Sounds From the Ground: The Spice of Life and The Lucky Pig, 2025

‘Sounds From the Ground’ offers an intimate insight into the ever-evolving, animated, and enigmatic independent music scene in London. Our third edition continues to celebrate the melange of independent music within London, beginning with a return to Soho’s ‘The Spice of Life.’

The Spice of Life, 14.01.25:

2025 is a year that has erupted into life, as well as sound for Idiotwin, with two, consecutive, curtain-raising gigs. It is exactly the sort of flurry of activity that I wish to maintain, for a musician sat at home, unless producing something, feels prorogued, dormant, or discarded. Music is life and is therefore meant to be lived; to begin a year immediately with two gigs is exactly the spark an independent musician needs, if not craves. What better place to feel alive too, than in a city that, at its centre, rarely sleeps?

A year may have elapsed, its parabola curtailing in the deftest flick of a second-hand, but London’s streets still blur and fizz with traffic, and shuttle-runs of black cabs. Street lights fizz, and gaze over flocks of harried civilians, or grazing employees couped behind the glass of fast-food shopfronts. Buses remain delayed. Trains remain… delayed, or rammed like grand sardine cans. The more things seem to change, the more they stay the same. Amidst the city’s interminable hubbub, The Spice of Life remains a hallowed haven, not just of respite, but as a point where various independent musicians acquiesce. It is as inviting as ever, potted candles glowing pockets of light that dot the downstairs performance space. A neon sign with the venue’s name still resides behind the stage, an inoffensive affirmation of the location. The more editions of this series I write, the more it will become apparent, and the more it shall become trifling to repeat – Idiotwin play at The Spice of Life often, Idiotwin adore it as a venue, and Idiotwin enjoy every gig they have there.

This time round, we were graced by a triumvirate of singer-songwriters, each one notably capable of filling a space with a sense of contentment in their own sound. There were no nominal performances, the kind that may be expected from cynical laymen begrudgingly attending an independent music night.

First up was Angie Colman (@angiecolmanmusic), who had the audience marvelling before a note had been sung with her admission that she had travelled from Perth (Perth!) to reach Soho for her first gig abroad. I could not attest to how long she’d been in London for at the point of her claiming the stage, but exhaustion summoned by such an encompassing trek was non-existent. She managed to transport a pocket of serenity from the other side of the world, to a basement in central London, and become visibly enveloped in it. Her performance could easily have occurred in a bedroom somewhere, on her own, to no tangible listeners, and this made it all the more enchanting. My only wish would have been for some of her songs to have been longer; they presented sprawling thoroughfares tangled in spindling, churning guitar smatterings that could have spun on, and on, and on. It must be shared that Angie was also a delight to speak to; perhaps there is such a thing as an Australian spirit, and perhaps she inhabited that.

Next up was Loxie (@loxie), who happened to be celebrating her birthday the day following this gig. Fortunately for her, Idiotwin were in attendance, and have a single about birthdays that they love to dedicate to audience members in turn (it goes without saying that this was the highlight of the entire evening… obviously). Her set was one of bursts of incandescence, taking the glowing form of songs dedicated to the dichotomy of love: the joy thereof, or the destitution of the breakup. What made Loxie’s set so charming, however, was a penchant for Jarvis Cocker-esque lyricism, arguably best channelled in a symbol for interdependence, and/or immaturity, and/or the blissful naivety of the small things – a runny egg and toast.

To end the night, we were graced by the stylings of Tom Seth Johnson (@tom_seth_johnson), who carried himself with the composure of a man in quiet conviction about his own musical competence. A residual suaveness, if there is such a thing, emanated from him upon the stage. To me, it makes sense to compliment a fingerstyle guitarist as having ‘poetically stable’ technique; he moved between chords and arpeggios with ease, metre never in flux. A brief reference from the musician himself to Bob Dylan, and the comparison became discernible immediately. In every bluesy gesture, in every chordal interchange, in every stretch to a higher note, the comparison was there, never in a demeaning way, but in a charming way.

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The Lucky Pig, 16.01.25:

Just like any other city, London is a place that can be segregated into areas of association. This place can be attributed this quality, this place this trope, and so on. Fitzrovia is a region of business, commerce, and arguably expense. It borders Oxford Street, which is a loaded statement in of itself. It is constructed of neat rows of interlocking streets and pavements, with furbelows of open, pristine squares embellished with greenery and stripling trees. There are decadent restaurants nestled into corners. There are sleek offices of glass and marble. There is, apparently, down one unassuming metallic staircase, a dainty, most inconspicuous speakeasy – The Lucky Pig. It certainly caught me by surprise; I wasn’t sure I’d found it even as I opened the door to step inside.

The size of The Lucky Pig is an observation that cannot help but be noted. As a pub, it is a nominal one. It is a wonder how many patrons such a surreptitious establishment, especially of that size, accrues. Does a venture of that scale have regulars? On the other hand, it strikes me as surely being a beautifully kept secret for a group of friends, or a favourite haunt for a litigator during their lunch hour. Its stature and seclusion do not minimise its charm, but rather enhance it. It makes for a haven – a harbour from the winds outside that whistle and burrow between the phalanxes of skyscrapers. The Lucky Pig’s insides are hollowed out; the bare concrete is adorned with timely movie posters, or art prints here and there, but its rustic integrity supersedes all else. One particular column stands triumphant, deep in conversation with a wooden barrel, a stationary chum (this column, whilst a dashing fellow, does happen to fall directly in the eyeline of performer and sound engineer). The floor is mostly bare, apart from some leather sofas and chairs at the back of the main space, before some hollowed out caverns further behind for groups who wish for a vestige of privacy. Such sofas also accumulate upon the stage, a slightly raised platform surrounded by a mirror and bookshelves, including such classics as the 2012 volume of The Guiness Book of World Records.

Idiotwin were accompanied by Leon Tilbrook for this gig. For some, his name will be recognisable. He happens to be the son of Glen Tilbrook, lead singer of behemoth new wave band Squeeze. Of course, this is notable precedent. It would easily be enough to intimidate, to cower beneath, to become ensconced within like swaddling. However, it would be unfair to mark Leon Tilbrook by his father’s reputation only. Watching him live is enough to dispel any of these doubts. He is a competent, accomplished performer and then some. He burnishes on stage, brandishing an acoustic guitar that he pounds out chord progressions on of eloquent harmonic fluency. Truly, the sound he is able to produce out of one acoustic guitar is incredible – I’m not sure I’ve ever heard the instrument fill a space so entirely before. His voice cambers and warbles in timbres reminiscent of his father (in this case, ‘your dad’ comments are sparkling compliments). His stage presence is immaculate too. I’m not sure how The Lucky Pig, the snuggest venue I’ve ever encountered, didn’t burst with such an outpouring of charisma. He moves his weight between his legs, before planting both, arching back with a frantic flick of fringe, and noodling a blues riff that has planted itself on his fret board from the very air. He gets the audience clapping, then singing backing vocals, then laughing, and then repeats. You would be hard-stretched to find an independent music anywhere with a more forthcoming dose of composure, charm, and confidence.

I have known Leon for a very long time, and I would call him a good friend. He came to one of my school concerts many moons ago. We play squash regularly. I’ve seen him play multiple times; it felt exhilarating to have him watch me play for the first time, conversely. It must be said – this show is the best I think I’ve ever heard him sound. His writing is maturing too, as it now stretches into moments of emotional transparency, and profundity. It was a demonstration of how fledged an artist he has become, and how burgeoning his potential is. What a pleasure it is to know great musicians.

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