Son Lux

Electric Brixton

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Son Lux – Wrong Venue, Right band

The clocks have gone back an hour, the days have gone from hot to cold and from long to short. Will this yo-yoing back and forth ever cease? The short answer: no. The long answer involves ten stops on the tube, a change from the Northern to the Victoria line at Euston, and the dawning realisation that we might need prescription glasses.

We're out grabbing some Lebanese food before the gig and catching up with a friend. Son Lux are promoting their new album Out Into just around the corner from us at the Electric Ballroom – or so we thought. Swinging by the E.B., we pick up the set times and discover we've got an hour before the headliners. Plenty of time, then, to have a drink poured into an actual glass rather than a plastic cup. We head to The Hawley Arms to pay tribute to the late, great Amy Winehouse.

On our way back, we stroll leisurely, admiring the moon above the canal along the pedestrianised high street and feeling pretty grateful for the evening. Arriving at the Ballroom, we drop our names at the ticket desk only to hear the immortal words: "You're not on the list, mate". Uncomfortable news, certainly, but not the first time we've heard it. Pulling up the promo email, we check the fine print (not so fine after all). They're playing at Electric Brixton. We've got 30 minutes to get there before we miss the set. Security, who have been passing us around like a pinball on multiball, are waved goodbye as we retrace our steps and descend the escalators towards the platform at double time, leaving the familiar gauntlet of characters synonymous with Camden, in our wake.

Popping out in Brixton, it's somehow even nuttier than Camden. We almost swerve an unlicensed vendor selling – and yelling – "RUM PUNCH" from plastic pouches on a folding cart. They've even gone contactless. There are no labels or hygiene ratings anywhere to be seen, so we'll have to take their word for it that there's even a drop of rum in the stuff. Pouches in hand, we narrowly avoid taking a football to the head as we pound the pavement towards the Electric. Some punter has lined up a row of footballs and is kicking them into oncoming high-street traffic. "Sorry, lads", comes the apology as one sails between us, narrowly missing our heads. No time to hang around and establish why they're apologising to us, or why they're kicking footballs into traffic in the first place. Neither seems particularly difficult to prevent. Panting and sweating, we drop our names at the door. We're on the list. Success. We make it inside just as the opening act is rounding off their set.

The venue is largely empty. Son Lux have gone from playing The Lexington just recently to Electric Brixton, which is a bit like putting on your father's hand-me-downs instead of your older brother's. They'll fit you eventually, no doubt, but they're not quite yours yet. It's hard to understand why, though. This is their ninth studio album, and they've come off the back of an Oscar-nominated score for Everything Everywhere All at Once. They're not exactly a household name, but surely you'd recognise them having heard them. So, what's the problem? Perhaps it's the contemporary organisations' fondness for labelling them an 'experimental trio'. There's no theory in the works, gang. They're actual, factual musicians, and they work. So should the gig.

BANG! The stage is flooded with layers of light, like a visual Eton mess: champagne-lightning hues colliding with hard black shadows. Ryan Lott, Rafiq Bhatia and Ian Chang (from right to left) take their places at their respective instruments. The vantage point is crystal clear for us, a rarity at the Electric. They open with 'Endlessly', mellow enough to get heads bobbing, before 'Easy' comes in hot on its heels, sending rolling drum crashes straight through the chest while a woozy guitar line seems to dab at the edges. It's an asymmetrical combination, but one that works beautifully for those bold enough to risk it.

Our friend had refused to listen to Son Lux before joining us and is now steadily bobbing their head, eyes closed, to 'No God Like a King'. It sounds as though someone has sampled and remixed the original opening to Unsolved Mysteries, a personal favourite hosted by none other than Robert Stack (may you rest in peace in your trademark trench coat). They turn to us and announce, "Gonna listen to this one on the train ride home afterwards". Can't blame them. It's the set highlight for us so far, with trip-hop notes and guitar and keys that sound as though they've phased in from another universe.

Throughout the ten-track set and encore, which feature guest trumpeter and vocalists from mmeadows, alongside special guest Jack Garratt on 'Even If It Hurts' (soulful and mysterious, with R&B running through its veins), there's an underlying theme of appreciation and gratitude. Ryan breaks in towards the end to joke, "Don't be disappointed when you hear it on the album, and I don't sound like that". It's a lovely moment of levity, and one that speaks to the warmth between the performers. In these darker times, such unguarded appreciation is a rarity to behold, to be sure.

The lyrics to 'Summer's Gone' stick with us, particularly the line "When you speak/ It's like my favourite song". The sentiment hangs in the air long after the song has passed. Son Lux's sound design is perhaps their strongest weapon throughout the evening. It's flawless: every note lands exactly where it should, every texture has its place, and the lyrics remain decipherable throughout, even when the arrangements threaten to swallow everything whole. The contrast between delicate vocal passages and the sudden, full-bodied collisions of percussion and electronics is what makes this such an absorbing performance.

We'd have loved to see them on this particular night at The Dome, or even the Jazz Cafe, where the intimacy might have done their intricacies greater justice. But there's little point in wishing for a different room when the one we're in has delivered the goods. We may have taken the scenic route through Camden, nearly missed the whole thing and sampled some questionable Brixton refreshments along the way, but we got there. And that's the real treat. Son Lux are touring now. Don't miss them.

King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard

Electric Brixton

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

A Rave from the Multiverse: King Gizz Melt Minds and Time Itself in Brixton

It’s hard not to imagine monumental destruction, loss of life, and air raid sirens in the distance when the name King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard comes thundering down upon your ears. With song titles like ‘Planet B’, ‘Crumbling Castle’, and ‘Gamma Knife’, it’s easy to hold eye contact while backing away carefully, limbs probing for a wall, anything that might lead to an exit. But stick around, friends; you might just be pleasantly obliterated.

There are only a few things you need to know about Melbourne: chicken parma, chicken salt, and the six lads who together form a power station of aural carnival delights. Since their inception in 2010, King Gizz have refused to slow down or stay still. Their sound mutates faster than their album count multiplies; and considering they dropped five releases in 2022 alone, that’s saying something.

Their name says it all: unbound, unbothered, unstoppable. Song length? Irrelevant. Genre? Please move, you’re blocking the view. Instrument count? As many as they can wire up before takeoff. After years of near misses, we finally caught night two of their sold-out run at Electric Brixton.

We arrive on Igor, a rattling bicycle held together by stubbornness and cable ties, and lock it up beside a serpentine queue of fans wrapping around the block. Both nights are sold out. Thankfully there’s a press entrance, less thankfully, our names are not on the list. A sweaty round of negotiation ensues as fans continue to flood in, the air thick with anticipation and patchouli. Eventually, a scaly thumbs-up from the door crew and we’re in.

Inside is chaos in high definition. Metalheads in sleeveless denim vests thrash shoulders with tie-dye dreamers in butterfly capes. Plush toys dangle from belts; glitter reflects from prescription lenses. Everyone looks slightly unhinged, but in that friendly, communal, “I’ve met God and he’s Australian” kind of way.

We make it four rows from the front, just in time for ORB (Organic Rock Band), who channel Hendrix and Sabbath in slow-motion. Someone beside us mutters, “Yeah, they’re good, but not Gizz good,” which in hindsight is like saying a sparkler’s fine, but you were expecting a supernova.

Then the lights drop.

The stage glows like a nuclear reactor; two tables of analogue synths tangled in cables, a drum kit, bongos, a sax, and a sci-fi flute wielded by frontman Stu. The crowd howls. The Rave Tour is underway, and every psych-rock expectation is about to be vaporised. The visuals and vibes are all @honeycomb (if you know you don’t, if you don’t, you should).

From the first surge of '2.02 Killer Year’, the floor becomes a living thing, every body moving in time with the bass that rattles your ribcage loose. By minute three, the first crowd surfers rise, human comets launched into a galaxy of hands. The visuals blur between pulsating waves, fractals, and cosmic decay, like watching the end of civilisation through a lava lamp.

By the third track, ‘Dreams’, we’re in uncharted territory. It’s a debut, and when it ends, the lyric page is torn from the stand and flung skyward. It spins like a mortar shell, catches the lights, and comes down on us like one too; landing squarely in our hands, promptly folded and tucked into the empty void where our heart used to beat. Safe. Secure. Sacred.

It becomes hard to tell where one track ends and the next begins; the set feels like a single, sprawling organism. You lose time, and you lose bearings. Maybe you lose yourself a little too.

After an hour and a half of rhythmic hypnosis, we slip out before the crush. Out on Brixton Road, the night air feels alien, like stepping back into the wrong timeline. Behind us, the venue still pulses like something alive.

The fans outside swap stories like war vets; Americans, Europeans (many of whom have met before abroad at Gizz shows), locals, all buzzing from the same cosmic current. Everyone’s got a reason for being here, but everyone leaves with the same glazed grin. King Gizzard’s power lies not in the songs, but in the experience; — a total rewiring of your musical DNA.

You don’t just see a Gizz show. You survive it, transformed, pupils dilated, heart temporarily misplaced.