Deep beneath Charing Cross station, something evil lurks. When Bambie Thug, Eurovision enigma and PVC gender disrupter, promises a brief early set at iconic gay bar Heaven, you canât ignore the siren song that drags you downstairs into the long, misty basement. Between the folk in the crowd who are aware that they were born naked and the rest is drag, to the horned Maleficent wannabes and the distressingly normal looking ladies in anoraks, itâs clear that Bambie Thugâs tentacles are stretching beyond their pop metal origins and into the rest of the unsuspecting world.
The problems come when the real world intrudes on Thugâs theatrical underworld. If this show took place at three AM, with an inebriated crowd poised to erupt at the far-more-suggestive-than-expected first act, then this would have been a brilliant show from start to finish, but for a crowd whoâve mostly run straight from the office? We arenât ready for this level of drama, and it doesnât land. A voiceover leads us in a breathing exercise before Thug glides onstage for âhex so heavyâ, and from the second they come onstage, they present a performance thatâs as absorbing as it is gorgeous. Yes, Thug is lip-syncing through most of the show, but itâs their presence that makes this more special than just a karaoke session, giving the pretty nightmare they evokes a more than human face. Each pose struck could be a vogue cover. However, evoking an otherworldly supernatural spirit doesnât exactly help to build a connection with the crowd, who nod politely for the first twenty minutes, until Thug encourages us with a wave of their gloved hand on âKawasaki (I Love It)â and we visibly relax, as if permission has been granted to have fun. Rinsing the bass on âBye Boyâ lets us become absorbed into the fuzz.
Then, suddenly, Thug casts their first spell. Starkly lit with almost no backing, they sing âChildren Are Playingâ, really singing it with their full range. Bare and organic and artificial all at once, fists raise in solidarity across the room, emblazoned with goosebumps. âTake a moment to look around and see how lucky you are,â commands Thug, their speaking voice gentle, âsilence speaks volumes but we can be loud together.â When Thug takes their show seriously, theyâre insanely magnetic, and glances beneath their lashes betray real emotion during the cheers for âCarelessâ.
It takes forty minutes for this evening to really feel like a show. The âsexy bin manâ routine for âTrashâ is surreal and literal, disguising the vitriol behind their âbreakup songâ. Record scratches like evil laughter lead us into âEgregoreâ, the big dark hit that throws out the rushing, screamable quality to raise a field of hands across the dancefloor. âDo you know how to, like, mosh?â they ask, the half naked dancers helpfully miming whatâs involved before âHeadbangâ, and for a minute we are all absolutely lost in the darkness of the rave atmosphere that Thug creates, fluid and disjointed yet unifying. Their bright voice in the dark echoes out to signal âDoomsday Blueâ as the encore and unsteadily, they head back into the crowd, flipping their horned head back for a vast scream. With a giggle, Thug pirouettes offstage, their mischief managed. No one moves until the house lights come back on, a sign to head back upstairs to the light drizzle of Embankment.Â
As a visual and theatrical performer, Bambie Thug knows how to put on a memorable show, every pose instagramable. Their voice, when we hear it, is ferocious and powerful, and they are unafraid to make bold political statements, but the overwhelming gloss proved alienating and difficult to warm to, especially when it became clear that there wasnât that much live music in the hour-long set. Still, weâre left with the impression that the Bambi Thug ritual that will lead to their rise has begun, and we welcome the future when they include a backing band and one hell of a live vocal show with enough strength to âCrown the Witchâ as our new pop metal monarch.Â
KATE ALLVEY