THE LAST DINNER PARTY

ANY SHAME HAD been left squarely on the street outside of the Bowery Ballroom last fall as the Last Dinner Party singer Abigail Morris whirled around the stage like a cheeky toddler at a wedding reception. “And I will fuck you, like nothing matters,” the audience bragged in unison as the Londonbased indie-rock band played its debut single, “Nothing Matters,” an irrepressible ode to the ferality of love and good, old-fashioned fornication. The Last Dinner Party sold out all of the shows on their ˜irst U.S. tour with performances like this. They’re a band that evokes girlhood: Even in the satin ribbon swinging from the neck of Georgia Davies’ bass 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. “You feel this kind of safety performing in a group like this because, onstage and oœstage, 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.” Since forming just three years ago, the Last Dinner Party have opened for both the Rolling Stones and Lana Del Rey at Hyde Park and packed tents at Glastonbury, all before their debut LP arrived this year. “It’s scary, but because there’s ˜ive of us, it’s less daunting,” adds guitarist Lizzie Mayland. “I think if we were solo artists, we would’ve cracked by now. But we’ve kind of gone insane together.”