It was Sunday evening, November 23rd, and an all-ages show was taking place at the Rickshaw Stop. Musicians Mark William Lewis and Samba Jean Baptiste were set to take the stage. Angsty alt-teens drifted in with big, black “X” marks in Sharpie on their hands, while even more angsty adults drifted over to the bar to kick off the night. I got there early enough to people-watch. The room slowly filled with folks dressed in dark, stylishly baggy clothes and short military caps. I settled onto the couch as you walk in, waiting for the room to fill and the music start. That’s when I spotted my friend Sofia at the merch table and called out to her. Turns out she and her boyfriend are big fans of both Mark William Lewis (MWL) and Samba Jean-Batiste. I wasn’t too familiar with either, though I’d heard MWL’s name floating in the same online ether as London’s off-kilter figures like Dean Blunt (RIYL Bar Italia, King Krule, The Durutti Column), rock music with a methodical softness.
As we caught up, I noticed a stillness forming behind her. Samba had already started his set, and our talking was loud enough to drown out what little sound he was making. I slipped over to get a better look. He was seated on stage with a Spanish acoustic guitar. Easily the quietest set I’ve seen in ages. No backing band, just a young man and his guitar. It was so silent I could hear ice sloshing in people’s drinks. But subtle as it was, the performance was utterly captivating and the room was held in complete focus.
Sofia giggled and whispered to me that she could hardly see the stage at times because of all the tall people in attendance. I had to climb onto a side table to get a decent view. She was right, the crowd was packed with tall guys in tiny hats nodding their heads to the whisper-level rock. When Samba took the stage, he had an unassuming presence, but his performance was anything but ordinary. His delivery was a captivating blend of breathy passion and half-shouted intensity, drawing the audience into his lyrics: “Take my heart and fold it. Save it for later, save me for later,” all while hammering away on the guitar. Bathed in dim blue lights, he played a few more heartfelt songs, thanked the audience, and slipped offstage as quietly and unpretentiously as he had arrived, leaving a lingering sense of connection in his wake.
Between sets, the room thickened with smoke from the fog machine. I chatted with my friends again, learning just how deep Sofia’s love for MWL runs. Her boyfriend mentioned she’d recently gotten a tramp stamp of MWL’s 2022 album title Pleasure Is Everything. I took a quick peek at the cursive letters from beneath her sweater. She’d gotten it in time for the show, hoping she might meet him afterward and show it off.
A swirl of guitar loops began as the band took their places. Mark walked out wearing a harmonica holder and picked up an acoustic guitar. His style of talk-singing is monotone, intentionally dreary, but contrasted beautifully between the bright, piercing melodies he blew through the harmonica. The drummer started with brushes, keeping things soft and jazzy, then switched to sticks and brought real punch without overwhelming the singer-songwriter feel. Slowcore is the best way I can put it: they played so soft it somehow hit harder.
“Cold Paris Vogue” and “Painkillers” were two standouts for me in their structure and mood. The bassist added harmonies that rounded out Mark’s minimal vocals, his fuller, melodic tone giving the songs real lift. Parts of the set were so calm I was trying not to yawn, but then a moment would flare up and light the room. The biggest reaction came when the guitarist pulled out a trumpet; the audience shouted and cheered before he had even played it. “Wow, you guys like trumpets,” Mark replied.
The sleepy, sad slow-rock atmosphere was carried entirely by how tight the band was. Chimes, trumpet, harmonica, talented musicians playing with dynamics, range, and restraint. Rock that doesn’t have to be loud to land. Rock that proves softness can still hit you right in the chest.
Review by Michelle Payan, photography by Sophia Hill
