Thanks to the holy trinity of a rising heatwave, a broken air conditioning unit, and the chosen dress-code for the night – a folk-horror ball – Hackney’s Oslo venue closely resembled a scene from the cutting room floor of Midsommar as The Last Dinner Party prepared to take to the stage. Signed to the major label Island with just a debut single – the spiky and slightly operatic Nothing Matters – to their name, this London five-piece have quickly become one of the city’s most exciting new groups going, and ahead of their headline show, a sea of waiting fans in elaborate silk ball-gowns and wheat-covered headpieces delicately cooled themselves with fans. In case you hadn’t clocked, The Last Dinner Party take fancy dress very seriously; accordingly, they burst into the room looking like a haunted alternative to Bridgerton.
As stylish as they admittedly are, there was plenty of substance here too, with the band airing entire record’s-worth of unreleased tunes for the sweat-drenched room (they’ve already recorded their debut album, with Arctic Monkeys and Foals producer James Ford). Shifting from their smouldering ode to sadism Burn Alive to Caesar on TV – which grew from swooning, slow-burning melodrama into the band’s own take on riff-licked yacht-rock – the band wasted no time whatsoever when it came to proving their versatility. The word eccentric can often be hauled out far too often, but it’s an accurate description for The Last Dinner Party’s blend of influences, which range from the clean guitar melodies of Dire Straits and Queen, to the drama-riddled art-pop of both Sparks and the B-52s. They’re led by the uber-charismatic Abigail Morris, who appeared festooned in a crown made out of various twigs and periodically swigged from a silver goblet. “Emily’s going to play the flute now,” she yelled sternly ahead of Beautiful Boy. “So be quiet!”
The Last Dinner Party were undoubtedly well-polished but dealt with a few technical hiccups as they arose with a practised smoothness that should help lay some of the scepticism surrounding their rapid rise to rest. On Sinner – a harmonic piano ballad which quickly evolved into a squalling and shouting punk song – lead guitarist Emily Roberts was thwarted by a loose cable, jolted away as Morris pogoed around the stage. After finishing an unintentional bass-heavy edit of the song, the band calmly restarted at its crucial moment; Morris and guitarist Lizzie Mayland were helpless with laughter as the room went extra-wild for the understated Roberts’ shredding. Penultimate song Godzilla – easily their most chaotic song; a swaggering slab of pirate-funk – sparked a mosh pit. By their obvious closer Nothing Matters, Morris got involved too, diving right into the fray.
Intentionally building up a reputation as a live band before putting out any physical music, The Last Dinner Party have succeeded in creating a kind of mythology around themselves. And judging by the fervour of their East London show – and the dripping masses who extracted themselves from the sweltering pit afterwards – it’s a legend that’s still in its early days. “I think this is a really good time for music,” announced Morris, shortly before inviting support act Picture Parlour to invade the stage. We’ll raise a cast-iron chalice to that.
