The Last Dinner Party - Prelude To Ecstasy Review
Sky-rocketing from summer pop-hit to gothic tale, electro-pop to Bowie glamour-rock, there is so much to unpack here.
It wouldn’t be a reach to call this one of the most anticipated releases of 2024. The London-based five-piece are at the centre of popular culture’s biggest riddles; how have they opened for The Rolling Stones, achieved BBC Radio 1’s Sound of 2024 and the Brit Award for Rising Star all before their debut album is released? So far, we’ve had a handful of singles to sate our appetite; ‘Nothing Matters’ exploded first onto the scene with the promise to ‘fuck you like nothing matters’. It turns out that Abigail Morris, Lizzie Mayland, Emily Robert, Georgia Davies and Aurora Nishevci were only nibbling; here they extend their jaws loudly around the pulps of our wetted fixation with an unpredictable explosion of decadence as messy as it is delicious.
How elongated can this prelude to ecstasy be? The opening track is, surprisingly, a grandiose orchestral boom. Proven through dress-codes at live shows (think ‘The Velvet Underground’ and ‘Brothers Grimm’) and their reference to 19th century literature, The Last Dinner Party’s musical vision expands across form, genre and time; here, in the mystique of music belonging to the moving picture, any preconceived notion of what to expect is blown out the water. This album is ‘an archaeology of ourselves’, so says the band. And so we dig with a shovel crafted by their hands. Genius power play, really.
Next follows ‘Burn Alive’, stocked with gothic vocals, 80s-electro synth, and some fantastic bass-work. It’s as convincingly genius as it is jilted and confused. The difference is the confidence; produced by James Ford (best known for his work with the Arctic Monkeys) the album is sharp, crisp, expertly mixed. Continuing with the theatrics, pre-released single ‘Ceaser On A TV Screen’ swings from moments of greatness, cackles of childhood where Morris felt like ‘an emperor with a city to burn’, to a flatness in rushed and ruthless choppiness between sections. Redefining what a guitar-band can do was never going to be easy work, and here we see the highs as well as the lows.
Next is the gleefully named ‘Feminine Urge’. You’d have to hear it to believe it: all at once we have PJ Harvey and Kate Bush, and sprinkles of Florence & The Machine, MIKA, and Fiona Apple. Through a voice thickened like blood we hear of a ‘dark red liver stretched out on the rocks’ in an infectious, effortless melody. The crux of this album is how the brooding lyricism and chaotic maximalism work in tandem to implicate the listener and reviewer; all-to aware that the industry ties image and worth together, the band strain to include all evidence of their talent, whilst laughing at us for indulging - ‘I’m only here for your entertainment’. There’s no rest after this realisation, as ‘On Your Side’ scoops the vulnerability of late-night-early-morning instability and serves it on a platter of gold.
‘Beautiful Boy’ isn’t instantly a hit; a flute flirts with a piano as sickly-sweet vocals explain that the ‘best a boy can ever be is pretty’. This spins into a lavish maturity that follows its own intuition so that we feel it, too; there’s no pressure to be anywhere but listening. The critique of gender roles, pretty privilege and societal expectations is as nuanced as it is unmissable. Seventh track ‘Gjuha’ isn’t typically radio-friendly either, performed by Aurora Nishevci in Albanian paying homage to her mother tongue. Deliriously gorgeous at live shows, the magic is thankfully retained in the recorded version, proving the band versatile storytellers as much they are tokens of mainstream pop culture comfy on Graham Norton’s couch.
‘Sinner’ remains their pop masterpiece, something rumbling about the bass beneath the quirky piano and the simplistic drumming pattern. A single less convincing is ‘My Lady Of Mercy’, that feels like two separate thoughts merged into one; we’re still with them, but trailing a little behind. One questionable opening verse aside, ‘Portrait’ pulls us back, a fire-cracker in a song: ‘I wish you had given me the courtesy of ripping out my throat’. The elegance of it is ridiculously impressive, journeying from minor chords on a lone piano to a refrain that will continue to echo around stadiums.
The penultimate track, ‘Nothing Matters’, comes wickedly soon but stands the test of time, an undeniable and unrestrained pop hit, a reminder to stay breezy and nonchalant in the guts of this heavy exploration. ‘Mirror’ is the final track; the sultry, strong beginning echoes of Lana Del Ray, which soon unravels through a slightly cliched metaphor (‘I’m just a mirror, I don’t exist without your gaze’), but not to worry – the systolic forwards-beat painted in deep licentious purples and reds revitalises the burden of feminine self-consciousness into what could be a James Bond theme tune. The final fifty seconds of instrumental flourish binds the record like an old, dusty book. A swell like the cadence of the body, and silence.
Sky-rocketing from summer pop-hit to gothic tale, electro-pop to Bowie glamour-rock, there is so much to unpack here. Though the excess teeters on unkempt, their sexy decadence is more like a siren-call than a garbled shout from below the waters of their unprecedented fame. The at-times-jilted overload, or the tired lyrical tropes, have a purpose of their own; feminine glory is never as palatable and accessible as the standard masculine cabaret we see so often. One too many listens and you’re whisked away to a remote island bathed in twilight blue where the inhabitants rule happily and hedonistically, wear corsets, and read by candlelight alone. There are certainly worse places to be. The Last Dinner Party prove to us, if nothing else, that everything has a right to flow over the edges. Now let’s play around in the mess.