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. 

The Ninth Wave

Final London Gig

Oslo

Hurriedly jangling a seized bicycle lock kept in an, exposed to the elements parking pod, a dark and shadowy figure extended over me, eerily backlit by street lamps from the entrance.  A faceless neighbour witnessing my struggle casts a most peculiar salutation at me, ‘stay-lucky’.  Avoiding the ominous and thinly veiled threat, rather than greeting, I escape unscathed, churning my way towards Hackney Central’s Oslo.  Fortune shines on me twice, as I’ve scored access to catch (take a deep breath for this mouthful) Glaswegian doom-laden, gothic post-punk and electronic-pop group The Ninth Wave’s last London gig.  The handful of dates are promoting their freshly released Ready Like a Headache on Distiller Records.

Initially formed in 2014, The Ninth Wave have expanded to become Haydn Park-Patterson (vocals/guitar), Amilia Kidd (vocals/bass), Kyalo Searle-nbullu (keyboards/synths) and Calum Stewart (drums/synth).  You might be thinking, ‘hey I’ve never (only just) heard of this amazing troupe, I’d love to catch ‘em live’.  ‘Ah, tough luck Kemosabe’, we’d say, because by the time this review’s gone live, it would already be too late to do so again.  The aforementioned are now on an indefinite hiatus pursuing other creative projects.  Though the collective uncoupling may seem premature to some, TNW have been around for the better part of a decade.  With a string of EPs, a wide range of tours, and judging by their fan base (bands like Chvrches included), a dedicated lot who know their lyrics backwards and forwards, sung them back throughout the gig.  This former group of androgynous pirates turned gothic-streetwear band has accomplished a lot in a short span. Burn bright, burn fast.

Don’t let the descriptors pigeonhole TNW, they sounded light and fresh showcasing new tunes, lyrics and radiating energy of a band recently formed rather than coming undone, all night long.  The sense I got from both their catalogue and set this evening is that it captured the ‘80s as a decade in the same vein that Joanna Hogg’s The Souvenir Part 1&2 marvelously framed it, with a gentle balance between dark and mellow, weightless and weighted.   Speaking of the best of the ‘80s I got distinct pings from Depeche Mode , New Order, Duran Duran, Psychedelic Furs and Siouxsie and the Banshees.  Notable cuts from the setlist included ‘Heron on the Water’, a new cut which slapped, ‘Come Down Forever’, and ‘The Broken Design’, a crowd favourite felt like it was written just to sing to/for a crowd.

The set, like the crowd, was a mixed bag tonight.  The far-reaching audience appeal is a testament to the band’s talent which goes far beneath the surface.  That being said, why go to a gig to just listen?  Picture this: A topless and tattooed Hayden Park Patterson wailing both at guitar and into microphone.  Kyalo from behind the wall of pedals and keys used dually to entertain and reinforce his position on stage.  An ‘I’m Okay With Failure’ sticker plastered on a keyboard is as comforting as it is sage advice.  No barrier is left overcome as Calum hammers on the drums in runner’s shorts and football jersey.  Perhaps deadliest of all is Amilia, unrecognizable from her debut with TNW.  A few years back she’d never even been on a stage and was, in her own words, overwhelmed by the idea of playing large festivals.  This former version of herself is unrecognizable today, with a propensity for jumping into the crowd and accosting a number of fans before returning to stage with gleaming eyes full of mischief.  ‘Don’t sue me’ leaves her lips before pounding at her bass again on a roving mission across stage accosting her bandmates with equal furore.

I remember walking in here tonight uncertain of what would unfold.  Shortly after my arrival, Park-Patterson, cloaked in shadow, was prowling the fringes of the space. Nerves?  Reconnaissance?  Maybe looking for a snack?  Who knows?  He largely remained unnoticed.  He slipped between the crowd and shadows the way a thin blade would along the 3rd and 4th ribs, minimal intrusion, maximum effect.  Any burrs left along the blade 8 years ago, had long been smoothed over, leaving The Ninth Waves with a fine edge and an even smoother live experience.  It’s hard to believe this was their (supposedly) last performance, judging from the energy coming off the crowd and from the band.  Sideways grins and songs were tossed as easily between all, as were instruments, with practised precision and grace.  The scene I’d witnessed had less a requiem feel to it than a full-on Irish wake.  The Ninth Wave did not go quietly into the night any more than a fireworks display would have.  They were explosive and left a deafened and stunned audience in their wake.  The show really felt like a ‘See ya later’ instead of a ‘Goodbye’.

Toby Hayes, by night known as Laundromat, came across our radar for the first time last week. Hayes has been making, and moving sound, waves on the scene since 2007.  Toby’s been part of many unique and collaborative projects but we’ve only really heard Combo/Red/Green and the Blue EPs with his latest aforementioned project.  Hunkered down in Brighton, Hayes has been working as Laundromat for the past five years, with laser focus over the past two.  The music produced is solid with complex arrangements and laconic ‘90s alt rock vocals a-la Beck.  Does this transfer to the live show?  To quote 1984’s cult classic Repo Man, “yeah, but it still hurts”.

Even before the set-opener, ‘Flat Planet’, strums forth the venue’s full.  The show’s been upgraded from SJQ and it’s easy to see why, the bodies in here would’ve overrun the place.  It’s a quiet start but ‘Humans’ picks up its pace and the audience along with it.  Keeping my attention on stage I feel however like they’re holding back.

Lyrically, Toby’s tackling issues relevant to their audience at hand, starting a metaphorical dialogue between himself and his crowd, bridging the physical gap between themselves and the music.  It is unfortunate that the crowd didn’t get the memo and were mostly engaged in conversation throughout.  It’s SUPER fucking distracting because it’s not a particularly loud set.  Even when set finisher and crowd pleaser, ‘Bureau De Fatigue’, wraps up, the crowd yells for more.  ‘Encore, ENCORE!’ can be heard but the request ultimately goes unsatisfied.

The request itself was perplexing because, as mentioned, throughout the quiet set a large portion of the audience seemed either engaged in their own conversations, on their phones, or vaping.  It was quite distracting and left the band competing with their fans.  Although I can’t tell if the audience was just jaded or the performance didn’t meet their expectations leading to the pivot in focus, it’s impossible to tell.  What we will say is, Laundromat left something to be desired.

"The key take away from Laundromat is that he is developing a definitive style from the ground up" – DIY.  It’s important not to judge too harshly though.  It’s hard to take the studio onto the stage, especially when you’re still workshopping your live show.  New band members, an audience, deep yet hard to hear lyrics, and a smaller sound from previous released singles, encouraged a conversation while leaving the performance about what was left on deck.  The live show, we’re sure, will continue to mutate and take form.  It rests just below a thin surface tension and is nearly there.  It was a pleasant listen although it left something to be desired but, for the most part, on this evening, it swept our curiosity underneath the rug.

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