30. London Grammar
Electric Brixton
18 October 2013
London Grammar arrived on the scene so immaculately packaged you could’ve sworn they were 3D-printed in the back room of the Mercury Prize committee’s office. Naturally, I wrote them off as another soft-focus indie act for playlist-core millennials who like their music sad, chic, and entirely unthreatening. But then... then I actually listened to Hannah Reid.
Let’s talk about that voice. Reid doesn’t sing, she summons. It’s not just haunting; it’s positively spectral. A sound so tender and controlled it could make a concrete slab cry. It’s like she’s channelling the ghost of every break-up you’ve ever had and offering it back to you. If sirens were real, she’s what they’d sound like.
And the boys, Dot and Dan, know exactly their role in all of this. They stay in their lane: painting slow, cinematic backdrops for Reid’s voice to devastate over. Tracks like “Wasting My Young Years” and “Hey Now” don’t crescendo so much as smoulder. They’re all atmosphere, no bombast, just simmering in melancholy, letting Reid’s voice take centre stage. It’s understated, subtle, and devastating.
Which is why it’s so tragic that tonight’s gig takes place in the sonic vacuum of Electric Brixton, a venue with all the acoustics of a disused lift shaft and the charm of a JD Sports stockroom. The sound system wheezed along like a dying fax machine, flattening every soaring note into a kind of emotional beige. Honestly, I’ve heard more nuance coming out of a supermarket tannoy.
And then… the crowd. God help us all. A sea of Dalston flat shares and PR interns off the leash. Everyone reeking of Monzo overdrafts and TikTok trauma. One half loudly reliving the mild chaos of their summer when they rinsed their bank accounts at the festivals ("Remember when we lost the tent pole at Boomtown?!") while the other half documented their own boredom in real time on Instagram.
I was ready to bask in a vocal performance that could make angels rethink their careers, and instead I was surrounded by people who thought their mate Natasha drunkenly misplacing her AirPods in Mykonos qualified as a “moment”. It was less a gig, more a team-building exercise for people who use the word “vibes” like punctuation.
Which is the real shame. Because London Grammar delivered. Reid poured every syllable out like liquid heartbreak, and the band crafted moody, melancholic perfection behind her. But between the sonic mush and the crowd loudly discussing how mental their summer was, London Grammar deserved better. So did we. Next time I am bringing a taser.