The last thing I expected to see when Wet Leg brought on their “special guest” at their Ally Pally Park performance in July was a man with a mop on his head banging away at the tambourine. But that’s just what their show was: full of surprises. When I think of great British rock bands they all do this; they balance accessibility with eccentricity, and Wet Leg may be the latest to walk that line so well.
The Isle of Wight band first gained prominence in 2021 with their viral track “Chaise Longue”, and they managed to turn a TikTok hit into a proper music career. Last year, Teasdale and Chambers officially brought touring members Durand, Morobaki and Holmes into the band as they released their second album, moisturiser. Their music is ultra-listenable indie rock, yet intriguing at the same time. Teasdale almost talk-sings over the tracks, hiding provocative lyrics inside catchy hooks. They’re also very English yet, despite the plethora of British acts blowing up right now, they’ve refused to associate themselves with any niche.
Maybe that refusal is their greatest strength. Rather than inviting comparisons with today’s crop of British indie bands, Wet Leg seem to belong to a much longer lineage. The awkward, everyday observations in Teasdale’s lyrics recall Pulp at their sharpest; her angular movements and theatrical physicality occasionally evoke Kate Bush; and the band’s almost pagan sense of communal release isn’t entirely unlike a Florence + the Machine performances. Yet none of those comparisons ever feel quite right. Wet Leg have already become so unmistakably themselves that it’s difficult to pin them to anyone else.
Nowhere is that more obvious than onstage. The concert, held outdoors in Ally Pally Park overlooking the London skyline, was opened by Los Bitchos and English Teacher, whose laid-back sets suited the warm summer evening. I mistakenly assumed Wet Leg would be more of the same.
Instead, the same songs I’d been listening to from their discography were performed in a far more conceptual way. Tracks faded in and out through eerie clicking cricket noises and echoing guitar strums. Morobaki unleashed proper punk screams, and Teasdale encouraged the crowd into a collective scream, something they clearly do every show. It all felt a bit pagan and carnal. Moments later the crowd was doing the classic concert slow wave. They would be headbanging one second then the next Chambers would speak in the lightest voice – think Cassie from Skins. The band navigated the vibe oscillations with expertise.
Wet Leg have already conquered an unusually broad audience. Their fans didn’t conform to any one age group, gender or subculture. When I got off the train at Ally Pally, the entire carriage – who I’d assumed were just regular London commuters – headed to the show with me. Everyone was there: middle-aged dads in faded band T-shirts, young women in floral cottagecore dresses and tank-topped gay men alike. The bands that endure rarely belong to just one type of person, but that kind of wide-ranging appeal usually takes years to build. Wet Leg seems to have achieved it remarkably early. Even the notoriously middle aged male music snobs appear to have embraced them.
Their performance worked because they performed with such slick confidence and technical polish that their crowd accepted all the off kilter moments without question. Aside from heavy fog (to hide Chambers who suffers with stage fright) and pulsing white strobes, the production was completely stripped back. At a time when many acts throw everything at an audience, Wet Leg relied solely on their own energy to steer the show, leaving the crowd to give themselves the concept experience they were looking for. During Pillowtalk, a few people climbed onto barriers to headbang around a speaker while, only metres away, couples lay quietly on the grass. Everyone was in the moment, during Chaise Longue, I barely spotted any phones recording, despite it being their most popular track.
And what’s the final thing a memorable band needs? A memorable frontman (or frontwoman in this case). Teasdale has that it-factor, no question. She flexes her biceps, throws herself into strange poses (I caught a few yoga inspired downward dogs) and sings the more dirty lines “I was in your wet dream, driving in my car // What makes you think you’re good enough to think about me//When you’re touching yourself” with a smile in her voice. Barefoot, with lived in pink ombré hair flowing behind her, she looked every bit the modern pop star. Then in one instant she shifts from powerful to fragile, during Davina McCall, she almost collapses beneath the weight of the lyrics.
The best British bands have always had a streak of weirdness. They refuse easy categorisation, making the unconventional feel completely natural. Wet Leg has mastered that same mix, their live shows exist between the uncanny and the familiar, challenging listeners just enough without pushing them away. A few more albums like Moisturiser, and a way to infuse their recording music with the presence they bring onstage, and Wet Leg could establish themselves as one of the defining British bands of the 2020s.
