217. Fizz

Shepherds Bush Empire

28 February 2024

My eldest child, and now semi-permanent musical sidekick, and I stumbled on this band during a Brighton trip. I’d found their record at Resident Records, and we blasted it in the car all the way home, trading nods and wide-eyed looks with each track. It was one of those rare albums that feels like a full journey, like they’ve plotted out a storybook through some strange sonic landscape. We said right then, we’re seeing them live. Tickets? Secured. Anticipation? High.

Fast forward to Shepherd’s Bush Empire, which, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly my temple of choice. This is the same venue where I once nearly passed out at a Jesus and Mary Chain gig, feeling like I was trapped in a sauna that had been inexplicably set up beside a jet engine. So, yeah, Shepherd’s Bush? Not exactly fond memories.

After dinner in a restaurant in an empty mini mall that was straight out of the zombie apocalypse school of interior design, we headed to the venue. Our seats were right next to a loud American hedge fund type, dressing in regulation Patagonia who had dragged his underwhelmed, timid son along to promote spontaneous growth of a personality in him as well as his date who was clearly looking for the exits.

The crowd is a Gen Z mood board, half of them kitted out in manic-pixie-dream-girl chic, all sequins, sparkles, cowboy hats, and tassels. As for the stage? Imagine the Teletubbies going on an acid bender in the ’90s, and you’re halfway there.

When the band hits the psychedelic fever-dream stage, and they’re everything we hoped for: charmingly oddball, ridiculously joyful, and just the right amount of weird. At some point, we all pause to belt out “Happy Birthday” to the lone guy in the band, then dive right back into the euphoric madness.

For the encore, they whip out Secret to Life, this indie-pop banger with an oompah beat that has us all bouncing. When it’s all over, we’re swept out with the tide of manic-pixie dream Gen Zer’s, leaving a trail of sequins glittering in the street, swept along by a wind so cold that even the mildly threatening chicken-shop-gang-boys of W12 have called it a night. Shepherd’s Bush might still be one of my least favourite venues, but tonight? Worth it.