The High-Femme Rebellion of the Last Dinner Party

Any shame had been left squarely on the street outside the Bowery Ballroom last fall as the Last Dinner Party frontwoman Abigail Morris whirled around the stage like a cheeky toddler at a wedding reception, the frills of her frock trying their best to follow along as she dizzied herself.

“And I will fuck you, like nothing matters,” the audience bragged in unison as the London-based indie-rock band played their debut single, “Nothing Matters,” an irrepressible ode to the ferality of love and good, old-fashioned fornication. Flanking Morris were Lizzie Mayland on rhythm guitar, with a bedazzled baseball hat atop their bobbing head, and Emily Roberts, the band’s other guitarist, ripping in a lace romper; beside them were Georgia Davies on bass and a sequin-sheathed Aurora Nishevci on keys. The song marked the end of an encore, but the hundreds bellowing along with them didn’t appear at all ready to head home.

The Last Dinner Party sold out all the shows on their first U.S. tour with performances like this. They’re a band that evokes girlhood — for better, and certainly for worse. Even in the satin ribbon swinging from the neck of Davies’ guitar, they conjure the youthful impetuosity before “the man” attempts to tell you who you are, and the resistance to that message after he does. Onstage, they’re beloved for doing away with decorum. Off, they’ve had to reprimand misogyny-addled men who lack it in their mentions. Such is life when you dare wear a corset and refuse to keep quiet, even in 2024. Fortunately, they have each other.

“You feel this kind of safety performing in a group like this because, onstage and offstage, we’re so close,” Morris says on Zoom weeks after the show. “What’s key is, like, none of us are putting on an act. None of us are characters. We’re just having fun, really.”

It’s been less than three years since The Last Dinner Party formed and began performing as a fivesome. The fates brought Morris, Mayland, and Davies together just before they began courses at King’s College, and the three 18-year-olds swiftly bonded over going to other artists’ gigs together. A little later, Roberts and Nishevci arrived on the scene. Less than a year after playing their first live gig at the George Tavern in November 2021, they opened for the Rolling Stones in Hyde Park; a year later, they returned there to open for Lana Del Rey. They’ve also packed tents at Glastonbury and Reading and Leeds with just three released songs under their belts (or petticoats).

The Last Dinner Party’s breakneck success in the U.K. naturally gave rise to rumors that they’re “industry plants,” an idea they’ve rejected  as “a nasty lie.” The answer to how they got so far so fast is a lot simpler: a little luck, a lot of talent and training, and countless nights on their local pub circuit.

Still, even the band is surprised by how quickly their audience has grown. “It’s the most unnatural thing to happen,” Mayland says. “It’s scary, but because there’s five of us it’s less daunting. I think if we were solo artists we would’ve cracked by now. But we’ve kind of gone insane together.”

“There’s a lot that goes into this job…a lot of meetings and conversations and lots of things that we do other than playing on stage,” Davies adds. “But that is one place where we have complete creative control. We’re the ones dancing around.”

Their debut LP, Prelude to Ecstasy, contains songs like “Sinner” and “Lady of Mercy” that reckon with religious guilt and desire (for both Joan of Arc and “the girl who stands next to [you] in the school choir”).  While “Big Dog” is one big, boastful declaration of self that the bandmates confide they hope Snoop Dogg will one day make an appearance on. Their fifth single, “Caesar on a TV Screen,” cleverly imagines a distinctly male delusion (“When I put on that suit, I don’t have to stay mute/I can talk all the time, ’cause my shoulders are wide”). In the video, the band don breastplates and gold leaf crowns to act out Shakespeare. 

“Mirror,” though, is currently Morris’ favorite. “I’m just a mirror/I don’t exist without your gaze,” she croons to a lover. This is one way the Last Dinner Party differ from many of their peers: They don’t pontificate on the femme experience, from rage to reclamation of sexuality and identity, so much as reflect it as it is. 

The band’s aesthetic — influenced by Vivienne Westwood, Chloë Sevigny and, one could glean, a lot of stained-glass church windows — offers as much to say. Fishnets and fluffy socks are complemented by ethereal lace separates and leather. It’s a look that’s at once high femme and don’t-fuck-with-me, matching the music they make. There’s really only one place where one can garner inspiration for their specific blend of coquette-core, baroque maximalism, and Glastonbury circa 2007.

“Tumblr,” Morris deadpans when I ask where they draw from. “A lot of artists like Florence & the Machine, David Bowie, Queen.”

The members of the Last Dinner Party are still ruminating on their identity as individuals, as a band. They have a lot to say about politics and their experience in the industry. But when it comes to voicing those opinions outside the music, they’re more discerning. 

“It’s not intentional so far as I think we’re not conscious…” Morris begins to explain.

“Being is a political statement,” Davies interjects. “None of us need to issue statements clarifying our political stance. But I think we won’t not talk about things when we think they’re important.”

Then, she takes a beat to consider what she’s just offered.

 “That’s a pull quote right there.”