The Stool Pigeon music newspaper

A flyer emailed out advertising Selfish Cunt headlining this Stool Pigeon night in north London received a massive response, mostly along the lines of, “I fucking love them!” but also, “Wish I was in town for this… was beginning to think the God-like Selfish Cunt had split,” and, “Make sure you tell them how to get home - it’s been years since they played outside east London.”

Not true that last comment - they’d played a West End show the night before and toured abroad earlier in the year - but you get the point: Selfish Cunt have become one of the great under-achievers of this decade - a band that showed extraordinary promise when they started out, then faltered.

It’s impossible to care about bands that piss their chance up the wall, but there’s more to Selfish Cunt than seems immediately obvious. A regular four-piece now (as opposed to the singer, guitarist and drum machine set-up they had when they started out), they’re still capable of brilliance. This summer, at a free festival in Shoreditch in front of about 3,000 people, they were astonishing. Frontman Martin Tomlinson - less savage antagoniser and more bonkers dancing boy these days - gave one of the greatest performances of the whole festival season. The band, well-rehearsed and aggressive, matched him. It seemed the world could again be theirs.

Then, nothing special - a few club bookings in east London, including an unmemorable headline show at The Rhythm Factory in Whitechapel. They’re a band that thrives on an unconvinced and foreign audience, yet you always see the same faces at their gigs, most of whom are their friends. The atmosphere becomes too cosy, too hipster, and more about performance art than rock’n'roll. Outside of the occasional big band support slots they get offered, they always play small venues too. Shame. Their festival set proved there’s no stage too big for them.

This gig, at the 160-capacity Buffalo Bar, started badly and ended with Martin throwing a hissy fit and walking off half an hour later. A total disaster, in other words, that could have been prevented if they’d bothered to soundcheck earlier in the evening. From the off, there were problems with the mic, then the guitar amp failed temporarily, then they lost their concentration. The band showed some fighting spirit and willingness to solider on, but Martin refused. He threw a strop and bolted. Gig over.

To their credit, they never asked for their fee, but that did precisely nothing to redeem themselves in the ears and eyes of those who’d paid to see them. There was much hilarity after - “What was that band called again? Sounds about right!” - but mostly people were frustrated. Again. They’ve set their bar high. Far too often they fall a long way below it. The saga continues.