With a name derived from an old spaghetti-western movie, a swaggering, gunslinging sound, and the general aura of a band of surly outlaws/Sergio Leone fans, Lola Colt must have come to expect a barrage of puns and gimmicky genre conventions from anyone coming to review their show. I’ve read four different reviews in which their tambourine is compared to a rattlesnake. The fact that the lead singer literally has the first name ‘Gun’ doesn’t help. But today, this reviewer refuses. Lola Colt are more than a gimmick. More than a one-trick pony riding into town from the Arizona desert.
The cliché-dodging approach in this case is an act of good will: it must be a minor annoyance to Lola Colt when their spaghetti-western-noir-pop stylings steal attention away from the brilliance of their music. Bloody annoying. Here’s to focusing on the music. You’re welcome, guys.
Most writers just wedge a few band names into their reviews as comparison, content that it amounts to a critique. It doesn’t. Others incessantly sort bands into little categories: “it’s n + x + y with a bit of z for good measure.” That’s bullshit too. This review is all about the music. Lola Colt’s music. Lola Colt from East London. Gun is pretty intense. She looks crazy when her mascara starts to run down her face halfway through a show. She’s equal parts Patti Smith, Polly Harvey, Siouxsie Sioux, Karen O, Chrissie Hynde, Anna Calvi and Grace Slick. As you can imagine, there was quite a lot of sexual energy in the room. I know I wasn’t alone in wanting to rip my shirt off. A guy at the front took the plunge and just went ahead and did it. What a hero.
But back to the music. The music… was… good. Very very good. Definitely go and look them up.