Last weekend, the Fox got decked out in paper cogs and swish stage drapes, and its clientele in Victoriana of all kinds, including brown corduroy top hats, waistcoats, cufflinks and corsets, ready for two bob’s first ever steampunk fiesta.
First to take to the stage were JD & The Longfellows, a local troupe of Celtic-inspired folk-rockers. Although it may have been their first gig of the year, their whisky-soaked, violin-driven shanties certainly didn’t seem rusty to me. With songs on subjects as diverse as zombie love and the mile high club, they’re anything but the twee folk-pop that might have some reaching for the sick bucket. Instead, they’re closer to The Pogues crossed with Johnny Cash, and the perfect opening act for an evening of olde-worlde entertainment.
Tom Allalone & The 78s
Next up was Tom Allalone & The 78s, an impeccably-dressed troupe (according to The Times, at least) renowned for their raucous but refined rockabilly ditties. Looking a lot like dandy gangsters in their shirts and skinny ties, they belted out an energetic set of old-school 50s rock’n'roll. Think Weezer mixed with Vincent Vincent at top volume and you’re about half-way there. Enough to get the dancefloor full.
Jarmean? (Plus Smoochi busting some fab moves in the middle!)
Last onstage were vaudeville cabaret kings and queens Jarmean? of whom two bob chief Carl has been a fan since he saw them support Special Benny last summer. Six months of trying to book them ensued, but the busy bees were always elusive. Until now. And after all that time eagerly awaiting them, they didn’t disappoint. Female fury on the drums, an oom-pah-pahing tuba, crooning and ukelele-strumming from cocky charismatic frontman Truman, and a dancing girl named Smoochi. Like Bez, except young, female and hot, with perfect pins and much more rhythm. Looking and sounding like they’d just time-travelled to Lewishambles from the jazz speakeasies of 1920s New York, their unique brand of upbeat, irreverent music-hall soon got everyone’s feet tapping. With a set that could have easily soundtracked The Cat’s Meow (one of my favourite films, so no complaints on that front!), including a Charleston-tastic adaptation of ‘King of the Swingers’ from Jungle Book, playfully retitled ‘King of the Gingers’ in recognition of the ‘fact’ that “Prince Harry is a bastard.” (According to Truman, at least. It’s none of my beeswax, but can’t claims of that nature get you beheaded for treason? If so, I’d like to reiterate that that’s his assertion, not mine. Swinging song, though. Queenie, if you’re reading this, please let him off. I want them to come back, and soon!)