The Wolfgang Press
The Lexington, London
11th January 2026
Missing in action for three decades, The Wolfgang Press are back, with fresh material and dark sonic tales to tell. Steve Morgan leans in.
“Another stress-free beginning”, says Mick Allen as The Wolfgang Press eventually arrive on stage, bang on 10pm. Having weathered a chilly Sunday evening of shitty mizzle to be here, an expectant, sold-out Lexington crowd has patiently endured a 40-minute delay due to technical difficulties. It’s looked touch-and-go at times, with furrowed brows and anxious glances exchanged on and increasingly off stage. Blue Monday, supposed to be next week, seems to have arrived early.
But there’s a warmth in the room, a sense that we’re all in this together. For a band revered by 4AD aficionados, their singular, dark muscular presence absent from the stage these past 30 years, what difference – aside for those with watchful eyes on the last train home – does another few minutes make? Delayed gratification can be a wonderful thing.
It’s showtime. Ramping the menace up sharply on The Art of Writing, Allen commandeers a compelling reminder of the band’s classic initial sonic template: a brooding baritone over Andrew Gray’s woozily circling guitar riff and chugging bass and drums, delivered via brother Stephen’s box of tricks. “I will make you see my soul, I will make them see much more,” Allen snarls amid dark images of Frankenstein and Promethean whores. Everybody relax. The Wolfgang Press are back.
Sad Surfer, one of six cuts from 2024’s studio return, A 2nd Shape – is an homage to troubled Victorian painter Richard Dadd. Dark, bass-driven, bad-ass, it’s unsettling fairground chorus leaves a piece on you – “I fall apart too many times,” Allen croons. “This is my home, and it’s on fire.”
The gears shift neatly with the menacing, filmic The Line, its breast-bone rattling bass drawing appreciative ‘ooh, yeah’ faces from a fair few. Heads are nodding now, the dark is rising. Additional guitar on Speakers Don’t Speak fleshes out a dense soundscape over skittering beats and synth waves that suggest imperial-era Roxy Music. Ferry’s fingers are felt too with the excellent, glacial Reset Your Mind, where Allen confronts his demons. “I see, I see now, switch your thoughts from side to side,” he muses.
A commendable desire to push forward with new material – new album Asylum Variations is imminent in the spring – doesn’t preclude the inclusion of favourite Raintime, a cut from 1988’s Bird Wood Cage. This is vintage Press, in which Allen, now noticeably warming to his task, serves up more tales of unease over an insidiously creeping, blues-tinged rolling fuzz; in a parallel universe, it could easily soundtrack a cult HBO drama.
Take It Backwards’ eerie keys perform a tightrope walk over a booming riff that shares the same postcode as Bela Lugosi’s Dead, only much faster. Backed by a big, crisp beat, it’s a dance-floor punisher. The showstopper, however, is Man Made Heaven, where over an increasingly layered funereal beat and spectral shards of guitar, Allen lurches back and forth, as if hypnotised, eyes half-closed. “Don’t need a book to free yourself. It’s a lie, it’s a lie, it’s a lie” he gargles and spits with contempt. It’s a Sunday sermon alright, just not as we know it. As the song draws to its close, Allen coos like a pigeon. It’s hard to take your eyes off him.
It’s a belting comeback, and a reminder for the 200 souls here of the band’s worthy place in the indie firmament. Always one of the more arresting live acts, these old scrappers were birthed in punk’s cauldron – let us not forget Allen’s – and original Press Corps member Mark Cox – parts in 4AD’s genesis with the fabled, shortlived Rema-Rema.
Older, wiser, and battle-scarred – TWP’s debut album The Burden Of Mules, so dark even John Peel sniffed at it, turns 43 this year. It’s great to see them again.
The applause – and relief that we had been able to enjoy the spectacle at all – is heartfelt. And thoroughly well-earned. Allen, always immaculately turned out, hair slicked back, remains a bewitching presence. The sound is both ancient and modern, the trio unabashedly, uncompromisingly themselves. Though they place demands on the listener – the technical quirks offering another challenge – a rich dividend is returned. Like a bite of the bitterest chocolate, there’s a sweet essence to savour.
~
The Wolfgang Press can be found on Instagram and Facebook
Words by Steve Morgan. More writing by Steve on Louder Than War can be found at his author’s archive. Steve is also on Bluesky and Instagram
Photos by Robyn Skinner
A Plea From Louder Than War
Louder Than War is run by a small but dedicated independent team, and we rely on the small amount of money we generate to keep the site running smoothly. Any money we do get is not lining the pockets of oligarchs or mad-cap billionaires dictating what our journalists are allowed to think and write, or hungry shareholders. We know times are tough, and we want to continue bringing you news on the most interesting releases, the latest gigs and anything else that tickles our fancy. We are not driven by profit, just pure enthusiasm for a scene that each and every one of us is passionate about.
To us, music and culture are eveything, without them, our very souls shrivel and die. We do not charge artists for the exposure we give them and to many, what we do is absolutely vital. Subscribing to one of our paid tiers takes just a minute, and each sign-up makes a huge impact, helping to keep the flame of independent music burning! Please click the button below to help.
John Robb – Editor in Chief
