The Nude Party // Creatures
The Windmill, Brixton
23rd May 2019
credit: Sacha Lecca
North Carolina’s The Nude Party are everything you would want them to be and then some with added charm and a glittering glamour straight out of Roy Rogers glory days they take cosmic surf rides into electric dreamlands by route of London’s The Windmill, Brixton. Cheeky and super attractive in a cranked-up garage psych hayride type of way, (imagine the best bits of those dancing au naturel and free spirited at Woodstock fantasies we’ve all had crammed into 45 minutes and a pub in not so exotic South London) it was a night spent watching living astral through sun tinted lenses and, legit corduroy.
The whole affair was comparable to a glorious post – prom disco for dizzy cowboys and lovers complete with a disco ball as The Nude Party’s mixture of school yard chanted harmonies, nostalgia with the added bonus of youth kissed divineand winding guitars are just so god-damn likeable, all inhibitions were thrown into (hypothetical, The Windmill is ever well kept) dust as the crowd lifted up onto every ledge and bar corner they could get their boots onto in a howl at the moon choral frenzy. Frontman Patton’s flourishing twang is distinctly surfed up, lofty American cool and charismatic as he co-ordinated feel-good grooves with more grooves and all the groovy hair and printed shirts of the six piece and audience a like.
Fine-tuned to unrefined swelled perfection, with only a debut to their name but an unmatched lyrical aesthetic that suggest everlasting careers as rattling narrators to the trip of our wildest dreams. Bassist Alec performed with a possessive shoulder shimmy so all over the place and un-questionably enchanting to watch that it was equally as hypnotic as it was downright influenceable and all round effortlessly cool. A set of consistent never ending feel good, The Nude Party aren’t afraid to take things a bit slow and murky. Tracks such as Live Like Me and Gringo Che were achingly euphoric, sexy and woozy – get down and sweaty with the itchy synths and trance inducing guitar solos that charmed periodically and skimmed around the room with mesmeric force in full acknowledgement of its power to swirl around the inside your head for days afterwards; whilst Astral Man was all kinds of far out and a testimony to the groups live widest and weirdest instrumentalism splendour .
As if the evening could get any more Peyote feast for the soul things just had to end with Chevrolet Van, a number everyone knew the words to even if they initially didn’t walking in, it was a glorious tongue in cheek homage to summers of love, kaleidoscopic adolescence and an overall karaoke feast for the hip.
Not to be side-stepped, support from London’s finest Wes Anderson fantasy child Creatures were an extravagant, theatrical psychedelic thrill that was fetchingly beautiful, heart strings tugging and highly strung linger-isms- the kind where you barely realise you’ve not paused for breath once throughout their suede clad spell.
credit: Bridie Florence
¡Viva la Revolución! And cowboys playing bongos.