More about: The Pretty Reckless

I moved to London about 7 months ago with a lost mindset of being a hopeless romantic that wants nothing more than to be inspired by the cultural hub of the UK and create things. Living in the UK, if you ever want to pursue a career within the world of creativity and don’t know where to start, it just makes sense to start in London. Then when you get here, even though you aren’t exactly sure what you were looking for, there’s something about Brixton that lets you know you’ve found it. 

Walking out of Brixton tube station on Saturday night, the profound combination of authenticity and gentrification is immediately overwhelming. On one hand, you have some bloke trying to peddle incense, an artsy type flogging their new single, groups of mates chatting over BBQs and cigs whilst business partners wheel a hot dog stand down the street. On the other hand, you have the by-product of capitalisation on an area that people recognised as the place to be. Bowie didn’t drink at Pret a Manger, Don Letts doesn’t go to Costa, and yet I’ll have a flat white and a cheese and ham toastie please mate. 

Though that capitalisation might not be an accurate reflection of what’s at the heart of Brixton, it still draws in the crowds. In fact, it’s that combination that makes Brixton the hub of creativity that it is. That authenticity is still present, and yet among that you have out of town dream chasers, the locals and the tourists, the business types and the poets, a random mixture that instils the feeling that at the drop of a hat, the entire world could change. Unfortunately, this sense of creativity, spontaneity and wide eyedness dissipated that night the closer and closer you got to Brixton Academy. 

“The Pretty Reckless SOLD OUT” shines out at the bottom of a dome draped in green neon. Leather jackets and long hair makes its way to the entrance and excitement bubbles as an aggressive hum from the support can be heard through the walls. Pints cost too much and the room is too hot, as you’d expect. I arrive a bit late so am only waiting about 10 minutes before the band come on and as soon as they start playing, all I can do is feel sorry for those who had to stand around any longer than that. 

The Pretty Reckless sound like a band who have never heard rock music before and are making it up. The title of their new album “Death by Rock and Roll” sums this up pretty well as it reads like the kind of thing the kid who sat behind you in Math who had heard one ACDC song would scribble on the inside of their notebook. The crowd are loving it, but the band look like they almost don’t want to be there, to the point that when Taylor Momsen says, “London, it’s great to be here!” It sounds as though she’s reading it off the back of her hand. 

"The Pretty Reckless represent for me a capitalisation on loyalty..."

When they play their hit song, it becomes a bit clearer. ‘Make Me Wanna Die’ is a tune, no doubt about it. With heavy guitar, a catchy chorus and lyrics that you can sing into the mirror whilst wondering why Shona doesn’t like you back, it’s borderline perfect for teenage angst. Similar to a lot of modern rock bands, The Pretty Reckless saw this as a winning formula and have refused to divert from it throughout the next 12 years. Essentially, ‘Make Me Wanna Die’ was a mento in a coke bottle, and the rest of the bands career has been the aftermath of that, gently fizzing out but ever-present. 

The gig isn’t for me, I wouldn’t go see them again. At the same time, when you look around at the crowd, and when you see the number of ‘Death by Rock and Roll’ t shirts that make their way around Brixton on the night, it’s hard to deny that not only are fans of The Pretty Reckless loyal, they love the stuff that the band keep peddling out. 

There are two friends stood in front of me, one with a tattoo of a snake eating itself and another in a black suede jacket, they keep singing into each other’s faces, getting closer and closer to the point that they need to just call a spade a spade and kiss already. To my right one girl dances with her (presumed) boyfriend as they kiss and sway and only come up for air when they’re screaming a lyric to the high heavens. At the front of the crowd is a mass of fans jumping up and down, phones in the air and screams happening at every hair toss Momsen does. And yet even in the presence of all of these fans, all of these people finishing work for the weekend and unwinding to a band that they love, the gig still fucking sucks. 

The Pretty Reckless represent for me a capitalisation on loyalty, rather than the reward of artistic integrity. They are Brixton’s Pret a Mangers without the authenticity underneath. I don’t stick around for an encore as it’s clear it would just be the same few chords with a chorus and lyrics borrowed from a teenage girls Tumblr page. Leaving, I head to the bar to bin my empty cup and in doing so see an advert for a drink upgrade. If I could offer any advice to anyone heading out on this tour it would be this: upgrade to a double pint, you’re going to need it. 

See the view from the pit, captured by Izzy Clayton:

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More about: The Pretty Reckless