Magic Shoppe

The Holloway, Norwich

21st Oct 2025 

photo : Simon Wharton

 

Currency is more than that which is declared Fiat. There is a necessary trust which makes the tender acceptable. It seems to me that there is no greater badge of trust in music than the “Robb”. For reasons that become apparent later, Magic Shoppe are doing few dates in the UK on their latest European tour and, criminally, none in the psyche hotbed that is the North West. No Liverpool, no Manchester. So of course I have to take a step back a couple of centuries to travel cross country on our fucking archaic train system. Clearly with time to kill I keep myself busy with some shit or other and for some reason that escapes me I end up message our Lord and Master, John Robb who in the exchange I inform that I’m off to see the band as above. “Say hi from me,” he says,  “I played with them in Boston years ago”. Of course I will.

I get to Norwich, which is also mid Wild Paths festival though this gig is nothing to do with it where I meet up with the Sex Hagrid that is Oz, a very, very old school friend who was the happy dude of the miserable lot of our time in the Midlands. We eat, we drink, we go to the gig. It’s in the cellar of a fucking bookshop.

The Holloway is the cool as fuck bookshop you just want to go and chill in, which is exactly as it was conceived. Owned and run, I think, by a charming chap called Simon. He smiles a lot and seems utterly thrilled to be able to do whatever it he does. He does the bookshop because he should and he can. Meant to go back and get the biography by thingy from Spacemen Three. He tells me a fantastic drinking rock n roll story about it. Will Carruthers. Go in and ask him about it and buy something. Part of what he does is run a venue in the cellar, again because he should and he can. It’s utterly fucking tiny. His eyes light up when he talks about. I hope he has an inheritance or something because I don’t see how he can make enough money to make this work but it is simply joyful. I talk the bollocks off him and scout the cellar. The sound guy down there is a chap called Alfie who it seems us the drummer from Other Half who it turns out are headlining another venue the following night. They were ace. Dischord type post hardcore. 

Which brings me back to currency and the rate of exchange. On the way back up the stairs from the cellar I cross paths with Josiah, which IS Magic Shoppe in all respects. “Uh, you might not remember but you did a gig with a guy called John Robb some time ago, I think in Boston and he says hi”. His eyes light up in overwhelming joy ad genuine utter delight. Flustered almost to a passionate tizzy, it turns out he very much does remember John and I am given a fucking massive hug with strict instructions to pass it on to the Vegan Meat Mountain himself at the earliest opportunity. It shall be done. As I write, I’m in Albania and I think he’s in Dusseldorf but Manchester is our hub. It will be soon enough.

To Magic Shoppe. There is no stage. Our toes are almost inches apart. Some gigs are personal, other intimate, this almost a gentle reach around. Josiah weaves songs that reach deep into your id giving you little choice about the trip you’re going on. Some music accompanies hallucinogenics, some others are the trip. This is the thing the Yanks do so well. There’s a vocal lilt that lends itself so well to the dream in the dream pop, the thousand yard stare in the shoe gaze. It is drifting Americana laden with stories of basements and drums and spliff and time to kill making a World to escape to.

Cool as fuck. A band of hired (and utterly lovely) hands  who do that casually sexy cool. The casual not that casual hair; the killer cut of leather. Damn, the easy panache. Delighted I haven’t brought the wife so my fragile ego isn’t bruised by other opportunities for her gaze. And they understand the joy of strong tea. Definitely feeling threatened.  And yet here’s me slightly tumescent looking at Josiahs set up. A Fender Jazz Master with the whammy bar in play but such a guttural fuzz layered in delay. Ooff.

It’s an appropriately transcendental setlist; groove locked in and elevating. They’ve got such a rich history of songs you wish you’d written so you’re gutted that that particular song isn’t played. Wither “Redhead”? And yet “Whore”, “High Goodbye”, “A Star Turns Blue”, “Patty Hearse”, “Stars Explode”. Man, that’s good. I could lean forward just a little and kiss Josiah on the cheek and I’m slightly disappointed I didn’t. “Trip Inside This House” I hear you ask. Of course it’s the blissed out epic encore. Magnificent.

Everyone hangs out afterward. The band are lovely. The audience are lovely. Everything is lovely. Lovely is the right thing for this trip.

I’ll seen John soon and give him that hug, maybe with just a little grind in there.