Picture this. You throw your Docs on for a Thursday evening at The Rocksteady in Dalston. The Rocksteady is located in one of the cooler parts of London, right by the station, so you don’t have much of a walk to doubt whether this place is dodgier than it is trendy. The security guy at the door tells you to go downstairs for the gig. You show your ticket, receive your stamp and walk into the dark and dingy underground bar where you’ll inevitably listen to music that’s far too loud for you to leave with your hearing intact and pay for pints that cost as much as your hourly rate.
Definitely worth your work hangover for the dirty, rotten, Mice On Mars
Authentic is the word here. The atmosphere, the feel, the classic smell of stale cigarettes and beer. Everything down to the audience sporting fully black outfits ready for a midweek showcase of local London talent. There’s a charm to nights like this that aren’t quite emulated anywhere else.
Enter Mice On Mars. A three piece punk band from the far away galaxy of ‘northern England’ who shout angrily down the microphones to the tune of gritty guitar rhythms and catchy bass riffs. Angsty melodic shouting is layered by the drummer’s harmonies. It’s the kind of music that people who can’t play music try to make but when they actually know how to play their instruments it’s 100 times better. Angry but fun. Shouty yet musical. Edgy while thought provoking. All of this takes place as the trio emit a moody and mysterious charm that helps to amplify their Jack White-esque sound. So mysterious that you’ll have to catch them live yourselves at one of their gigs rather than trying to scour the internet for their music.
You almost forget that the sound quality of the venue is a bit shit and that you have work at 8am the next morning on the other side of London (sigh). It takes a certain skill to make what is essentially a glorified basement with an alcohol licence feel like a much larger venue; to make your ears feel like they’re bleeding while they continue to ring for days on end yet you (almost) don’t regret not wearing earplugs.
Definitely worth your work hangover for the dirty, rotten, Mice On Mars.