London based self-defining dark cabaret act, The Tiger Lillies, have a global cult following, with fans from Latvia to Denmark, Russia to Germany, as well as a growing base ‘down under’.

As musicians (Martyn Jacques on vocals, accordion, piano; Adrian Huge on drums, percussion; and Adrian Stout on double bass, musical saw), they are highly skilled, and versatile. As a musical ensemble, they are something different again: Their organic, deceptively effortless timing, and cohesive musicianship, is outstanding, as they segue from lively foot stomping jigs and effervescent jazz, to haunting ballads and aching melancholy melody.

However, it is not their musicianship that has made these unique artisans notorious. It is their provocative style and controversial songs with macabre lyrics about death, affection for livestock and other social sickness.

While some of their lighter humour and gratuitous silliness (cameo appearances from toy sheep) is not for me, at a core level I came away feeling The Tiger Lillies’ art is not only extraordinary: it is critical.

Every society has social ills at work – aspects of the human psyche that most would rather sweep under the carpet and leave well alone. Just as over 70 years ago, Brecht, Kurt Weill and others found a confrontational edge to archive life under the Weimar Republic. So too have The Tiger Lillies found a formula to provoke and challenge today’s audience, in amongst their undeniable humour, with shocking songs about rape, violence, alcoholism and other tendencies we shouldn’t ignore.

There’s no trite banter between songs, no need: they speak for themselves. The Lillies open with Jacques famous falsetto stylings announcing the "Freak Show" then swing straight into a lively number about a "lonely schizophrenic". The Lillies continue to juxtapose thigh slapping rhythms with dark lyrics as they gaily sing "the death train’s coming down the track", during which Jacques unleashes rough vocal gravel. His twisted low register is also the perfect vehicle as he then takes us on a drug-fused downer, "pissing in the eye of your saviour". He’s suitably lively and high pitched again for "masturbating jimmy", during which Adrian Stout rubs the side of his bass with a wet finger for a squeaky-clean finish.

Musically, the trio is achingly smooth and beautiful, when Jacques heads to the piano, and Stout brings out the bow. "In whiskey I will drown" is particularly affecting. As songwriters and musicians, they must subscribe to Claude Debussy’s theory, that "music is the space between the notes".

By contrast, drummer Adrian Huge is at his best when he gets the full limelight to enjoy, such as during "Banging in the nails" (a frank song about Jesus’ time on the stick), where he brings out his plastic mallets. By the end of his mighty solo, his kit litters the stage.

His kit, by the way, is very small, with many baby cymbals, a tiny tom (just one), an undersized kick and equally small snare, plus 2 rubber chickens dangling haphazardly off the front. As he quietly resets it, I tune into the song about Lisa, "selling candy by the bar", with Jacques and Stout creating a magic duet with accordion and Musical Saw playing in perfect unison. However, the unforgettable moment is the morbid refrain "the tattoos hide her bruises every time."

After the break, Jacques takes us through the alphabet, "a is for arsenic … s is for suicide" then a lively upbeat jazz number, "Terrible", a song of filth, little kids, and running through the days of the week. It’s not easy to relax as they happily sing "Kick the little baby down the stairs", with Huge using a baby doll instead of a stick to whack his skins. Thankfully, he moves onto banging them with bones, for "screech, mummy’s in a mental home", as Stout unleashes some killer action on the frets.

"Any requests?" Jacques announces. The young man sitting next to me who looks like a nice guy, underneath his Emo-Marilyn Manson threads, wants to hear the one about hamsters. After warming up on a song about the "murderer who gleefully pissed upon the graves" of various notable religious folk such as John the Baptist and God, The Lillies gleefully rip into "Oh I love a little hamster up my bum hole…"

During "Wake up" (says it all) Huge once again steals the limelight with a sustained and highly entertaining "air-drum" solo, followed by a pill-popping bonus. (You had to be there.)

The evening draws to a close when Huge ‘dies’ from over exertion and no one in the audience responds to Jacques’ asking "Is there a drummer in the house?"

They save the best till last with a song about "success, excess" and give us a little bit of Tiger Lillie philosophy for free: "Don’t worry, the shallow pretence will all end soon… the crack of doom is coming." By this time, the audience is clapping and singing along with glee. Extraordinary.

When they return to NZ – or if they’re on any place you happen to be – make an effort to go. I’d advise preparing yourself for the experience by researching them online first.  

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