The Thumpasaurus live show in 2025 is less a gig and more a fever-dream carnival where funk, theatre, and existential comedy smash together into something gloriously unclassifiable. From the moment Lucas Tamaren bounds on stage—looking uncannily like a young Jack Nicholson, complete with the same unnerving grin and magnetic swagger—the band throw the audience into a world where rules don’t apply. There is short skit in the style of Star Wars (from The Book of Thump) where Lucas dressed in full Sith Lord costume lambasts the tech industry and giant vampiric corporations such as Live Nation.

“Today is the Greatest Day” fires the opening salvo. What should sound like militaristic instructions (left, right, stop!) instead collapses into a wobbling, joyous groove. Drummer Henry Was hits with the precision of a jazz tactician but the abandon of a man who’s already two pints deep, and bassist Logan Kane locks in with him, laying down a bassline so cocky it feels like the floor is strutting underneath you. Together they make a rhythm section that controls not just the beat, but the room’s pulse.

It quickly becomes clear that Thumpasaurus thrive on irreverence. Songs like “Alien” “I want to borrow this body because I like to party!” and “I Can’t Regulate” tumble out like half-remembered mantras from a night out that got completely out of hand. Lucas, ever the sardonic ringleader, delivers his vocals somewhere between stand-up set and soul sermon, spitting lines that are part invitation to dance, part parody of self-help sloganeering.

The humour doesn’t stay in the lyrics. Logan’s birthday turns into a centrepiece, with the band dragging the entire crowd into a rendition of “Happy Birthday” mid-set. Rather than stalling the energy, the bit becomes a communal exorcism of awkwardness—the audience howling the tune with a glee that only this band could summon. Later, a run of crowd-baiting numbers—“What’s a Guy Like Me Doing with a Girl Like You?,” and “I’m Single,” and Lucas’s mock-flirtatious crowd work— where he turns the gig into a dating show where he brings an audience member up in stage and basically tries to auction him off to the gathered crowd, where the saxophone flirts harder than anyone on stage. Henry Solomon’s horn lines are cheeky, louche, and surprisingly tender, swooping between punchline and heartbreak.

But Thumpasaurus aren’t just clowns in Hot Chip era boiler suits. The emotional centre of the night comes with a song dedicated to Lucas’s late grandfather, Frank, for whom their first gig years ago was played. Paul Cornish stretches the intro on keys into something cinematic and aching, a perfect canvas for Solomon’s sax to sob against.

Phones light up in place of candles, lighters sway, and the absurdist funk band suddenly reveal a depth of feeling that makes the comedy sharper, not softer. “Death such a strange idea… how’s the dancing in the afterlife?” Lucas asks, and the question hangs heavy in the air, before being answered in the only way they know how: through rhythm.

The contrast is part of what makes the band so unique. One minute they’re existential, the next they’re throwing down “Strutting,” their runaway viral hit, with lashings of cowbell and piano crescendos so theatrical they sound like Gershwin re-written for TikTok that veers into decadent synth-disco, Paul Cornish’s keys sashaying like a drag queen on glitter-fuelled autopilot. It’s playful, it’s camp, but it never tips into parody—the groove is simply too strong.

And then there’s the visuals. Ben Benjamin turns what could have been a funk revue into performance art, splattering the screen with PowerPoint-era graphics, meme stills, and cartoon detritus that look like they were designed by a caffeinated teenager. It shouldn’t work, but it does—fitting perfectly with the band’s ethos of silliness wrapped around serious musicianship. When “Space Barn” unfolds with this slideshow as backdrop, the audience isn’t just watching a gig; they’re trapped in a cosmic sketch show where the punchline is always dance.

By the end, tapped out and slightly dazed, the crowd is united in the band’s simple creed: “Let’s work it out through dance.” Thumpasaurus don’t just play funk, they weaponise it—turning grief into groove, jokes into joy, and chaos into communion. It’s absurd, it’s profound, and it might be the only show this year where you’ll cry, laugh, and grind your hips in the same five minutes.

Words & Images: Angela Canavan