Adventures in the UK Underground - Our Dear Friends
A humid night in Camden filled with tangled tube routes, tattoo envy and live music discoveries, where friendship, curiosity and a trombone-led finale made it all worthwhile.
The Elephant’s Head, after going in the wrong direction twice (Google Maps is a common enemy amongst a variation of friends), was to host a crowd of mostly young tatted up folk dressed in dark clothing. It’s exactly what you’d you expect to see in Camden, nonetheless; a sense of tattoo envy and being out of place did ensue briefly before choosing to beget these emotions for the sake of the night.
I’m still getting into the swing of trying to go to gigs regularly and regularly failing. Co-ordinating with friends across multiple friendship groups and platforms, as well as adhering to those proposed calendar dates, is the cyclical affair of my social life. But the sun is out, and London is just that bit bearable when everyone is in flip flops and basking in any stretch of green you can locate. The constant dodging of kids on the pavement as they race each other on their plastic scooters, runners en masse, a dog attempting to lick your ankle; all these things can carry a romance in the right temperature. Even the Central London suits are bit romantic in their post-work drink affairs, taking up an entire sidewalk that you awkwardly find yourself navigating around. Hence, EC’s suggestion of a meet up with LE was a perfect opportunity to embrace the city at its best with live music to heighten it.
Despite its illustrious history with music, I tend not to frequent gigs in this area. Outside of the iconic venues, I suppose the music scene I’m in cahoots with remains south of the river. Recent history would say that South is where ‘the scene’ has witnessed new musical acts come alive, but that’s also a statement said in ignorance. I have little to no knowledge on the current state of the UK rock scene. Venues like The Underworld historically host these headier, brasher genres that I’d only started dipping my toe in. I meet LE at The World’s End opposite Camden Town Station. In between conversations of job applications and literary men being irritating, metal music scored our discussions. It raised a feeling of inferiority in music knowledge on my part. Who was big in metal and/or hardcore in the UK? Is there a new wave of artists around the Gen Z age demographic spearheading the genre? I would only dip my toe into acts like Bring Me The Horizon, but they would provide gateway to heavy. There was a base level knowledge of the acts within this genre through friends rather than my own listening habits, where Indie pop/rock music reigned supreme. In recent months, I find myself charged by the desire to expand and discover new artists in a new musical space spurts from a want to not be confined to one environment with the same demographic of people every time. Perhaps it was time I threw myself into a death wall and experience this euphoria that fans of these genres dispel of. But more on this later.
In a state of sweaty and sticky, we meet a nerved man. This turns out to be LE’s friend, Ruairi Jane. White wifebeater and a suave small black scarf around his neck, he means business.
‘People are going to turn up,’
Even though he doesn’t sound so sure of it. Coincidentally, the masses would arrive after us, turning the once shortly and sparsely populated room into a compact, bustling space.
‘That’s the guy,’ LE tells me after a brief introduction, so I know that he really does mean business. Spearheading the event series ‘Our Dear Friends’, I message him on Instagram to get the lowdown on the birth of the event series.
‘I famously love to hang out. So, I wanted to create a show that celebrates friendship and brings together talented people from different scenes and spaces. The shows so far have been growing into their own communities, which me & our team are very proud of’.
And even before the event had started, it seemed just like that. Little conclaves of friendship groups pack out the bar area, a friendliness despite not knowing the faces that surrounded me, all cemented in the cordial space of the girl’s bathroom, where we informed others of the faulty lock or lack of toilet paper.
The first act of the night would be Frances Glass. In an outfit one could only consider as brave considering the humidity of the evening (a deconstructed orange jockey shirt and black leather trousers), such a pronounced statement with their attire made it apparent that their artistic vision was clear. Their set would further support this notion, offering a melee of eighties guitar riffs, soft pop with electronically charged drums that taps into the realm of Frank Ocean to Mk.gee, supported by the swooping sounds of a cello. We’re ushered to dance at one point, and I’m the first to be down to groove to live music, but I did find myself responsible of keeping a vibe, hence, the three of us performatively moving to rule out awkwardness. Skilled and eclectic in taste and genre, I favoured the pop sounds they had to offer, skittish and pleasing. A space for this type of musician in the UK who doesn’t present themself as self-righteous is vacant, and this is the tupe of act that could take up the position. With the charisma of a less annoying Matty Healy (Notes on A Conditional Form era, for all The 1975 heads), there is the starting of an artist here, showcasing promise that will turn into clarity with more live performances time and fine tuning.
A chance for air and conversation would whisk us away from the second act. What I could muster through the dialogue of the smokers was a distinctive ethereal voice that offered a switch in tempo in the night’s general ambiance. KITTY’s set supplied a soft melancholy delivered in such a low but prevailing manner. The room’s ambience suited her music perfectly, her vocals taking over but sitting amongst the general chatter and happenings a pub has to offer. A showcase of delicate power, being the night’s most intimate set as we returned to the bar to come further under the trance she had set over the observing crowd.
The large window behind the stage provided an unintentionally interactive element of the night, not only watching the performers but the strangers on the street watching on at the performers to. Some ended up converted by the music and inside the venue to become a part of the audience, a testament to the curation of the night.
The night would end with Slow Country. I was carrying on my rule of going in as blind as possible, for the chance of magic. I recall a close friend introducing me to the band ‘Ugly’ at the beginnings of my outwardly nauseating art school musical journey, my engagement in the sprouting post punk scene as a badge of intelligence, a marker of coolness. A show at The Lexington would highlight their flair and singularity in their melodies and world building songs, later culminating in their EP ‘Twice Around The Sun’. This became the pinnacle experience I would chase at future gigs, waiting to be converted into a new church of music by an emerging band on the precipice of wider discovery. Could Slow Country offer that exact magic from two years ago? We’re all standing, waiting for the final act to commence, as people I’d clocked as mere punters during the rest of the night’s proceedings unveil themselves as members of the band, tuning their instruments. The seven-man band would present themselves as a sextet tonight, the stage still full despite a missing member. I’m an easy woman, won over by the mere appearance of a brass instrument and found myself in luck, knowing that if all was bad, the presence of a trombone would make the performance somewhat salvageable. The set would prove to cement them as an act to keep your eyes on, already finding their way onto Radio 6 soundwaves and destined for the success bands like Black Country New Road have found themselves lauded in. The set possessed an energy that steered the soaked folk of the night away from fatigue and into a frenzied joy. What became clear was that the band were affirming the tradition of UK Folk, whilst offering expansions into a harder hitting rock, highlighting how one can go about reviving an existing genre. A mosh pit arrives, which we stand at the back of. This is simply not moshing weather. My skin will stick onto any bit of skin anyone has to offer but its appearance did feel apt for the condensed environment, to close the night’s excitement with. A brief interlude for air would see us dancing outside of the pub, becoming those very people we were pointing out earlier, enticed by the sounds.