With lyrics like spells and guitars like sirens, The March Violets once again proved that post-punk can still shimmer, snarl, and seduce.
It was the hottest Saturday of the year so far - melting-pavement hot, ice-cold-pint-or-perish hot - when a band forged in the cooler, darker climes of 1980s Leeds returned to remind us that gothic rock is not just alive, but gloriously undead. The March Violets descended on Oslo (the Hackney venue, not the Norwegian capital), and in the process, turned the place into a cathedral of post-punk passion.
Kicking off the evening was a lone support act: a young chap armed with a guitar, a laptop, and a great deal of courage. Technically competent and evidently earnest, he played his heart out - but in all honesty, the crowd's loyalty may have been owed more to Oslo’s blessed air conditioning than to the music itself. The performance was less “earworm” and more “ear... experiment,” but fair play to him for braving a tough crowd.
Then came the real reason we’d all braved the heat and the Hackney Overground: The March Violets. A band that once shared a scene - and a fog machine - with The Sisters of Mercy, they’ve long marched to the beat of their own (drum machine-driven) drum. And march they still do, with the sort of swagger only four decades of glorious defiance can bestow.
From the moment Rosie Garland stepped on stage, dressed not in a business suit, but in a sharp ensemble of black, offset by a white shirt-more gothic ringmaster than business executive - we were hers. Her voice-still crystalline, commanding, cut through the venue like a belladonna-laced blade. Beside her, the legendary Tom Ashton wrangled all manner of shrieks and snarls from his guitar, while bassist Mat Thorpe held down the low end with nonchalant menace. As for the drum machine-possibly still their old friend Dr. Rhythm-it remained stoically metronomic, unfazed by time, trend, or temperature.
They opened with "Made Glorious", a lush, slow-burning incantation that shimmered with silver-lined grandeur. “You're magnificent,” Rosie intoned, and for a moment, every black-clad soul in the room believed her. Then came "Long Pig"-equal parts voodoo curse and dancefloor stomp-delivered with the sort of feral glee that suggested some bones "had" been pointed at someone, somewhere.
Next up, "Crow Baby", that minor-key classic that once haunted goth club playlists like a spectre in fishnets. Rosie prowled the stage, every inch the high priestess of shadowy chic, her charisma undimmed by the decades. The crowd, appropriately bewitched, responded with unrestrained devotion.
Then the set took a turn into newer territory: "Hammer the Last Nail" and "This Way Out", both from the band’s most recent album. The tone here was a touch more melodic, a tad less jagged-but no less thrilling. This wasn't a band trading eyeliner for maturity; it was evolution without compromise. The lyrics remained gloriously cryptic-equal parts poetic and puzzling, like hieroglyphs on a nightclub wall.
By the time they reached "Grooving in Green", the room was euphoric. Age evaporated. The middle-aged became moody teenagers again; the moody teenagers turned into devoted converts. It was a mass resurrection, set to echo-laden guitars and drum machine heartbeats. "She exists," the chorus insisted-and in that moment, so did we all.
The main set closed with "Heading for the Fire", a track that somehow managed to sound apocalyptic and uplifting at once. Then came the classic faux-farewell-everyone pretending to be surprised when the band returned for an encore.
They plunged us back into the past with "Fodder", then finished with "Snake Dance", the one track "everyone" had been waiting for. It landed like a ritual. Limbs flailed. Voices shouted. A few folks looked genuinely possessed. It was sweaty, unhinged, euphoric, and absolutely perfect.
And so, The March Violets left us, glowing and slightly dehydrated, to wander out into the sultry London night. After forty-plus years, they remain a marvel: haunting but human, sharp-edged but sumptuous, a band that never truly left the shadows, but knows exactly how to set them alight.
Setlist:
Made Glorious
Long Pig
Crow Baby
Hammer The Last Nail
This Way Out
Grooving In Green
Steam
Kraken Wakes
Walk
1,2 I Love You
Crocodile Teeth
Strangehead
Heading For The Fire
Encore:
Fodder
Snake Dance
It was the hottest Saturday of the year so far - melting-pavement hot, ice-cold-pint-or-perish hot - when a band forged in the cooler, darker climes of 1980s Leeds returned to remind us that gothic rock is not just alive, but gloriously undead. The March Violets descended on Oslo (the Hackney venue, not the Norwegian capital), and in the process, turned the place into a cathedral of post-punk passion.
Kicking off the evening was a lone support act: a young chap armed with a guitar, a laptop, and a great deal of courage. Technically competent and evidently earnest, he played his heart out - but in all honesty, the crowd's loyalty may have been owed more to Oslo’s blessed air conditioning than to the music itself. The performance was less “earworm” and more “ear... experiment,” but fair play to him for braving a tough crowd.
Then came the real reason we’d all braved the heat and the Hackney Overground: The March Violets. A band that once shared a scene - and a fog machine - with The Sisters of Mercy, they’ve long marched to the beat of their own (drum machine-driven) drum. And march they still do, with the sort of swagger only four decades of glorious defiance can bestow.
From the moment Rosie Garland stepped on stage, dressed not in a business suit, but in a sharp ensemble of black, offset by a white shirt-more gothic ringmaster than business executive - we were hers. Her voice-still crystalline, commanding, cut through the venue like a belladonna-laced blade. Beside her, the legendary Tom Ashton wrangled all manner of shrieks and snarls from his guitar, while bassist Mat Thorpe held down the low end with nonchalant menace. As for the drum machine-possibly still their old friend Dr. Rhythm-it remained stoically metronomic, unfazed by time, trend, or temperature.
They opened with "Made Glorious", a lush, slow-burning incantation that shimmered with silver-lined grandeur. “You're magnificent,” Rosie intoned, and for a moment, every black-clad soul in the room believed her. Then came "Long Pig"-equal parts voodoo curse and dancefloor stomp-delivered with the sort of feral glee that suggested some bones "had" been pointed at someone, somewhere.
Next up, "Crow Baby", that minor-key classic that once haunted goth club playlists like a spectre in fishnets. Rosie prowled the stage, every inch the high priestess of shadowy chic, her charisma undimmed by the decades. The crowd, appropriately bewitched, responded with unrestrained devotion.
Then the set took a turn into newer territory: "Hammer the Last Nail" and "This Way Out", both from the band’s most recent album. The tone here was a touch more melodic, a tad less jagged-but no less thrilling. This wasn't a band trading eyeliner for maturity; it was evolution without compromise. The lyrics remained gloriously cryptic-equal parts poetic and puzzling, like hieroglyphs on a nightclub wall.
By the time they reached "Grooving in Green", the room was euphoric. Age evaporated. The middle-aged became moody teenagers again; the moody teenagers turned into devoted converts. It was a mass resurrection, set to echo-laden guitars and drum machine heartbeats. "She exists," the chorus insisted-and in that moment, so did we all.
The main set closed with "Heading for the Fire", a track that somehow managed to sound apocalyptic and uplifting at once. Then came the classic faux-farewell-everyone pretending to be surprised when the band returned for an encore.
They plunged us back into the past with "Fodder", then finished with "Snake Dance", the one track "everyone" had been waiting for. It landed like a ritual. Limbs flailed. Voices shouted. A few folks looked genuinely possessed. It was sweaty, unhinged, euphoric, and absolutely perfect.
And so, The March Violets left us, glowing and slightly dehydrated, to wander out into the sultry London night. After forty-plus years, they remain a marvel: haunting but human, sharp-edged but sumptuous, a band that never truly left the shadows, but knows exactly how to set them alight.
Setlist:
Made Glorious
Long Pig
Crow Baby
Hammer The Last Nail
This Way Out
Grooving In Green
Steam
Kraken Wakes
Walk
1,2 I Love You
Crocodile Teeth
Strangehead
Heading For The Fire
Encore:
Fodder
Snake Dance
