Pitchfork London 2026: Tortoise

In a world where many festivals struggle to successfully carve out a unique and distinctive identity, Pitchfork’s ventures into the live music arena have no trouble encapsulating the very essence of the influential online publication. Now in its sixth year, the London iteration continues to deliver on that front, demonstrating a deep, almost jarring eclecticism in its choice of venues and lineups — a context in which this standalone night at Hackney Church made perfect sense.

Unfortunately, a late change to the running order passed me by: Paulie Swan had been added to the lineup after the cancellation of the show he was due to play nearby. An act definitely worth skipping dinner for, so I was more than a little disappointed to have missed him, particularly after noticing the huge number of well-wishers who approached him to offer warm words as he stood at the back of the venue for the rest of the show. My arrival was instead soundtracked by Bill Orcutt, an experimental, improvisational solo guitarist with exactly the type of cult following that Pitchfork adores. The wizened sexagenarian cut a figure reminiscent of Seasick Steve on stage, but his set was anything but, with his guitar screaming and howling through a series of impressive, abstruse and esoteric songs until he threw it on the floor to bring his support slot to an abrupt, definitive end.

While not to everybody’s taste, it was a pretty suitable hors d’oeuvre for the headline act. For those unfamiliar with their back catalogue, Tortoise are the type of critically acclaimed, obscure band you professed adoration for at university to impress people you were trying to pull. Their experimental, predominantly instrumental post-rock style has inspired the likes of Squid and Moin, and seeing them play live certainly made me fully appreciate why they are held in such high esteem. With two drum kits set up, face to face, front and centre, it was clear from the outset that percussion would lead the way. Opening with a particularly drum-heavy ‘Night Gang’ confirmed that premonition straight away. From then on, the show had the feel of a particularly tight jam session, with the members of the five-piece effortlessly exchanging instruments throughout and appearing entirely at ease while creating a series of mesmerising soundscapes.

At risk of sounding like a thirsty adolescent occupying a corner of a campus party, the band’s interplay between repetition and subtle changes dominated proceedings, proving music doesn’t always need to be dramatic to hold an audience’s attention. The set showcased repetition as an art form in its own right: the band worked through a series of minute alterations in rhythm, tone and time signatures, allowing patterns to accumulate and discordance to accentuate before transforming into something entirely new moments later. ‘Ten-Day Interval’ was a particular highlight, with three members of the band playing precise, interweaving xylophone parts that drew the audience into a kind of collective trance. The slightest adjustments to the musical patterns became monumental within the interlocking rhythms, and the effect was captivating. ‘Glass Museum’ and ‘Gesceap’ also soared, with the tension between precision and chaos coming to the fore in both to wonderful effect.

While there were moments when the set drifted a bit too far into the self-indulgent for my liking, they were few and far between in a performance where pleasures were cumulative rather than instant. In a city where a debate is growing about whether chatter has any place at gigs and club nights, this was a show that perfectly demonstrated the benefits of listening closely.