The ceiling is sweating, the walls are vibrating, and somewhere in the mess of bodies and beer-slicked floor, someone is already losing their mind. English Teacher has barely even started, and O2 Shepherd’s Bush Empire is humming—no, thrumming—with the exact kind of pre-show static electricity that makes you feel like you might levitate if the bass hits just right.
It does.
“It Could Be Texas” sprawls out in long, glimmering waves, delicate at first, then all sharp edges and intent. Lily Fontaine doesn’t so much ease into it as she does lunge, the words hitting like a breath held too long. The tension is there, but it’s different live. The recorded version is a smirking, observational shrug at existential disillusionment—tonight, it’s something else. Urgency, maybe. Or frustration. Or just the sheer joy of screaming about what things could be, even when you know they never will. Fontaine’s voice is both conversational and commanding, slipping between offhand nonchalance and full-bodied urgency. You don’t just hear her—she makes you listen.
The audience is locked in. Not in the arms-crossed, head-nodding way that polite indie crowds sometimes affect, but in the way that suggests people have come here for something bigger than just a good set.
“Broken Biscuits” doesn’t enter—it collides. Post-punk at its twitchiest, the kind of song that sounds like it was written in a fever dream and performed like an electrical current. Fontaine is sharp, rhythmic, the words tumbling out like she’s racing to get to the end of the thought before it dissolves. The band doesn’t just play it; they wield it, all jagged angles and shifting time signatures. The crowd reacts accordingly—pockets of movement spring up, limbs flailing, an almost ritualistic shedding of inhibition. Nobody looks cool. That’s the point.
Then “I’m Not Crying, You’re Crying.” The floor stills. The room shrinks. Fontaine is speaking now, or maybe she’s singing, or maybe both at once. The air in here is thick, weighted. The song moves like a slow, deliberate inhale—every word lands heavier than the last. And then the swell, the moment where everything erupts and nobody breathes. The climax isn’t just big—it’s cavernous. The kind of moment that leaves a dent. When it ends, it doesn’t really end. It lingers. The space where the sound used to be is just as loud.
“Nearly Daffodils” blooms slowly, woozy, stretched out like a memory unspooling in real-time. The guitars shimmer, something in the back of the mix wavers like a mirage, and Fontaine’s voice feels like it’s moving through molasses, thick with something unspoken. It’s hypnotic, but not in a passive way—there’s something beneath the surface, a current pulling everyone under. And then the hook. That collective exhale. The exact moment where the song stops being performed and starts being absorbed.
Somewhere in the set, Fontaine talks, but not in that overly-rehearsed “Hello, London!” way. More in the way someone leans in at a party and says something that makes you feel like the whole night just shifted. Her presence is effortless, but not detached—commanding, but never forced. She doesn’t need to beg for attention. She already has it.
“Good Grief” is the last song, though it doesn’t feel like an ending. It’s a slow build, stretching towards something just out of reach. The guitars layer, the drums roll, the whole thing swells like a wave on the verge of crashing. Fontaine holds the final notes like she’s holding onto something that’s already slipping away. And then silence. No encore, no forced resolution. Just the hum of amplifiers cooling down and the feeling that whatever just happened wasn’t just a show. It was something else. Something worth remembering.
Outside, the air is cold, and people are still dazed, still carrying the residue of whatever English Teacher just did to them. This wasn’t just a gig. It was a story, an argument, a dream, a warning, an inside joke that you had to be there to understand. And if you were, you’re probably still trying to piece it together now, still feeling the last notes hanging in the air long after the venue doors closed. Still wondering what this could be.
Words & photos – Richard Isaac
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