37. The Jezabels
Scala
12 November 2013
It’s been a year and a half since The Jezabels last swept through the UK like a leather-clad tempest, fresh off their Prisoner tour. Now they’re back to do it all over again, armed with cathedral-sized synths, high-stakes emotion, and enough lyrical angst to soundtrack a very stylish breakdown.
Tonight’s venue is the Scala, a former underground cinema that once served as a gathering place for people who thought deodorant was a tool of capitalist oppression, drank absinthe from the bottle, and had The Second Sex falling apart in their tote bag. It’s got the musty ghosts of a thousand chain-smoking cinephiles baked into the walls. In short: perfect.
First up is Josef Salvat, a singer-songwriter who arrives armed with decent tunes, a nice guitar, and the energy of a man who orders oat milk earnestly. It’s all very pleasant, in a warm-jacket-in-the-rain kind of way. I buy a single from the merch table, which feels both supportive and mildly performative. But let’s be honest, we’re all here for The Jezabels.
The Australian four-piece are a genre unto themselves: Melodramatic Indie Alt-Rock, a sound that backdrops their acerbic gothic-lyricism, lent drama by Hayley Mary’s voice, which is less a vocal and more a weaponised cry into the void.
Hayley doesn’t sing; she summons. Her voice soars, dips, pleads, and accuses, often all in the same refrain, with lyrics that are dense enough to deserve footnotes. Possibly a dissertation.
And The Scala? Absolutely made for this kind of drama. With its tiered, gladiatorial layout, it feels like the crowd has assembled to witness a sacrifice. From the first note, Hayley stalks the stage like a gothic puma, all limbs and intensity, daring the crowd to look away. We don’t. We can’t. She’s magnetic. Urgent. Equal parts punk priestess and synth-pop Valkyrie.
The set itself is a full-blown sonic soap opera. Every track explodes with sweeping theatricality, each chorus bigger than the last. ”Hurt Me”, “Endless Summer”, “Prisoner” and “A Little Piece”, they don’t just play the songs, they hurl them at us in waves of sweat, synth and syncopated drumming delivered with a barely contained emotional detonation.
By the time the final note rings out, and the house lights snap rudely back to life, we’re collectively dazed. Shell-shocked. Left blinking into the icy neon of King’s Cross like we’ve just been ejected from some emotionally taxing sci-fi opera. Ears ringing. Heart pounding. Mascara probably a bit smudged, even if you weren’t wearing any when you came in.