Since the birth of rock and roll, various artists have helped define the times we live in. Elvis, Little Richard & Buddy Holly at the beginning. The ‘60’s clearly belonged toThe Beatles, Stones and the British Invasion. The ‘70’s saw Glam, with Bowie and Bolan vying for supremacy, then the emergence of disco and punk. New Wave dominated the 80’s along with the funk and rock godliness of Prince, before Nirvana and the ghastly named Britpop era. And on it goes. I appreciate this is an immeasurable generalisation but you get the gist.

The Lovely Eggs can rightly declare that ‘now’ belongs to them. We all reside in ‘Eggland’. So, ‘fuck it’ (I’ll return to this profanity later).

Previously, I’ve described their work, along with others, as DIY psychedelic punk. But I feel I need to pioneer a new genre for this brilliantly bonkers and batshit crazy swirling racket. It may not drip from your tongue with the same ease as Balearic Beats, Contemporary Country or Dubtronica but I’m going to give it a go: Cosmic-Electro-Tribal-Honky-Tonk-Hyperpop-Glam-Post-Punk.

My first exposure to their quirky and infectious, independent minded sound came in 2021. As I excitedly purchased the I, Moron 7” single featuring Iggy Pop’s inimitable drawling vocal on top of a delightfully mad hi-tempo number, it reminded us that we are all indeed ‘morons’, adjacent to other ‘morons’. I lapped up every marvellous, moronic moment.

The Lancastrian husband and wife paced onto the stage of this celebrated venue in front of a thronging, expectant audience awaiting an abundance of intensely visceral aural smacks about the chops. And that’s exactly what we got.

With a mixture of new tracks from their universally acclaimed new record and their tubthumping earlier songs, the ‘Eggs’ bombarded La Belle Angele with warm but abrasive rhythmic melodies and fuzz.

From my position in the photography pit, my body immediately experienced the sheer potency of Holly’s almighty Fender guitar sound. Ripping out the PA along with David’s insistent Krautrock/Kraftwerk beats. They may not look like our archetypal rock stars, but make no mistake, this homegrown couple are summoning the true spirit of rock and roll in one almighty blast of unconventional noise.

Propelling the audience hypersonically through Death Grip Kids, Witchcraft, Memory Man with a lyric of unrestrained stream of consciousness, and the psychedelic rapture of Magic Onion, Edinburgh, as only us Scots can do, partied with Celtic aplomb like it was 1999. If you attended tonight’s show in the hope of rapid-fire sing-a-longs, then shouty chanting was delivered, to your heart’s content.

My article will unsuccessfully fail to capture the beauty (and that’s the precise noun) of a few hundred giddy gig goers belting out the war cries of Fuck It and I Don’t Fucking Know What I’m Gunna Do at maximum amplification in a cellar venue. It made me proud to be an ‘Egg’ and a Scot. These are the rallying slogans of the era, delivered by a band of our time.

The ‘Eggs’ play to their combined strengths with witty blasts of agit rock, delivered by the sheer authentic personality and presence of Holly, standing on one leg, Fender raised to the roof overseeing audience reverence. David with his syncopated motorik industrial drum thumping (he hits them, they stay hit) and extensive electronica effects bubbling and swirling underneath this buzzsaw psych.

Whatever brimming musical witchcraft this band has summoned, it’s the antithesis of a corporate rock industry I despise. After I’d screamed non stop at the recent sloppy Apple iPad advertisement, intent on crushing every aspect of human creativity and any cultural achievements we have attained, the ‘Eggs’ have ignited my optimism that there are many like minded souls such as I, who demand the music and attitude of the alternatives.

Their lack of pretension is evident. They do what they want, exactly how they want, and that is a welcome distraction in this deranged world.

As the set drew to a conclusion, despite the crowd howling for more, we were regaled with the cosmic odyssey where normality and the grass is always greener collide in Wiggy Giggy, Dickhead, with its boisterous riffs and lyrics recklessly delivered by Holly and on Meeting Friends At Night. 

My advice, succumb to the ‘Eggs’, plug yourself into the ‘Eggs’, because these aren’t just ‘good eggs’, this band has cracked it (allow me one egg pun please).

With the prospect of a turgid monochromatic general election looming there’s only one action required, Fuck It.

Vote for music in its purest form. Vote for unconventional. Vote for honesty and humanity. Vote for ‘Eggland’.

It’ll be a landslide. 

For more on The Lovely Eggs, head to their website here.