Now in its fourth year, Brick Lane Jazz Festival has quickly become a key fixture in the London jazz calendar. What started as a grassroots effort to platform homegrown talent in and around East London has grown into a vital annual meeting point for some of the most forward-thinking artists in the UK and beyond. The festival remains proudly independent, and its model—multi-venue, walkable, affordable—feels deliberately inclusive. It’s built on the principle that jazz, in all its forms, belongs in everyday spaces: pubs, record shops, galleries, back rooms.
Centred around Brick Lane and its surrounding venues—Rich Mix, Village Underground, Rough Trade East, Juju’s, and a mix of taprooms and club spaces—the festival has come to reflect both the diversity of the London scene and the area’s shifting identity. It’s not lost on anyone that Brick Lane has seen waves of transformation, from its Bangladeshi community roots to its current gentrified face. The festival doesn’t claim to resolve that tension, but it does seem aware of it, often programming artists whose music reflects diasporic experience, political consciousness, and cultural hybridity.
Within the broader UK jazz ecosystem, Brick Lane Jazz Festival fills a space between the larger, more polished institutions like EFG London Jazz Festival and the underground jam scene led by collectives like Steam Down, Orii Community or Tomorrow’s Warriors. It draws from both worlds. Its bookings range from major names in spiritual jazz and global fusion to newer voices blending soul, broken beat, grime, ambient, or electronic textures into what’s still recognisably jazz—if increasingly hard to define. And that’s the point. There’s no stylistic dogma here, no nostalgia trip. Brick Lane Jazz Festival treats jazz less as a genre and more as a space for dialogue, between generations, between boroughs, between scenes…
This year, the programming once again leaned into that ethos. Across three days, it invited listeners to move between packed clubs and quieter corners, from genre-bending electronic experiments to acoustic trio sets. And though some of the logistics—overcrowding, queues, delays—created friction, the sense of musical momentum was undeniable. The first night didn’t try to grab attention. It just got to work…
At Rich Mix, Allysha Joy was already deep into her set as people filtered in. Her voice moved like conversation—sometimes sung, sometimes spoken, always direct. Backed by a restrained but responsive rhythm section, she drew from soul, broken beat and spoken word with a kind of inward focus. Better spiralled slowly, building through loops of voice and keys before breaking into a low-slung groove that seemed to land somewhere between defiance and meditation. The set didn’t peak or explode; it settled, then shifted. Joy wasn’t offering answers—just space to listen.
At Rough Trade East, ECHT! brought sharp edges and digital energy. The Brussels-based quartet operated with the tightness of a machine but left enough room for collapse. Their live set took cues from club music, but leaned into the unpredictability of live jazz—rhythms fractured and reassembled, synths warped in real time, sections opened up for noise and release. One track would lock into a precise, footwork-adjacent rhythm; the next would fall apart into jagged improvisation. The crowd moved with it, uncertain but engaged. It felt like watching something being built from the inside out.
While at Juju’s, David Walters closed the night with a set that offered clarity without simplification. He played solo, looping guitar and percussion live, shaping each track from the ground up. His sound drew from his Caribbean roots but didn’t stay within them—house rhythms, soul phrasing, Afrobeat patterns all emerged and receded. Soleil Kréyol came early, full of warmth and movement. No One was slower, more deliberate, with a chorus that eased its way in. The crowd didn’t erupt, but they moved together, steady and close. Walters didn’t reach for a climax—he held the room in a groove and let it breathe. When the music stopped, people stayed, unsure whether to wait for more or simply carry it with them.
The first night didn’t push too hard. It didn’t need to. It suggested the shape of what was to come: music not just to be heard, but moved through. A festival that unfolds at walking pace.
Saturday moved differently. The weather held, the crowds thickened, and what had started as a gentle drift between venues on Friday became something closer to navigation. People were plotting routes, weighing queues, trying to figure out how much standing outside was worth it. Around the Brick Lane cluster, the demand quickly outgrew the rooms. Some queued longer than the sets they were hoping to catch. A few shows ran behind, throwing plans into chaos. It wasn’t a deal-breaker, but it did shift the experience. The music remained the draw, but getting to it became part of the equation.
Those who made it into Ninety One early in the afternoon caught Xhosa Cole at his most spacious. Performing in a pared-back trio—just sax, bass and drums—he led the room through a set that resisted urgency. Each phrase felt tested before it was spoken, built around long silences and slow builds. Cole’s tone on tenor was round, almost vocal, and the absence of a chordal instrument opened up the sound completely. Nothing was rushed. There was no crescendo. Just steady, searching lines that asked the audience to meet him in the quiet.
Across the next hour, things scattered across venues. At Village Underground, Ife Ogunjobi was in full stride, leading a tight band through grooves that combined Yoruba-inspired melodies with the propulsion of contemporary London jazz. His trumpet playing was lyrical, clear, and completely unforced. The band never overplayed. They held a steady pulse and let Ogunjobi move in and out of focus. There was one tune built on a slow climb—almost hypnotic in its repetition—that broke into a swirling, high-register solo that had the front rows leaning forward without even realising it.
Later at Rough Trade East, Oreglo shook things loose with a set that felt like it had something to prove. Their sound—part grime, part punk, part jazz—was rough around the edges in the best possible way. Tight drums, snarling brass and unrelenting energy gave the set its shape. At times, it bordered on chaos. But it never tipped over. The band was too locked in, too aware of each other’s timing. It was music for movement, for letting go, and the crowd responded in kind. This wasn’t about polish—it was about pulse.
Meanwhile, back at Village Underground, Adi Oasis delivered one of the most tightly executed sets of the evening. Blending R&B, funk and cosmic soul with a strong rhythmic centre, her performance struck a balance between precision and presence. Playing bass and leading the band with ease, she brought sharp timing and a clear sense of identity. The set moved from deep-pocket grooves to smoother, vocal-led sections without losing cohesion. Her band was tight, but not rigid—each player locked in, responding to her direction without overplaying. There was no sense of build for its own sake; every transition felt earned. The audience, already packed in by the time she started, stayed locked throughout. No excess, no drift—just control, confidence and forward motion.
At Juju’s, Afriquoi brought the room to full tilt with a set that felt as much like a gathering as a gig. Fusing Congolese guitar, Gambian kora and house rhythms, their performance moved fast but felt grounded—driven by live percussion, looping vocals and a sense of real-time exchange between the band and the crowd. The room was already packed well before they started, and once the beat landed, no one stood still. Their sound isn’t new to London dancefloors, but live, it takes on a different weight—more tactile, more responsive. The set didn’t build so much as pulse forward, track after track, with barely a pause. It was one of the most physically engaged crowds of the weekend, and one of the most joyful. Not improvised, not fixed—just alive.
The night rounded out back at Ninety One with Ill Considered, who pushed into heavier, deeper territory. Their set built like a storm—long, looping phrases over grounded bass and skittering drums, with sax lines that screamed and whispered in equal measure. It wasn’t tidy, but it was completely intentional. Their improvisation didn’t just fill space—it carved it out. The intensity was physical. People didn’t move much, but you could feel the shift in the room with each passage. This wasn’t background music, and it didn’t ask to be decoded. It just hit.
By the end of the night, the city felt fully awake. Saturday had stretched the boundaries—sonically, physically, logistically—and not everything fit neatly. But the moments that did were more than worth the wait.
Sunday brought no let-up. The queues were still long—twenty minutes or more outside main venues like Rich Mix and Village Underground—and many were left waiting through full sets they couldn’t access. The crowd pressure hadn’t faded, but the day carried a different musical weight. The programme leaned toward the expansive and the devotional, with artists given more space to stretch. Listeners who made it inside weren’t drifting between rooms—they stayed. Not because the logistics had improved, but because the music held them there. The chaos was still outside. Inside, things ran deeper.
At Juju’s, Mark Kavuma opened the afternoon with a set that felt rooted and open-hearted. Leading The Banger Factory through a set of gospel-tinged hard-bop, his trumpet lines sang with clarity—never overreaching, never holding back. The group moved with ease, locked in, but not rigid. There was no need to push. Every tune arrived with intention, and the players gave each other space to move around inside the rhythm. It was a reminder that straight-ahead swing can still land with impact, especially when played like this—alive, generous, grounded in feel.
Without a break in the flow, ORII Orchestra stepped in and quietly transformed the room. Where Kavuma had kept things light on their feet, ORII pulled the energy inward. Their set built gradually—long drones, chants, murmurs, the sense of something ceremonial taking shape. It was less about solos or structure and more about collective pulse. At times, the ensemble resembled a ritual rather than a band, with elements of spiritual jazz and ambient music threading through layers of percussion and voice. The audience didn’t clap between pieces. They simply stayed with it, as if applause might interrupt the atmosphere they were all helping to hold.
That feeling carried into the next space. Over at Village Underground, Gary Crosby’s Africa Space Programme offered a more distilled kind of reverence. The band—shaped around modal frameworks and driven by polyrhythmic groove—carried the DNA of Sun Ra and Coltrane, but kept its feet firmly in South London. Crosby held the centre on bass, steady and unhurried, letting his younger bandmates stretch and spark around him. The result was tight but open, thoughtful but propulsive. It was less about showcasing fireworks and more about holding the lineage—passing it forward in real time.
Later that afternoon, the tone shifted again. At Signature Brew, Inês Loubet gave one of the most quietly captivating sets of the day. Singing in both Portuguese and English, she moved between bossa nova rhythms and jazz inflections with calm precision. Her delivery was subtle—no big climaxes, no emotional signposts—but the room listened closely. The arrangements were sparse and tasteful, built around brushed drums, nylon-string guitar, and the occasional swell of bass or keys. On her final tune, everything dropped into near-silence. The audience barely breathed. Then came the pause, and only then the applause.
By early evening, Flock brought the focus back to the ensemble—but this time with space for individuals to stretch. Performing at Village Underground, the group—Bex Burch, Sarathy Korwar, Danalogue, Al MacSween and Tamar Osborn—built their set on a shared foundation, but made room for standout moments. Osborn’s saxophone lines unspooled slowly, sometimes meditative, sometimes cutting through the haze with sharp urgency. Burch’s gyil added rhythmic clarity, while Korwar and Danalogue pushed and pulled the pulse from opposite sides of the spectrum—organic and synthetic. MacSween threaded harmony between them, shifting textures underfoot. It was improvisation, but with architecture—each solo emerging from the group and folding back into it. The audience followed every movement, attentive and still. Flock didn’t hold back; they opened up.
Then, just across the way at Juju’s, things snapped back into motion. DjeuhDjoah & Lieutenant Nicholson arrived with charm and energy, delivering a joyful, theatrical set that lifted the room out of its reverie without breaking the spell. Funk grooves, highlife guitar riffs, and cheeky vocal interplay created an easy, infectious vibe. It was loose but sharp, confident without being slick. The audience responded immediately. People danced—really danced—for the first time all day. After so much music that asked to be held in silence, this was music that asked to be shared out loud.
Meanwhile, Alina Bzhezhinska & Tony Kofi closed the night at Rich Mix with a focused, tightly structured set drawn from their collaborative work Altera Vita. Kofi’s saxophone lines cut cleanly across Bzhezhinska’s harp, the two circling each other in a slow, steady build. There was no rush. Each phrase was given time to settle before moving on. The set leaned into long form, with only sparse rhythmic support. The effect wasn’t dramatic, but it held a quiet intensity that drew listeners in and kept them there.
Laraaji closed the festival at Village Underground with a set that cut through the noise. Standing behind a table draped in red fabric, surrounded by his zither and a cluster of effects units, he built long, meditative layers of sound—sustained harmonics, slow loops, and subtle shifts in tone. There was no spectacle, just focus. At one point, he laughed gently into the mic—a quiet, disarming moment that landed like part of the music. The crowd stayed still. Not out of reverence, but because the room didn’t need anything else. It was a clean ending—no climax, no closure, just a slow dissolve.
What lingered after wasn’t any one set, but how they held together. Sunday didn’t move in straight lines—it circled, unfolded, paused. It asked for attention, held it, and let go only when it was ready.
Brick Lane Jazz Festival 2025 made it clear: the music is strong—expansive, local, confident. But the festival also showed the strain of its own success. With more people than rooms could hold, and access often dictated by queue tactics instead of curiosity, it sometimes felt caught between its scale and its intentions. Still, the spirit held. The vision is there. What’s needed now is a structure that can carry it—so that next year, the music can stretch even further, and more people can actually hear it.
