The Last Dinner Party, Live at Roundhouse
Words by Willow Shields, Photographs by Rosie Carne
“This is our album release party” Abigail declares, recovering from a quiet moment after a voice crack, on the verge of tears but combating it with king-like command. A perfect representation of The Last Dinner Party, so strong but so tender. An emperor in battle, teetering on the edge of glory, to win or lay slain on the field. They have completed their Sistine Chapel. What feels like the most important, huge and poignant piece of work in a generation. And us eight hundred onlookers are brought to complete silence, watching history being laid out in front of us, in the form of swirling ribbons, corsets and chandeliers.
We together, my silent onlooker, start the evening of The Last Dinner Party’s chassé onto the stage of Camden’s iconic Roundhouse, in a little place named the Lock Tavern. Me and friends finding our way there by gliding down Chalk Farm road in sparkling, flowing dresses - on theme as always - with our bodies battling between the heat of the recently departed northern line and the chilling wind whipping at our ankles. Walking in I recount that I was told some years ago that this is where Declan McKenna hung out, no sign of him this evening though. There are ten of us now, sitting arm to arm in a small booth by the window. This is perfect company, delicate camaraderie. As we peer over candles, through flowers and talk of all the interesting facts we’ve recently unearthed. It eagerly becomes time to leave our small safe haven of communication in exchange for shouting in the direction of each other’s ears in a large, dark room.
Upon entering the Roundhouse, Heartworms immediately draws the ear and eye, and I am indefinitely under her spell. From when I last saw her, the sound is now more experimental, less post-punk, more post-apocalypse. I am in awe. I find myself moving as if I was at a drum and bass set, the buildups intense, the breakdowns fruitful. I cannot stop moving, dancing, doing something. Heartworms orders that you move, there is no negotiation. The fluidity of melodies of Jojo’s vocals intertwining with guitars, oozing around the room as if they were serpents, not battling but in arms with the high octane drum beats, creating a unique and beautiful sense of enlightenment, while keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground. Heartworms is also one of the only artists I’ve seen play the theremin, I can’t not mention the theremin, an almost head splitting experience, which I thoroughly enjoy.
A high paced strut, a breath of fresh air and a flurry of cigarettes and talking about the environmental impact of real fur coats versus faux fur coats. Then we’re back inside, past the bar and back within the enormity of the domed room. It’s silent. And dark. Then, a twinkle of chandeliers placed around the stage, the slight ruffling of huge silken curtains hung from the ceiling, from the dark they emerge. They're on stage. As soon as they step into view, and long before that, we are completely theirs. The lights are on and they’re singing harmonies, reminiscent of an introduction to a Florence and The Machine show. Hark! A flute from Emily Roberts’ side of the stage. Vocalist and professional twirler Abigail Morris begins in almost a whisper, “the best thing a boy can be, is pretty…” ‘Beautiful Boy’ slowly builds, serving as an introduction to the best show in the world. My friends and I occupy the gap between people in the crowd and the journalists who are too-cool-to-dance-around-and-have-fun lining the curved wall behind us. It feels surreal to be singing and spinning around freely in the company of loved ones and to feel no shame. Although I’m sure I hear a tut or two from aforementioned journalists, The Last Dinner Party have painstakingly carved out a space for us and themselves in a heavily male-centric space, and we’re allowed to dance in it. We sing, we scream and we let our rage out through the run of ‘Caesar on a TV Screen’, ‘Feminine Urge’ and ‘Burn Alive’, so much so that when it comes to ‘On Your Side’ and “Gjuha”, I feel like laying down on the (sticky) floor and weeping.
The latter portion of the set, which I would categorise as “songs you can really dance to or really cry to”, includes ‘Sinner’, ‘Portrait of a Dead Girl’, and ‘My Lady of Mercy’. I am laughing so much more than I feel I ever have, and I'm thinking to myself “this is what music should always be”, it should always be fun. Not standing, looking at people who look like they’d rather not be there, feeling like you’d rather not be there. It should be the feeling you get when you do something you can’t do anywhere else, it should be embarrassing yourself with no real embarrassment, it should be bonding with your fellow human beings in a way you can’t by standing still, it should be the absolute freedom of movement. It should be fun. After two gut-wrenchingly sad and beautiful songs in ‘Mirror’ and ‘Godzilla’, the leaving of the band and their return in the company of an entire orchestra, it becomes time to say goodbye. Abigail begins her goodbye by addressing us, her enamoured audience, at her disposal. She announces, “Just remember… Nothing Matters,” an eruption of screams from the faces in the crowd. Roses are thrown, the crowd singing louder than speakers could ever be, giggles from the band and from the audience in response. I’m positive some tears are falling too. Then in one final show of otherworldliness, more confetti than I’ve ever seen begins to fall from the heavens.
In that moment it is divinely confirmed and solid in my mind that The Last Dinner Party are the band of a generation. If you needed to hear confirmation from little old Groupie, reiterating what Radio One and the Brit’s awarding body already well know. The Last Dinner Party have definitively made space for infectious fun in a space that has, in recent years, become stale.
Listen to Prelude To Ecstacy: HERE
