Descending the stairs into the Electric Ballroom, the air hangs heavy with incense as anciently decadent Opus Kink pennants adorn the Camden walls. Something wicked this way comes: the band’s largest headline show to date, complete with choirs, crowd-surfing saxophonists and Cameron Winter impressions.
Opus Kink have always operated in a feverish theatre of the absurd, a band less from Brighton than from some half-remembered pagan empire. But their latest campaign seems to dig even deeper into the grandeur of their twistedly romantic, antique aesthetic. The concert, titled ‘A Sweet Goodbye’, is less a farewell than a herald of things to come – a prelude to the new album due next year. Originally scheduled a year earlier, the gig was postponed while the band wrestled with the machinery of record-making and the dark corners of the music business.
No matter – tonight’s performance proves well worth the wait. Fellow Brightonians Slag open proceedings, never an easy task, but quickly seize attention with their erratic alt-rock that recalls contemporaries such as Man/Woman/Chainsaw and Ain’t. Despite their tongue-in-cheek presentation, there’s nothing frivolous about the self-proclaimed ‘Spice Girls of Math Rock’ who play with an effortlessness that can come only from relentless touring.
As the clock strikes nine, the lights dim and a chorus rises from above. The sound seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once until eyes lift to the balcony, where the enigmatic Opus Dei Kink Shamers’ Sectarian Choir are gathered in formation. Twenty-ish voices harmonise in eerie splendour. It’s a fittingly theatrical opening, one that heightens the evening’s opulent, archaic atmosphere, yet by the fourth song, murmurs ripple through the crowd – a touch of overindulgence, perhaps, as anticipation mounts for the main event.
When Opus Kink finally emerge to the final notes of the choir. This is a band who understand the power of spectacle; their flair for drama is evident not just in their videos and social media dispatches but in the way they command a stage. Fusing the grisly tales of filthy punk with the swagger of horn-fuelled jazz, they create a sound entirely their own – a glorious sermon of noise and ecstasy.
Early in the set come firm favourites ‘I Love You, Baby’, ‘Dust’ and ‘I Wanna Live With You’, fired out back-to-back to the delight of a packed crowd. Sweat beads on foreheads and walls alike; strangers collide with joyous abandon in the heaving pit. Later, the certified rip-roar of ‘St Paul of the Tarantulas’ cleaves the audience clean in two, as humidity and £7 pints thicken the already non-existent air. A lively powerhouse on the verge of collapse, the band reel and writhe over their instruments, each blast leaning into the next as if locked in glorious argument over who can play the loudest.
It becomes immediately, abundantly clear that Opus Kink were born to thrive in the live arena. You think you know exactly what to expect from one of their shows, and yet every time they surpass expectation. The statuesque showmanship of frontman Angus Rogers demands your full attention, his manic glare punctuating every jazz-punk crescendo that both merits and receives a raucous audience response. It’s unnerving, triumphant, and deeply celebratory — one of those rare performances where you cease to feel like a spectator and instead find yourself swept into a merry, anarchic evening curated by masters of their craft.
There’s little chatter between songs, save for a brief word of thanks to those who waited through the year’s postponement, followed by a rogue Geese impression as the band launch into a satirical take on their recent Live Lounge cover of New Radicals’ ‘You Get What You Give’, which went viral earlier this week. “You’ve got the music in you,” Rogers croons in a caricature of Cameron Winter, all mock-theatrical flair. For all their differences from the Brooklyn four-piece, the kinship is clear – a shared boldness and experimental spirit that sets both apart from the seemingly endless conveyor belt of generic post-punk groups populating grassroots venues across the country.
The camp, glittering lead single I’m a Pretty Showboy, released barely a month before the show, earns perhaps the wildest reaction of the night. The crowd leap and sway to the dissonant pulse of Rogers’ yelps, cries and seductive sighs, his delivery teetering between chaos and charm. It’s followed by an unreleased track, the name of which we didn’t catch, offered up to the adoring hearts of Camden like a secret shared among the faithful – another heady rush, addictive and unmistakably Opus Kink in every twisted quality.
There’s something very cult-like about the whole affair – worshippers packed so tightly you can’t help but brush shoulders with the stranger beside you. It all reaches a fevered peak as the opening Gregorian chant of ‘1:18’ begins. A circle opens in the crowd; one figure kneels before the stage while another, at Rogers’ command, leans in and gnaws dramatically at their ear. The chanting swells, the song crawls and grows, until the ritual crests. Then, release: the swaying turns to jumping, the jumping to flight, and for a moment the whole room seems to levitate in collective abandon.
Opus Kink’s tightness and energy remain a joy to behold, their sense of drama and invention entirely their own. If ‘A Sweet Goodbye’ was meant as an ending, it feels anything but. The faithful will be waiting for the album next year – and for whatever wild sermon comes next.
Words: Donovan Livesey Photos: maeve_w_photo