Facebook Slider

October and the Eyes At The Lexington (Live Review)

 

October and the Eyes

At The Lexington

Words and pics by Captain Stavros

A hole is a weird thing.  I mean, if you stop and think about it for a while.  The aperture is a thin membrane but with sharp and defined borders.  It can contain not only the speed of light itself but the amount of it.  Not only that but, usually, it’s a one-way trip.  Stare long enough into the abyss, amiright?  On August 18, by some mad twist of fortune, I’d soon be falling through the eyeholes of October and the Eyes.  I just didn’t know it yet.  Thanks in part to the tube and bus strike, for giving me a minute to myself, I’d been afforded a moment to filter through a backlog of e-mails.  I’d used the time to compose a massive Singles that Mingle post when I came across OATE latest single, ‘Tit Pic’.  Even before the track finished, I knew it’d make the list but what I didn’t know, until a few seconds from then, was that they were playing on this fateful eve and that I’d be there to witness it.  With all of my holes.  All of them.

The Lexington, from the get-go, has an electric energy as I step into it.  Everyone looks awesome.  Not so much runway/airbrushed versions of themselves, just interesting and kitsch.  I rock up to that huge slab of wood they call the bar and, with bravado, I am feeling myself*, order a pint of the black stuff.  Seems fitting.  The pint, in a glass, for under 5.50?  In LONDON?  What sort of sorcery was this!?  Oi, oi, off to a good start already.  Not skipping a beat, I skulkingly make my way up the long staircase to the stage where I’m greeted with a literal blast of cold air from an AC unit humming the tunes of the Tundra, whoo ha!  It would, in a few short moments, be more necessity than luxury as the very flames of hell would be summoned upon us.

*Not literally.

Through a dense darkness the colour of squid ink and the fog, artificial as it may be, emerges what David Bowie must’ve meant by The Spiders From Mars.  These long legged, platform booted, muscle bound pipe cleaners open their set by ‘Playing God’ both literally and figuratively!  I didn’t know what to expect but when I saw Aldous RH tuning up before the set, I knew we’d all be in for something nothing less than spectacular.  Drowning in heavily soaked, grungy chords and tribal drums, October’s sensational vocals rip through a packed and undulating audience a la Karen O.

The performance feels massively charged, like a powder keg ready to blow but it’s more than just explosive.  October, a woman possessed by the dark arts in a way that feels familiar to her, has made a home in the void, making friends of shadows.  What is it with New Zealander’s anyway?  There’s a Crucifix behind you!! Imagine Wednesday Addam’s laissez-faire attitude to the ghoulish and obscene.  Totally our scene!

About three quarters through the set, October announces she’s going to slow things down with a love song. She covers Nine Inch Nails’ ‘Closer’.  She swoops down the stage above me until she’s perched, spreading her arms wide screaming, ‘I WANT TO FUCK YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL’.  I can literally feel the heat radiate off her and all I can think to myself is, ‘It's a funny feeling being taken under the wing of a dragon. It's warmer than you'd think’ - Gangs of New York.

Shit gets witchy AF when ‘Spiral’, the penultimate song, is set loose upon us.  The few remaining lights on are snuffed out.  ‘UV’ is scrawled next to the song on the playlist and, when those blacklights came on, October’s contact- adorned peepers and fangs light up with an intense madness.  The set rounds off with a janky, and frankly anticlimactic, ‘All My Love’.  A great tune for introducing a spit and sawdust roadhouse and its cast of characters, in our opinion.

We’re absolutely floored after the set, by hole standards it was the blackest of supermassives.  It was a rolling feast for the eyes and ears, we haven’t even covered the giant two-person saw played with a bow throughout, Joey Sheet Noise’s most righteous DJ set(s) comprised of ‘80s grinders, and the entire audience which was a giant oozing pit.  I fucking loved it.  For a relatively new player, October definitely has her game on lock.  The best part?  You never know if you’re coming up for air through the light or falling deeper into its blackness.  Regardless, we’d gladly, time and time again, fall through the holes of her eyes.

 

Read more...

I Experienced A Failure Show

Our dear friend and contributor, Dr. Sebastian Von Gekruldhaar, has sent another missive.  Here he records his latest excursion into cultural anthropology, featuring Failure in Toronto's Velvet Underground.

While in Toronto, Ontario a couple weekends ago for a conference concerning the human anthropological advancements and drawbacks within modern society, I was fortunately led astray for an evening.  So much of the day was taken up by lecturer after lecturer speaking on the positive effects us humans have had, and will continue to have, within our time on this fantastic planet.  It all became a redundant blur.  Clearly, an attempt to shine a light on the 'good news' of the day to comfort, when there is so much of the 'bad news' we are inundated with on a constant basis.  But I sought out to hear our shortcomings, our drawbacks, our failures.

I used the Google machine and searched "failure toronto" which resulted in an event at The Velvet Underground on the Sunday night.  Arrival for 7:30.  A brief documentary at 8:30, then followed by what appeared to be three gentlemen and a discussion on the topic of "Failure".  I hastily purchased a ticket and arrived in proper time.  While standing in line, I noticed the age of the crowd's attendants varied.  Some older than myself, well into their 50s, and with some as young adults.  Some even wore shirts that said "Failure" on them.  I postulated the three men must have some very unique insights on the topic of Failure because they clearly have a loyal following.

After walking into the venue, clearly named after Michael Leigh's 1963 paperback release (which gave me pause in case of unwarranted sexual perversions), the room was unconventional for a lecture.  There were musical instruments on stage, perhaps for a house band dedicated to the venue.  I purchased a spirit from the tattooed barkeep, a Roku Koori Negroni to be exact, and walked to the brick wall, waiting for our documentary viewing to begin before the host lecturers.

The documentary began with a young girl singing a sweet, lullaby-type melody with her acoustic guitar.  I thought this was an odd way to begin the viewing, but I figured the context would make itself apparent later on.

Which it did - but not in the context I was hoping for.  And I realized the night's event would be absence of a lecture, but presence of a rock and roll band.  A band named Failure.  How foolish I was!  How my research with the Google machine failed me!  How I mentally kicked myself for being too easily led astray!  I felt too embarrassed to leave after purchasing the ticket for admittance.  Do I regret staying?

No. No. No.

Not one bit.

The evening only further developed my education in contemporary music, of which a fresh experience could only yield.

The documentary provided insight into this band Failure, testimonials by what appeared to be known fans and fellow musicians and actors.  I kept note of their names as best as possible.  Interviewees like a foul-mouthed Tommy Lee spoke highly of their beginnings; a garbage person by the name of Butch Vig said how he still listens to the band's 1996 album "Fantastic Planet" in its entirety to this day; a tradesperson named Maynard spoke of his high regard and respect for the band, and praising the co-main songwriter Gregory Edwards.  Other interviewees described their music as a "loud, dull roars", their dynamics of loud and quietness, with sounds from a distant galaxy beaming to Earth embossed within the music.  But the drawback and failing within the documentary viewing was how the three men fell into illegal drug habits.  Obviously, this would strain musical output and the relationships of the members within.  My later research showed an end to the band in 1997, but reformed in 2014.  The long break between in the band's activity was reflected in my observation of the vast range of the attendants ages.  What appeared was a band, not quite well-known, but highly respected and maintained interest in the public discourse enough to garner not one, but perhaps two new generations of fans and followers.  "There must be something special here", I thought, "and I must seek it out".  The documentary viewing then ended but transitioned to an animated episode called "Space Madness" from the show "Ren & Stimpy".  Yes, something special must be here from this band Failure, even within the context of the disturbingly, unrealistic animation of domesticated, anthropomorphic animals in outer space.

As the cartoon was resolving its story, the band members entered the stage to much applause.  Then as the video quickly faded to black, then band did not so much punch into the first song, but sonically blasted into their opening song which I later found out is titled Submarines, from their latest record "Wild Type Droid" (2021).  Standing further back from the stage, mid-crowd, not one body was still, heads and shoulders moved to Failure's deep rhythms and along with the drummer's pummeling, care of Kellii Scott.  It was not just the opening song, though.  Track after track, song after song, my fellow crowdmates were continuously enamored by the performance and celebratory at the conclusion of each song.

The second loudest applause of the evening was when the PA system for the Velvet Underground popped and shut off half way through Bad Translation.  The trio had to take a moment, the singer on stage right, Kenneth Andrews, was not impressed - but luckily, the venue patrons were.  Impressed that their performance over-powered the PA, as if the electronic system needed a breather.  Brief cries of disappointment followed with a slow clap to an erupting crowd-wide applause, cheering Failure back on.  Kenneth walked up to the microphone to declare "Let's do that from the beginning." We, the people, agreed.

After playing for an hour or so, engulfing every dead space in The Velvet Underground, Failure went back stage, only to play peekaboo, and return with thunderous applause and cheers.  Kenneth stated the band would play some "older stuff".  In retrospect, I have come to find that the last six songs performed are the quintessential definition of what makes this rock band special.  These were the last six tracks of that seminal masterpiece of an album, "Fantastic Planet".  The music itself was haunting, but caressing; orchestral grandiose, but through minimal instrumentation; moments of delusion and depression, offset with a glimmer of hope; other-worldly, but familiarly human.  This was defining work.  This was artistic expression.  There was a high I felt that night, only trying to replicate it in the two weeks since attending.  I have come up short, only to obsess in the relistening of those songs in commemoration of their performance, the crowd singing along to The Nurse Who Loved Me and Stuck On You.  We heard their story of hitting life's lows, only to see them on the other side, stronger from each of the members' own failures.

I found Failure that Sunday night.  And their anecdotal music was not the lecture I wanted, but the lecture we needed, cementing their special-ness.

Dr. Sebastian Von Gekruldhaar July, 2022

Read more...

Ellie Bleach @ The Old Blue Last (Live Review)

Ellie Bleach

The Old Blue Last

Live review by Captain Stavros 

Brace yourself.  This next piece of advice isn’t for the faint of heart but if you’re willing to push the boat out on this one, go against popular opinion, and perhaps science/health and safety, you will not regret it.  You should immediately put bleach in your eyes, but don’t stop there, stuff your ears with it!  I would go so far as to say you should bathe yourself in bleach, if that’s a luxury that is available to you.  If you can still see the screen at this point and have made it to the ‘cautionary statement’* part of the review, we of course meant you should stuff your senses with Ellie Bleach.

Seated on a wobbly stool behind a set of keys, and in front of group of floppy haired man-boys in worn-out sneakers with equally worn-out trousers and shirts, is Ellie.  You wouldn’t know she was from London, by way of Essex, from her early release ‘Leave Me Alone’ in 2018, because she doesn’t sound English.  Since then, she’s perhaps not yet become a household name but has been popping up on the right underground radars (blows on nails, shining them on shirt).  A nettlesome Bleach looks out at us through ice blue eyes from the stage at the Old Blue Last.  Brown-slacked legs slide comfortably under the keys in well-worn loafers, the kind my Grandpa would always complain about losing.  Her set starts off with ‘Precious Feelings’ from her new EP No Elegant Way To Sell Out.

The gig is a mashup between a lounge act in casino residency clothing and somewhere along the lines of a cruise ship piano bar.  The music is easy to dip in and out of, great for a walk or a tube ride when you want to be left alone with your own thoughts where inevitably the lines blur between yours and hers.  Ellie is as effortlessly captivating as she is entertaining, following a well-rehearsed pace that is unhurried but with a confident stride.  Bleach’s seasoned crowd engagement and banter balances well with her music’s dark and playful affectation.  One moment she’s flirting with us, batting eyelashes over her shoulder, the next she’s talking about stabbing frat boys in Manhattan.  It’s all in jest, one hopes, however and secretly we believe we’ll never peel away all the layers to see what lies beneath, having to settle for seeing what we’re shown.

Lyrically, Ellie is as acidulous as she is expository, “your search is through/you’ve finally found a girl that’s smarter than you” from her last single ‘Big Strong Man’ sings the unspoken.  I’m particularly attracted to the unconventional approach to, or at times even sidestepping, a chorus.  The music’s not trying to hypnotize with repetition, she’s telling her story and we’re very interested in listening.  ‘Doing Really Well, Thanks’ closes out the set and is a great example of her signature style.  The contrast between the music, jaunty keys with Bleach’s bouncing legs beneath the keys coupled with fuzzy guitar and bass, marries up nicely to the lyrics, “I've done awful things for money, but you've all done worse for free”.  Not exactly accusatory but food for thought nonetheless.

The announcement of her aforementioned last track was met with a chorus of soft boos, myself included.  Could we be blamed for wanting more?  Ellie, adopting a mocked hurt tone, asks us not to boo her.  After her set, the only thing louder than the demands for more was a resounding “NO!” booming into the mic and over the crowd as attempts to coax and cajole an encore fall on deaf ears (probably literally).  “You’ll speak when spoken to” finishes the set; I’m chiding myself for only thinking of yelling out “yes, mistress!” in hindsight.  On our way to a frozen margarita nightcap, the glass sweating in our hands on a warm summer night we spoke about what we’d seen and heard. Summed up? Kooky vibes, quite cool though, seems like a normal person, maybe relatable is a better way to put it.  If you missed this show, throw a follow on the socials (@bleachellie) to catch the next gig.  Wish her a belated happy birthday while you’re at it too.

*Stuffing bleach into your eye and earholes may be injurious to your health (Marky-Ed.)

 

Read more...

Tindersticks @ Royal Festival Hall, London (Live Review)

 

Tindersticks

Royal Festival Hall

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Is there such a thing as a subtle flair for the dramatic?  I’m imagining something along the lines of sleight of hand by candlelight.  It’s been 30+ years and Tindersticks have lost neither their ability to surprise or put out ‘the soundtrack to my life’ albums.  On this bank holiday weekend, we’re fortunate enough to catch their first performance in the capital in three years largely due in part to the obvious (hint: our equivalent of the blip).

Sitting in the auditorium of the Royal Festival Hall, the stage is presented like a plate in a Michelin Star Restaurant; wide open in front of you with subtle complexity.  Perfectly lit, at least from row J.  The plush comforts one might find in a boutique cinema; tons of leg room, comfortable seating arm rests for days and being able to see over everyone's head all whilst sitting down, unfolds before us.  The stage feels like it’s at chin-level.  We could get used to this.

Stuart A. Staples soon saunters out on stage bathed in pools of midnight blue, that purple haziness, you know the one.  The audience comes alive with a polite clap and subdued affirmations, they’re rewarded in equal measures with hushed lyrics whispered into the mic.  The first tune, ‘Willow’ comes out as thick velvety as the smoke from the fog machine.  The hall was pregnant with anticipation so weighted you could easily hear a pin drop.  I’m not sure if it felt like we were being teased with the slow and unhurried pace of the music or if we were teasing the songs out of them.  In either case, I appreciated the anticipation of wanting to hear more.  The pace was molasses but so was its viscosity.

I leaned over and asked our +1 what she thought of ‘Another Night In’ over our golf claps between songs, ‘what language is he speaking?’ was what I got back.  I assured her both Stuart is and was speaking English.  Were lyrics important when there was so much going on in between the words?  A single wooooooooo hoooooooo stretched out across the auditorium from the crowd eerily juxtaposed against the gently sloshing of maracas.  Tones of Western skies and deserts woven throughout with the help of a hollow bodied Gretsch and Les Paul washed over us.  A lone trumpeter took to the stage halfway through appearing only after a spotlight fell on him.  It’s his time to shine as he unwaveringly holds a note in ‘Sleepy Song’ for what feels like ages, thoroughly impressive as it is evocative.

As the xylophone, keyboards, saxophones, and a half orchestra take the stage the set too starts to feel like it’s stretching out beyond the ages, and yet, it goes on.  The mystery of what and who’s to come next has come and gone along with a variety in the sound, the hand’s been played.  There are now 10+ musicians on stage and we’re at 1 hour and 40 minutes in when I sneak a peek at my phone, to take notes of course.  The audience members leaving in droves.  We thought they had gone to the loo over the past 20 minutes but had had yet to return.  The kid sat next to us was fast asleep.  The set by this point had ballooned to 18 tracks and continued to expand to a final 22 including encore.  30 years of music is no small feat, hell, 30 years of anything is nothing to sneer at.  Unfortunately, trying to cram it all into one night when the human attention span keeps shrinking, I dunno, it’s at a record low currently, 8 seconds.  That’s shorter than a goldfish!  Anyway, what was I talking about?  Oh yeah, aside from the set needing a hearty chop it was a solid time in the ole city.  Reminded us a lot catching Lampchop at the Barbican 10 years or so ago.

 

 

Read more...

Ibibio Sound Machine @ The Electric Ballroom

 

Ibibio Sound Machine

The Electric Ballroom 

by Captain Stavros

The air is a bit thicker than usual in Camden as I walk down the high street on a humid April evening.  Ambulances scream past me on my right as a young boy shoves a basketball under his shirt faking contractions.  At least, I hope he's faking.  It's on this evening, before a four-day weekend, that I’m being inducted into the Ibibio Sound Machine factory.

Perhaps, like us until recently, you’ve not even heard of the 10-piece phenomenon that is The Machine.  Fronted by Nigerian singer Eno Williams, Ibibio Sound Machine is a clash of African and electronic elements inspired in equal measure by the golden era of West-African funk & disco and modern post-punk & electro.  You might be thinking to yourself, “gimme a break, we can’t keep up with each and every scorching hot artist popping up that’s your job!”  Fair play, only thing is, London based ISM have been kicking it around the way for the better part of a decade.  With three LPs and an EP under their belt, they’re the best worst kept secret.  Trust me, we’re embarrassed too.  With Electricity out on the May 11, ISM is warming up now before hitting the festival circuit and we were just lucky enough to get a peak.

Shuffling into the ballroom, I'm held up at security.  Not for a frisk, instead it seems the gleam off the pins on my denim jacket catch the guards' eye which are thoroughly inspected in lieu of my pockets.  Lucky for me.  The peculiar luck doesn’t end there.  At the box office, I'm mistakenly given a photo pass.  I consider flogging it for beer, rather than snapping shots in the pit using my phone.  Making my way past the merch table I see, plugged in, lamps for sale.  I’m both confused and intrigued, but break free and continue to the stage.  I get a good spot and watch opener Porij.  Honourable mention as they played a solid set with the highlight being ‘Divine’.  Eggy on vocals introduces the track, “This next one's called ‘Divine’, and it basically means you're the shit, everybody knows if so, just enjoy it”.  Great energy throughout the set; worth catching a headlining gig.

ISM cuts no corners when it comes to showmanship.  The 10 piece and two backing singers; Eno’s sister and best friend, and other collaborators, fill the stage and welcome the canary-draped Space Goddess on last.  Everyone on stage looks out of this world but Eno takes the cake.  From her intricate hair, Egyptian inspired jewellery and banging pipes, no effort is spared.  Not one element of the stage is static, from the drum set to the keys throughout their performance.  Cymbals are crashing, keys are clacking and the guitars, brass (sax/trumpets) and bongos have all taken a life of their own.  It was next to impossible to catch a shot that wasn’t blurry of Eno, as she wasn’t still between singing, playing the keys, clapping and dancing.  Even her clothes seemed to take a life of their own wildly whipping around in the windless venue.

The audience and myself were captivated throughout.  ISM kept pumping out love and tunes in equal measures and everyone was receptive.  It was a cultural melting pot that oscillated to a frequency everyone was switched on to, a pleasant change from the last few gigs I’d attended.  Eno’s woven into her music and embraced her Nigerian roots (both musically and lyrically) but goes beyond the cosmos with her live show.  It’s an incredibly warm and inclusive vibe full of singing (audience included but don’t ask me how) clapping, snapping and dancing.  Highlight of the set was ‘Protection from Evil’ which I’m confident we all were feeling after being blasted with sonic love in the Ballroom that evening.  The set ended with a nearly 40-minute finale where the band jammed out as they were individually introduced.  I cannot imagine how mind-blowing an untethered open-air performance would be.  There is one way to find out though.

 

 

 

Read more...

The Lovely Eggs @ Heaven (Live Review)

 

 

The Lovely Eggs

@ Heaven

By Captain Stavros

I’d like you to close your eyes and envision the word underbelly.  Not a particularly palatable word, is it?  Hold that thought, or better yet, feeling of repulsion and come with me on a journey below Charing Cross station.  Let your mind drift along the sloping gutters that dump their sewage into the Thames.  What’s that frothy scum floating atop that grey-water towards the proverbial underbelly otherwise known as Heaven, you may be asking yourself?  Why it’s none other than The Lovely Eggs! If you’re unfamiliar with TLE, they’re a swear-y, thump-y, psychedelic two-piece from Lancaster, England, that formed in the mid 2000s (the height of indie sleaze).  By some Frankenstein-esque miracle, they’re still alive and kicking today, and have even collaborated with the likes of the great Iggy Pop.  Their latest release ‘I-Moron’ came out the same day as their London gig, and I had the unfortunate displeasure to come along for the skin crawling ride.  In the 15+ years since forming, recording and touring the US, UK and EU, I feasted my eyes on what the remains of a deconstructed corpse only the ravages of time could have brought to fruition or, in this case, (near) complete rot.

With most of the tracks in The Lovely Eggs repertoire culminating at or around the three-minute mark, I find myself wondering how at present, about 30 minutes in, we’re only at song three?  The thought doesn’t last long because it’s knocked out of the back of the head by a Poundland football.  I guess you can take the band and audience out of Lancaster but you can’t take Lancaster out of the audience and band.  Peroxided Holly Ross clad in a pink dress, yellow tights, and brown alligator loafers adjacent partner David (an off the shelf Joey Ramone lookalike with freshly dyed mop) Blackwell hung on to the stage like a drunk hangs off a bar, far longer than necessary.  The goddamned gig was a cider-soaked monologue, full of clever quips and anecdotes, indulgent you say? Don’t mind if I do.  We were regaled with what their kid had for tea that day, it lasted 5+ minutes.  Or how checking out early from your hotel can help you beat a congestion charge.  Or other classics like, “hey, are you drunk yet? How much have you had to drink? The bar’s closed now? Why is the bar closed? I’m going to take my phone out and call the venue! It’s ringing!”  The only thing ringing for me was the sound of a bell calling a TKO, I left the gig.  That’s not to say you should too, or even avoid going to see this diluted-duo!

Most of the audience was in their late 40s to mid 50s (I’m not an ageist, I’m old too but these lot looked closer to being in their 60s).  I’ve never actually heard a couple next to me complain that their neck would ache from having to lean against and look up at an elevated stage for the duration of a performance.  The clueless husk next to me in a flak jacket kept yelling ‘TURN THE GUITAR UP’ and answering every fucking rhetorical question fielded at the audience at full blast.  The cherry on the Sunday was when Holly picked out the most pickled group and beckoned them to the front of the stage.  Next to me.  I was repeatedly accosted and groped by the three sloppily drunk women as they spilt their drinks all over themselves and me.  If this sounds like you or someone you know, get yourself to a Lovely Eggs show near you, you’ll have a blast!

Don’t get me wrong there were some redeeming factors.  Leaving early meant I beat the ‘crowd’.  Also, it was pouring rain outside when I left which washed off the drinks spilt on me.  There was also a great pre-gig playlist with hard worn classics like, Flaming Lips’ ‘Tangerine’ and Bikini Kills’ ‘Carnival’, and a great animated backdrop full of stop motion shorts paired with the performance.  Hell, even TLE sound was excellent but nothing would be enough to have me swallow another century egg personally.

 

 

 

Read more...
Subscribe to this RSS feed