly surges forward. Bodies compress. Pints spill. Suddenly the venue’s single entrance/exit feels like deeply irresponsible architecture. Nobody cares. If the place catches fire from the smouldering tunes, so be it, at least the soundtrack will be phenomenal.

What’s remarkable is just how clean everything sounds despite the room feeling vacuum-sealed. Every bassline lands with a satisfying thud, every jagged guitar line cuts through the sweat haze. On ‘Motives’, frontman Jimmy Elliot delivers the line “would you kiss your mother with that mouth?” before smooching the hot mic with even hotter results.

Special guest Steph Anderson — multi-instrumentalist extraordinaire whose CV already reads like a mini-festival lineup (Yassassin, Findlay and countless others) — joins the band for ‘Glass Hammers’, adding shimmering synth textures via a tiny Korg perched stage-right. From there on, the set barely pauses for breath. Songs collapse seamlessly into one another with almost no between-track chatter; just relentless momentum and heads whipping from stage-left to stage-right trying not to miss a second.

New track ‘Autobahn Eyes’ lands like it’s already a fan favourite, signalling the final act of the set as the room descends into full-body heatstroke delirium. By now jackets and ties have been discarded onto the stage floor, the band visibly pushing themselves to the limit while never losing control of the set’s razor-wire precision. Steph Anderson, meanwhile, remains somehow immaculate throughout — silver trousers gleaming under the lights while delivering a standout performance on ‘Sore Eyes’, where even the tambourine parts demand your full attention. Not many people can make a tambourine feel like a headline instrument. She manages it effortlessly.

‘Pink Ones’ arrives with a bassline filthy enough to rattle fillings loose, while ‘Beschemel’ proves the night’s most unhinged moment: frantic, fast and impossible not to move to. An absolute slammer.

The set closes with a razor-tight double encore and the kind of applause that feels less polite than necessary. Looking around the room afterwards, there are familiar faces everywhere — Voices Radio’s Babe El Oued, Billy and Jackson formerly of Loose Tongues now dipping in and out of various projects, plus other musicians and scene regulars all exchanging the same knowing nods. The sort of crowd that tells you this band’s reputation has already spread long before the algorithms catch up.

Those in the know clearly already know.

Now you do too.

Eel Men are touring across Europe through the end of June following their album release. Miss them at your own peril.

Italia 90

@ The 100 Club, London

Words and pics by Captain Stavros

I’ll never associate the idea of heading down Oxford High Street and having a good time but, like the ubiquitous free-living organism Bacteria, even the polished facade of the (failing) Great British High Street has a few spit-and-sawdust sanctums left in and around it’s crevices.  This fine evening after a pit stop at one said establishment, Bradley’s Spanish Bar to wet our beak, we head to another The 100 Club to catch Italia 90’s album release party for their latest cut, Living Human Treasure.

Our introduction to this raw and unapologetically political outfit months back was two-fold and quite by chance.  While at the Oslo covering label mate Flossing’s gig, which was an absolute banger by the way, we were introduced to Renton lookalike, Alfie; Italia 90’s frontman.  A serendipitous happenstance, as earlier in the day we were enjoying the new single, ‘Leisure Activities’.  Soft spoken, in contrast with his on-stage persona, his attention’s split between a World Cup match on the big-screen and receiving my compliments on his work.  Carelessly, he invites me to their album release which we slightly, only slightly, accept a tad bit over zealously.  This just about brings us up to speed, which is to say descending the stairs of The 100 Club.

We make our entrance to Alfie being chastised for chatting during the support act’s set.  Press Release’s drummer, Liv Wynter is having none of it.  For a notoriously hard to search band, they’re quite outspoken and, upon reflection, perhaps one to keep an eye on.  They’re followed by Scrounge, a post-punk duo that reminds us of an early Blood Red Shoes.  With the stage amply warmed up and with a full house an extended cabinet of seven band members (strings/keys/saxs and guest singers) march on stage to a Roman Gladiator ballad blasting through the house speakers. Uh-oh.

Although named Italia 90, perhaps they’d consider rebranding to Bosnia in the 90s because as ‘Cut’, the first track of the set and album, kicks off I’m catching a fuckload of shrapnel in the way of elbows and knees across my frail and withering frame.  The crowd has completely kicked off, literally.  The tune lurks like a dog pressed against a wall.  Its shadow spreads across the crowd as whoops and hollers ripple back to the stage.  The album is played in consecutive fashion with ‘Leisure Activities’ continuing to stoke the flames, I may add, with zero consideration for the absolute battering yours truly is receiving.

‘Magdalene’ is next and comes smashing over us much like the fists are descending upon my skull by windmilling maniacs in the pit.  A George Costanza lookalike to the right of me, after seeing me smashed and splattered across the stage, assures me he’s “got me” as I brace myself against a PA back into a standing position, but soon he too is also swallowed up by the relentless revellers.  Moments later, a redhead in a cocktail dress a full foot taller than me in fingerless leather gloves apologizes for elbowing me in the neck.  She smiles with a thin stream of blood reflecting back at me from between her teeth, the early stages of gum disease or yours truly falling in love?  Will I live long enough to find out? ‘Competition (Cawm Paw Tishun)’, an oldie but a goodie, is a longer tune which thankfully pacifies the crowd just long enough for me to catch my breath and fashion a tourniquet for my arm out of my backpack’s strap.

After taking a knee for a moment, Italia 90 roars back to full steam with ‘New Factory’, a tune like a car out of control on a motorway weaving between lanes.  The crowd’s jubilant response is a single undulating wave smashing against the rocks, or in this case myself once more being dashed across the stage.  A boot has now found its way across my face from a sole stage diver, none other than the George Costanza lookalike who’d promised to retain my virtue.  Up next, ‘The Mumsent Mambo’ introduces guest singer Sam the Plumber, who spits a few bars.  I'd later be introduced to Sam by way of more elbows and shoulders in the pit as he shared the mic next to me with Alfie off stage.  Sam’s hot, steamy breath splashed back at me, you wouldn’t have thought it, but it was a genuinely pleasant experience. Smelt of cloves, quite refreshing.

The last few memorable tracks to follow were ‘Golgotha’, one that Alfie acknowledges as a commercial weak moment but one that he and the band are actually quite proud of.  I agree, maybe not commercially viable, but great lyrics.  Speaking of lyrics, ‘Does He Dream?’, is perhaps my favourite of the set so far; “Intervenes stimulation/ production line titillation./ Mandatory consumption/ responses required”.  ‘Tales from Beyond’ was the last song we heard as we exited the pit, there would be one more, ‘Harmony’, followed by two more in the encore.  ‘Tales from Beyond’ had great flow and energy, not to mention this song was where Alfie’s talent as a vocalist really blasted through.  For us, this is where the set (should’ve) ended.

Speaking to Stoya, The 100’s bar manager, between sets about why so many cups were hanging across nearly all the taps on the bar he confided in us.  “I hate advertising something I can’t sell, if you see it, we want to sell it, but we just can’t get the product.  We’ve been struggling for weeks”.  The product in this case being beer.  This reminded us of the precarious position music found itself in not too long ago between 2020-2022.  Being able to get music but not at a venue, it just isn’t the same.  Italia 90’s show left us weak in the knees, in more ways than one, reminding us not take these experiences for granted and that the pain is temporary (in most cases) so get out there.  Italia 90s album is out now and they’ll be swinging by London way again soon, wouldn’t miss either if we were you.