Dry Cleaning Could Probably Stay on Beat Through the Apocalypse

It is difficult to describe South London-based post-punk quartet Dry Cleaning without falling into cliché. One might be inclined to compare lead vocalist Florence Shaw's deep voice and spoken word style to someone like Courtney Barnett or Cate Blanchett. Some refer to Shaw’s previous job as a university lecturer to explain the tidiness of her stage presence. One might allude to the band’s clean, driving basslines, their stream of consciousness lyricism, or their technical proficiency as a group. What I will settle on, and what I only realized at the very end of their set, was that I had spent all two hours of my time supposedly reviewing Dry Cleaning’s concert dancing, with not a single note taken. Needless to say, it was a good time.

The sold out concert, held at Montreal punk mainstay Foufounes Électriques, opened with a very freaky and very fun experimental rock set by New York’s YHWH Nailgun. The four-piece band, who released their debut album Pounds in early 2025, played thirty odd minutes of music -- each song a jarring, two-minute burst of energy. In a matter of seconds, lead vocalist Zack Borzone went from flashing a dimpled, almost bashful smile to the crowd, to writhing on stage, the mic cable wrapped around his neck. By the end of their set -- a rumble of guitar, drums, and yelling punctuated by odd synths -- I was almost convinced that at least one of the players would stage dive, or break an instrument, or find some other way to channel the tension that had accumulated in the room over the course of those thirty minutes. But just like that, as soon as they reached the end of the last song, YHWH Nailgun left the stage with the same sheepish demeanour as teenagers leaving a high school band concert.

Almost half an hour passed before Dry Cleaning walked on stage (with drummer Nick Buxton in a Habs shirt!), and launched into “Sliced by a Fingernail” from their 2026 album Secret Love. At this point, all my note-taking hopes were lost, no thanks to my placement (quite happily) right in front of bassist Lewis Maynard’s amp, drumming my hands on the edge of the stage in time. I was disappointed that the band's set was laden with technical difficulties and interruptions that night, but in a way, Dry Cleaning’s ability to play along with the chaos was one of the most memorable features of their concert. When Maynard’s earpiece suddenly died and he could no longer hear the rest of the band, he got down off stage to play a whole song in the middle of the crowd, and I tried very hard not to seem starstruck.

My proximity to the band during the show, and the relative intimacy of the venue enriched the music quite a bit. If their lyrics often contrast insecurity with a kind of practised detachment, this tension becomes ever more emotionally arresting in a live setting. Seeing the emotion on Shaw’s face as she spoke in her characteristically blasé voice (“My only ambition in life is to grip the roots of your hair/ Just want to be liked/ Tin blades, earthen ware/ Flower brick painted in blue”), watching Buxton sweat through metronomic drum lines, all added to the unexpected tenderness of Dry Cleaning’s polished brand of rock.

When someone in the crowd shouted out “I don’t give a f—k!”; guitarist Tom Dowse immediately responded “We do!”