124. Walter Schreifel

Upstairs at the Garage

9 March 2016

Upstairs at the Garage in Islington is one of those venues that feels like it was never supposed to be a venue at all. You climb the staircase into what could just as easily be a converted function room above a dodgy tapas bar, all low ceilings, sticky floors and the faint whiff of last week’s IPA still lurking in the air. It’s the sort of place where you half expect a meat raffle to be on the go.

I had no real business being there. Walter Schreifels was, to me, a vague recollection of being in Rival Schools but little else. My mate, ex-Kerrang! journo turned criminal barrister, was a fan and had a spare ticket, which, given her track record of dragging me to surprisingly brilliant shows, was enough to get me through the door.

Schreifels himself is a curious stage presence, part laid-back New York muso, part punk-folk troubadour. There’s no post-hardcore band tonight, just him, a guitar, and a catalogue that hops between hardcore grit and melodic indie shimmer that feels like he’s playing in your front room. I might not have known the songs, but there was an easy magnetism in how he delivered them, a warmth that made the whole room lean in.

You get the sense he’s long stopped caring about sticking to any one musical lane and he doesn’t. I am utterly unfamiliar with all of it however, but after a time that doesn’t really matter because the music is interesting and so is he. By the end, the room feels mildly transformed, the sort of gig that reminds you music doesn’t need a lighting rig, pyro, or an army of players to hit home. Sometimes it’s just a bloke, a guitar, and the right people in the room.

I can tell you I left with the distinct feeling that I’d been let in on something, an inside secret I didn’t even know existed until I was already standing in the middle of it.