Music review: the Tiger Lillies
Article published: Tuesday, February 28th 2012
Described by singer Martyn Jacques as “Brechtian punk cabaret”, the Tiger Lillies have been delighting fans with vaudevillian gypsy-like songs about infanticide, rape, prostitution and murder for 20 years across no less than 30 albums. For those who haven’t come across the Tiger Lillies however, their show at the Contact Theatre would have been a poor introduction.
Photograph: Regis Hertrich
I bought my tickets to see the Tiger Lillies three months in advance and thought that proved me worthy of calling myself a fan. Oh how wrong I was. My enthusiasm for the Grammy-nominated ‘godfathers of cabaret’ was overshadowed by the menagerie of devotees who had clearly been following the band around the country, heckling them relentlessly at every gig and spoiling the experience for every audience in the UK by loudly anticipating the next bit of the show. I blame these painted, lace-bedecked harridans for part of what was lacking in what should have been an excellent show.
Near-technically flawless, the Tiger Lillies delivered a healthy mix of classic favourites and new material. The more doleful numbers were happily balanced by such irreverent crowd pleasers as ‘Banging in the Nails’ and ‘The Crack of Doom’, nestled among a liturgy of prostitute-themed, merrily macabre delights. ‘Aunty Mabel’, a bawdy treat concerning a cross-dressing ‘lady’ with a penchant for sailors, brought the house down as Martyn Jacques, dressed as homeless mime, shrieked “dick” over and over in his beloved falsetto. Another favourite was ‘Harriet and the Matches’, a gruesome parable of the dangers of playing with fire told from the perspective of her cat.
The Tiger Lillies showcased their bone-chilling lyricism and instrumental wizardry splendidly, but with little of the showmanship and patter one might reasonably expect from a cabaret band. There was one memorable moment in which Adrian Huge attacked his drum kit, fashioned mostly out of spoons and tissue boxes (a lie, but close enough), using a child’s baby doll as a bludgeon. But aside from this lovely piece of madness the band seem bored, angry and not at all willing to engage with their audience.
Their behaviour on-stage seemed to better befit a deadly serious and pathologically shy experimental prog band, rather than the smutty, accordion-driven revelry which has brought them so much unacknowledged popularity. Contact Theatre was packed to the rafters and those denied tickets were all but baying for blood and scrabbling weakly at the closed doors. Fans had waited months for this show but, despite the rare opportunity to see a theremin in action courtesy of the astounding Adrian Stout – who also played the double bass, musical saw, heart-strings, the works – I’m fairly certain I wasn’t the only one who left feeling a little short-changed.
Hannah Hiett
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