By Chyrisse Tabone, Rock At Night Tampa
Live Review: Warmduscher with Formal Sppeedwear and Bloodworm – The Garage, London – May 22, 2026
Warmduscher have been kicking around since 2014, but somehow they slipped past our radar until now. We were over here poking around the UK underground, still riding the high from that 2015 Fat White Family interview, when we finally caught up with these glorious degenerates. For the past month I’ve had nothing but their funky, disco-warped post-punk racket blasting in the car, and by the time I hit the Garage I was already half-converted. Consider me fully baptized now.
The venue itself — a sweaty 600-capacity box a one-minute stumble from Highbury & Islington — felt like the perfect place for this kind of controlled chaos. Wooden floors, spinning disco balls, zero second level. Pure roller-rink-meets-dive-bar energy. Doors opened at 7pm on one of those rare London days that actually hit 80 degrees, and the sun was still glaring like it had something personal against the English. Inside, it quickly turned into a sauna.
First up were Bloodworm, a Nottingham post-punk trio channeling serious Bauhaus gloom under appropriately dim, moody lighting. They played cuts from their Blood and Lust EP, including the title track and “Alone In Your Garden,” and delivered one long, uninterrupted blanket of brooding menace. Frontman George Curtis barely said a word — just let the darkness do the talking. The early crowd nodded and swayed like they were at a proper wake. I was into it.
Then came Formal Sppeedwear from Stoke-on-Trent, serving up quirky, herky-jerky New Wave that felt like Talking Heads and Gary Numan had a beautiful, neurotic baby. Tall, brooding frontman Beck Clewlow stalked the stage with a baritone that occasionally flirted with Ian Curtis territory while his staccato phrasing owed more to David Byrne. They were tight, vibrant, and oddly danceable, even as the floor got tighter. Highlights included “Bunto,” “Wait (Hatchet Gets a New Hide),” and a fresh one called “Aardvark, Aardvark.” The room was properly warming up.
By 9:15, when Warmduscher finally hit the stage, the place was rammed to capacity and the temperature had become a biological weapon. Clams Baker Jr. rolled out in shades, tracksuit, and an “Endless War — Again and Again” t-shirt, looking like he’d come to start something. He did.
What followed was pure pandemonium for a solid hour-plus. I’ve seen Idles and Viagra Boys tear rooms apart, but Warmduscher’s show felt like someone spiked the water supply with pure adrenaline and cheap disco biscuits. The entire front half of the floor turned into one writhing, jumping, mosh-adjacent organism. Shirts came off. One lunatic spun his shirt like a helicopter before launching himself into a crowd surf. The stench of collective BO hung thick in the air while security desperately handed out cups of water like it was some kind of humanitarian mission.
Baker was a man possessed — dancing, singing, hammering synths, and at one point diving straight into the crowd while the mic cord was heroically held aloft. Behind him, the band was locked in tight, with drummer Bleu Ottis proving himself an absolute animal, pounding those skins with superhuman stamina. “Tainted Lunch,” “Wild Flowers,” and “Disco Peanuts” turned the venue into a full-on disco riot. The flashing strobes and Baker’s manic energy barely let anyone breathe until they dropped the soulful R&B curveball “1000 Whispers,” giving everyone a momentary breather before slamming back into the party.
“Cleopatras,” “8 Minute Machines,” and especially “Twitchin’ in the Kitchen” (a personal car-stereo obsession) sent the room into fresh spasms. After a non-stop hour they finally stepped off, only to be dragged back for an encore of “Oscar Wilde,” “Uncle Sleepover,” and the beloved “Big Wilma.” The chant was deafening. The release was total.
Look, dancing is back, baby — properly, unironically, sweatily back. This wasn’t some polite indie gathering or the usual dead-eyed Florida crowd; this was a proper pressure valve exploding. The UK (and parts of Europe) are cooking up something exciting right now — a greasy, glorious stew of post-punk, disco, jazz, and art-rock that feels like a spiritual sequel to the late ‘70s/early ‘80s experimental explosion. Meanwhile, large chunks of American rock seem stuck in metalcore ruts or lacking the theatrical flair and musical curiosity to pull this off.
Warmduscher aren’t just another band. They’re a fucking event. Better late than never indeed.
PHOTO GALLERY
*** Look for more photos in the gallery soon–and more on these bands in our next print issue.
I grew up in a household full of rock music, studied journalism in college, and then became a scientist.Although my science career has served me well, music has always played a major role in my life. I grew up reading "Creem" magazine; I play several musical instruments as a "hobby";and it seems a camera has always been in my hand. Now, I am combining what I love the most--music and photography--serving as editor of Rock At Night. I travel between the US and UK seeking my dream! My motto: life is short...no regrets. Chyrisse
