105. Wolf Alice
O2 Academy Brixton
26 September 2015
Three months. That’s all it took for Wolf Alice to go from torching the rafters of a one hundred capacity sweatbox to levelling up at Shepherd’s Bush Empire, and now, not even a season later, they’d sold out the 5,000-capacity behemoth that is Brixton Academy. If their debut album My Love Is Cool needed a coronation, this was it. Signed in gold foil. Stamped with glitter. And shouted hoarse by a crowd who knew they were watching something very, very special.
From the off, there was an electric energy in the air. You could feel it vibrating through the soles of your boots, even before the house lights dropped. This wasn’t just a gig. It was a milestone. For the band, for the fans who’d been there since the early demos, for the industry types now texting “Told you so” to each other from the VIP seats.
When the lights finally died and the first chords of the title track and the incandescent “Your Loves Whore” rang out, the place detonated. Ellie Rowsell, equal parts banshee, wallflower, and rock goddess, strode on like she was born to fill rooms like this. Her voice carved through the fug of feedback and dry ice, and suddenly it was on.
The setlist was a parade of triumphs. “Bros” turned into a mass singalong with half the crowd trying not to cry; “Fluffy” arrived like a wrecking ball dipped in sugar; “Giant Peach” threatened to shear the paint off the venue walls. Every track landed like an exclamation point; each met with the kind of roar that said: we’ve waited for this, and we’re not going anywhere.
There was chaos, of course. This is Wolf Alice, after all. Drum risers got booted over mid-song. Guitarists stage-dived into the throng, vanishing like coins into a well. Glitter cannons fired with such force that a bloke near me staggered backward like he’d been shot. Every inch of the venue glimmered with gold foil.
Between songs, you could see it on their faces. Awe. Disbelief. Joy. Rowsell stood at the mic more than once with that look, the wide-eyed how-the-hell-is-this-happening grin of a band who had grafted hard and were now, rightfully, being given their due. They kept thanking the crowd, looking like they didn’t want to leave. No one did.
By the end, gold confetti clung to clothes, hair, eyelashes. Fans embraced, laughed, shook the glitter from their clothes. Somewhere in the wings, a cleaning crew surveyed the wreckage and quietly added another zero to their invoice.
As we poured out into the warm Brixton night, ears ringing and shoes full of tinsel, there was one shared feeling among the throng: we’d just witnessed a band graduating in real time. From the back rooms to the big leagues. From hopeful contenders to festival headliners in waiting. And we were there for the ride. Long may they reign.