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.

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.

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.

Bodega

@ The Moth 

or how I learned to stopped worrying and began to have sympathy for the devil. 

Knocking back a few in good company at the ‘Spoons around the corner inevitably tends to lead one to a less than punctual arrival for Brooklyn based Bodega on their third consecutive sold out night at London’s MOTH.  Were we trying to wash away memories like castles made of sand on these here fine but mostly stony English shores?  Not so!  This night was about fortifying for what lay ahead.

With the gig already nearly at capacity, we pushed through the large double swinging doors, a Queen (@Ash_Kenazi) in 6-inch heels at a trot on a treadmill was covering A Flock of Seagulls ‘I Ran’, commandeering all eyes to the stage.  Shortly thereafter, said Queen, nearly sets the place alight with some unsanctioned pyrotechnics, a ‘sorry not sorry’ smile stretches across their face as their set closes to a rapturous round of applause (see our ‘gram for video).

I know what you’re probably thinking, ‘CaptainStavros, why hast thou forsaken us? You know it’s rather unlikely for us to see a sold-out gig, let alone one that’s already passed us by!’ To which I counter, hold steady mighty seafarers, and prepare to splice the mainbrace!  Bodega shall return to these torpid and exit-y lands come November, mark your almanac!  What to do in the interim?  Fear not, gotcha covered.  If you’re not already familiar with Bodega’s discography, Broken Equipment , their latest, is a good place to start.  The fun doesn’t end there though, because these lot have fingers deep in multimedia pies.  Did you know they’ve also waded into Film? PVT Chat, the band’s venture into the A/V forum, along with their music videos, are also a great way to familiarize yourself.  At the very least, you might even indulge us by continuing to read this janky review?  If it’s the latter you seek, strap-in as we sail out, three sheets to the wind.

Ben, Nikki, Dan, Adam and Tai take to the stage and make their way into the DJ booth for a quick scrum before their set.  Eyes shifting between themselves like a cat clock on a wall, their arms extended before them.  I see their lips moving and squint straining my hearing to the edge of some obscure spectrum just out of range, trying to grasp at whatever sorcery they’re conjuring up.  It’s fruitless but the audience is no less spellbound.  As they throw their arms back in graceful arcs skyward and break-up, the audience erupts as they take their standing positions on stage.  It – is – on.  I cannot remember what Ben was speaking into the mic because all I can see is Tai in front of her drums a la Poison Ivy, from head to toe in green and red. When I come to Ben’s singing, ‘please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste’.   Well sirs and madams, we are certainly pleased to meet you and everyone for sure knows your name in this crowd.

As the band finishes up their introduction, a cover of ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ by The Rolling Stones, I toss a few glances around the room.  The audience is varied but the majority, to my surprise, are old enough to have probably caught Mick and the boys in their up-and-coming heyday.  Next to me, a bespectacled, hedonistic, silver-locked lass, arms extended, firmly gripping a stage PA for leverage, grinds her posterior like a mortar and pestle on an elderly gent behind her, like something out of Sodom and Gomorrah, ‘Territorial Call of the Female’ indeed!

By track two, ‘Leg of Birth’, Dan ‘Secret Agent’ Ryan has popped his A string and Tai has worked herself into a lather beating the, pardon me, absolute FUCK out of the skins.  Meanwhile an audience member is holding the mic stand steady for Ben, and throughout Nikki riles up the crowd locking her sights, and drumsticks, firmly at them.  The band is holding steady for us as we lose our collective shit.  For me, Bodega has always just meant a meatball sub and a bottle of Blue Moon on a sweltering summer’s day on the lower east side.  Halfway through this set, it’s taken on a new meaning, High School Battle of the Bands winners meet Cruise Ship band, on the last leg of their tour coming into port; bedlam.  This crew is absofuckinglutely relentless.  They said that James Brown was the hardest working man in showbiz, but I think it’s safe to say these lot are creeping up on the caped Godfather of Soul’s heels.  It’s the third consecutive night at the MOTH and peering down Nikki’s keyboard for the setlist (scrawled on a packet of hummus), I realize it’s well into the double digits.  While the show went on forever, Adam’s singular glance is unflinching throughout though and Nikki manages to bounce between her rig and Tai’s, when she’s not sprawled out on the stage floor banging on a tambourine.  As the evening’s pace ebbs and flows, notes of Parquet Courts can be heard in Ben’s vocals (specifically ‘Master of my Craft’).

I don’t think anyone can really argue with the statement that Bodega is currently blowing up.  I don’t remember the last time any seasoned performer sold out, or even cared to play that many, consecutive nights in a row.  Can you imagine doing anything that exhausting three nights in a row with any zeal at all?  I couldn’t.  Even so, after getting a few candid words before and after the set (cats/Twin Peaks/broken guitar strings as good omens and hummus), I got down-to-earth vibes from a group currently rocketing to the top of the charts on the tail end of a comet.  There was that casual and friendly overfamiliarity that, as a North American myself, I miss most from back home.  Although at this point in history, a travelling band is hardly in frontier territory, it’s no less foreign.  These lot have a lot of self-awareness and a loose shouldered impermanence to them.  The casual and cosmic teeter-totter that governs our lives tends to flip-flop, and that understanding really comes across in their tunes.  ‘It’s a new world now, don’t discriminate. Everyone is equally a master and slave. It's new world now, don't discriminate’.  Would recommend buying the ticket and taking the ride with Bodega because we never know how long any of it’ll last.