With left-of-centre art-rock thriving (Fontaines DC, English Teacher, etc.), Mary in the Junkyard have quietly emerged as the ones to watch. Still teenagers, they stormed London’s small-venue circuit with a word-of-mouth buzz no algorithm could fake. Not your standard indie band, and far from the typical ‘south London sound’, Clari Freeman-Taylor (vocals, guitar), Saya Barbaglia (bass, viola) and David Addison (drums) have always felt slightly out of step – and all the better for it. Tonight, at Venue MOT, a shadowy industrial unit in East London, they step up again, and it feels like something’s happening.
First up was Dove Ellis, the young Irish songwriter whose Buckley-esque falsetto and dynamic control held the room in thrall. Slipping between delicate acoustic ballads and driving, bass-heavy numbers, his set had both range and poise, the kind that makes you lean in before sweeping you along. With a US tour supporting Geese lined up this winter, it feels almost obvious to say that Ellis will be very widely loved in about a year’s time.
Mary in the Junkyard are, for one night only, billed under the name ants in the pants – a secret show of sorts, their last London gig before they fly to America to support Wet Leg. Over half the set is new songs, and they let slip they’ve been busy writing their debut album. The music veers between jagged art-rock and stripped-back folk, as they play with the dexterity of In Rainbows-era Radiohead. It’s silly and serious all at once: a papier-mâché skull sat next to them, the merch stand selling pants with ants printed on them, but the music itself landing with real weight.
The venue plays its part. The band set up in the round, the audience circling them, the whole thing elevated by MOT’s industrial edges. They begin with Drains, their latest single: shadowy guitar chords underpinning Clari Freeman-Taylor’s shifting vocals – gentle one moment, a raw scream the next – while Saya Barbaglia’s suitably deep bass and David Addison’s inventive technical drumming push it forward.
Roughly half the set is given over to unreleased songs, every bit as compelling, suggesting a fertile 2026 for the band. Distortion pedals are ditched for acoustic guitars, nudging the trio towards something more folk-inflected, yet without sacrificing force. Even without the safety net of recognisable hooks, the audience is right there with them – proof of the bond Mary in the Junkyard have built in such a short time.
That bond extends to the stage itself. Clari wears a sailor hat marked Captain Clari, steering the ship while swapping between four instruments – two guitars, a cello and even an accordion. Barbaglia stretches her left hand to its limit on a bass almost bigger than her, but looks most at home on viola, plucked and bowed with deft precision, even slipping in a turn on synth. Addison, whose recent gym adventures inspired the unreleased track New Muscles, turns bright red as Clari explains the story, pounding the drums with a mix of muscle and mischief. Instruments are swapped, roles flipped, and there’s never an ounce of ego.
That’s the thing with Mary in the Junkyard: their uncynical openness. It’s not their age, or their lack of experience (which they already have a lot of anyway). It’s that they approach the whole thing with play, invention, and vulnerability. The clothes are homemade, the set decorations too. There’s no front, no macho persona, just three people building a world together and inviting us in.
The night ends with Tuesday, their sprawling debut single, breaking into a last burst of noise and chaos. “Widen my horizons, please,” Clari sings, and for the uninitiated tonight, horizons have already been pushed out further than expected. One year on from their first headline show, Mary in the Junkyard have gone from the Windmill’s sweat-soaked corners to the brutal concrete of East London industrial units without losing an ounce of their magic. On tonight’s evidence, their rise feels inevitable.
Words: Donovan Livesey Photo: Steve Gullick