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.

Dean Johnson

Old St Pancras Church

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Sad Songs, Swear Words, and a Purple Pen

Say what you will about Christ, but the guy knew his acoustics, almost as well as Dean. The Old St Pancras Church, tonight moonlighting as a sanctuary for deadpan cowboys and neon desperadoes, played host to Dean Johnson, whose presence can only be described as “Father John Misty’s father”. If that father had been more disappointed, more talented, and somehow more magnetic in his plank-stiff delivery.

You wouldn’t expect a cowboy to take the pulpit at Old St Pancras Church but here we are. Beneath stained glass and high arches, Dean Johnson delivered a set so bone-dry in humour and razor-sharp in execution, the only thing holier was the reverb.

Outside, it’s 28 degrees. Inside, it’s a Tex-Mex fever dream: rhinestones, day-glo western wear, and more cowboy hats than communion wafers. A man in a Hawaiian shirt fans himself with a programme. We’re two weeks into a run of leftfield gigs, and this one’s already threatening to become lore.

Dean took the stage like a man surprised to be witnessed. Johnson opens solo, standing plank-straight, guitar in hand and posture like he’s been nailed to the spot. “Thanks for being here on a Tuesday,” he says. “It’s Wednesday!” comes the cheer. “Really?” he replies, perfectly deadpan. It’s not a bit. It might be. You can’t tell — and that’s half the charm.

The first song, ‘Old TV’, is a lonely song made lonelier by a solitary figure framed by light. The backstory about a friend whose dad told him never to pass a busted telly without smashing it open for copper wire adds more questions than it dispels. “Fatherly advice,” Johnson says, before launching into a song that’s equal parts sorrowful and sweet, a shadow stretching long behind him on the chapel wall.

There’s an art to solo performance, and Johnson’s got it down to an accidental science. He moves between obscure tunings like it’s second nature, his playing rich with nuance, a quiet tap here, a pause there, subtle shifts in rhythm that stop it all from feeling static. It’s a hypnotic ride.

Between songs, the humour continues. Introducing ‘Possession’, he warns us: “These next few are about jealousy and obsession. I’m gonna try and get through them.” The crowd laughs, not just out of politeness but recognition. Later, he talks about a free spirit who made him realise he wasn’t one. Cue more laughter. And a sigh.

‘Acting School’ arrives with a strange preamble: “This one’s weirdly popular with babies,” he shrugs, “though I think it’s because it’s got the F word in it.” Sure enough, the entire church erupts in a gleeful chorus of expletives. It’s the closest you’ll come to a spiritual awakening at a gig this side of Lent.

There’s a choose-your-own-adventure moment with ‘Blue Moon’, where he asks the crowd which strum pattern they prefer. The newer tracks; ‘Mother Nature Song’, ‘Faraway Skies’, and a Buddy Holly-inspired number about dreams and plane crashes, prove that the upcoming second album isn’t just real, it’s already promising.

Mid-set, someone in the crowd whispers to us: “How do you know about Dean Johnson?” We didn’t have a good answer. Maybe it’s the voice; warm, melancholic, deceptively strong. Maybe it’s the lyrics; deceptively simple, then suddenly devastating. Maybe it’s that he seems genuinely surprised we’re here, and more surprised still that we’re singing along.

The penultimate track is a Lucinda Williams cover, ‘Lake Charles’, cracked midway by the church bells striking ten. Johnson chuckles, admits he forgot a verse, and soldiers on. The mistake only adds to the magic.

He closes with ‘Nothing From Me’, introduced as “kinda blasphemous, but it’s a comedy song, so it’s fine.” The crowd laughs, again. Maybe at the joke. Maybe because they don’t want it to end.

Johnson has five more shows left on this European tour. Chances are you won’t catch them. But if you do, brace yourself for a night of gorgeous gloom, unexpected punchlines, and a set that manages to feel both loose and flawless, with a set of pipes as smooth as velvet on broken glass. His playing? A study in restraint; all minor shifts, capos, alternate tunings, and clever plucks that build a whole world out of six strings and a stiff spine.

And yes, he’ll sign anything. He’s got a purple pen.