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It pains me that I took so long to discover this band. Banging out tunes with plenty of accordion and musical saw, that would neatly soundtrack Tom Waits getting together onstage with Hinge and Brackett to read the latest Viz annual, the Tiger Lillies are a tumble of contradictions. Silly and scatalogical one minute, sombre and affecting the next, virutuoso and nigh-on operatic moments dissolving into atonal farting; their misanthropic cabaret is played out with a Grand Guignol glee that delights as it repels.
Building this, their umpteenth album, around the Seven Deadly Sins is business as usual for a band that don't so much wallow in the seamy side of life as backstroke through it blowing huge shitty bubbles. Nevertheless Martin Jaques' trademark falsetto is only partly in evidence, favouring mostly a variety of more gutteral campness to portray their parade of loathsome characters and situations against theatrical, circus and bluesy backing. Beauty does raise its head between the trampling of taste boundaries and it's this that keeps the whole palatable. As they've gone on, the Tiger Lillies have grown up only in that they've embraced the additional opportunites for sleaziness that age brings. And yet they're still, above all, a lot of fun. Legends.
They're doing a show around this at the New Player's Theatre in London until 26 April - give it a go.
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