It’s Wednesday, and tonight I’m headed to the art-deco, Grade II-listed Hammersmith Apollo – formerly the Hammersmith Odeon, today officially the Eventim Apollo – to see The Last Dinner Party, a remarkably talented musical female and non-binary five-piece (mostly) from London, who met during King’s College Fresher’s Week in 2019 and jet-setted to superstardom almost immediately after a couple of singles in 2023 and one excellent album, released in February.
My daughter Sadie (20) is home from Guildford to attend the gig with me, as this is one of the bands we agree is brilliant. On the journey from NW10, we direct her boyfriend Zach, who’s driving (“precious cargo”), through dark, mad London streets. He drops us on a road a few minutes from the venue, leaving mother and daughter to it as we wave goodbye.
Sadie and I turn the corner and enter a sea of wonderful young women floating around the streets chatting animatedly amid the lit-up puddles of the night. We have arrived at the centre of what can only be described as a profoundly feminist knees up.
If you’re not familiar, The Last Dinner Party have a strong image: a blend of Victorian Nancy-in-Oliver-Twist corsets and full skirts, necklaces and lace, paired with modern pieces, such as over-the-knee socks, work wear boots and tutus, fostering a unique mix of considered nods to the past with an element of Portobello Road avant-garde. Their sound is labeled “indie”, but to me their album is not indie at all but lavish, baroque rock cabaret opera, with Sparks and Kate Bush and an awful lot of Freddie Mercury in their delivery.
As the band started playing and the gig got going, I was struck by how their ye-olde-London look, combined with that of this historic venue, worked seamlessly to create moments that could have happened over a hundred years ago, yet were also completely of London today. It reminded me of that TV show The Good Old Days (though not with an encore of Down At The Old Bull and Bush).
The Apollo looks beautiful at night with marble staircases, ornate wall panelling and mosaic floor pieces, as well as gothic chambers for the sound of an organ. Think the Overlook Hotel, but not scary. It’s all magnificently theatrical as lead singer Abigail Morris’s voice reaches the venue’s high ceiling in her highest most operatic soprano, juxtaposed with the sound of Emily Roberts‘s rock guitar which thunders against the back wall. In their moment they’re exactly where they should be: new London working inside old London, and I can feel the nods of the Apollo ghosts and the blessing of Queen of Kensington Freddie, who could have been their Godfather.
Our seats in the balcony give us a clear view of an adoring female front row pouring out lyrics back to their heroes. They all dress just like the band – all carrying roses and wearing ribbons and blood-coloured lipsticks. We notice a dotting of male heads around the place, and Abigail makes them feel a smile in the revelry: “If this is your first time seeing us, and you’re not wearing a corset, you’re welcome. But know for next time.”
Sadie visits the merch stand and finds a TLDP lighter for a fiver. She buys two and gifts one to me.
“Thank you,” I say. “It makes no sense, and yet it makes total sense.”
“I know!” she replies, and laughs. Neither of us smoke. But the lighter is such a symbol of the sparky power exhibited by modern day London girls defying conventions in Hammersmith’s grandest building.
After the buzz of the gig, we realise we skipped dinner in order to get to the show on time. With a hopeful look round the corner, we see that Honest Burgers is still open. We both order vegan burger and chips and, while waiting, see from our phones that Brian May was one of the handful of males in the crowd. I ponder if he’s been sent by Freddie.
The food arrives and it is very good, as we chat about our favourite songs the band performed. After a cringe look at the bad video we took of ourselves singing “dancing in convertibles” from finale tune Nothing Matters, we get our bill and pay for our last dinner party before bed.
Julie Hamill writes novels, appears on Times Radio and does lots, lots more. Follow her on X/Twitter. Support OnLondon.co.uk and its writers for just £5 a month or £50 a year and get things for your money too. Details HERE.