1,376 THE HORRORS, Bristol Rough Trade Records, Sunday 23rd March 2025

 

Another Rough Trade album release show, and this time it’s from a band that time (almost) forgot… The Horrors, cartoon goths turned post-punk acolytes turned increasingly synth-powered purveyors of eerie atmospheric and metronomic Krautrock, had last been sighted on their “V” album tour, on another splendid “live” showing at the now-sadly defunct Bierkeller back in Autumn 2017 (gig 1,058). Since then, however, nothing. Nowt. Nada. Zip. For eight long years it actually seemed The Horrors had crept back into their crypt, joining Bela Lugosi in the long sleep of the eternal. That is, until news filtered through from the beyond, of a new album, and a Bristol release show. Aw, go on then…

Knowing that that damn bridge was still keeping the M4 shut between J18 and 19, however, I kept an eye on my SatNav ETA all afternoon, although I nearly ended up leaving late due to getting hooked in on a film (the schmaltzy “It Ends With Us”, I have to admit...) However, my 5.30 departure was still showing a 6.45 arrival as I left the M4 at J18, deciding on a whim to follow my SatNav directions down a country lane to shave 5 minutes off the journey. Big mistake. 5 minutes later I was sat in an unmoving queue as my ETA extended… and extended… and extended. Bah! After another 5 minutes of moving about 10 yards, and with my ETA now at 7.30, I flipped it around and hared back to the main road, tanking it as much as possible along winding but at least moving country roads, eventually coming in trough the armpit end of Brizzle and dumping the motor at 10 past 7. Luckily reports of The Horrors starting their set at 7 proved inaccurate, so I had time to catch my breath, squeeze into a house right spot a few rows back in this busy room (this one being so popular, in fact, that they’d added a matinee event earlier today!) and enjoy some chat about The Chameleons and The National with a fellow punter, before The Goblin King, Faris Badwan, led a contracted 3-piece version of the band on, fashionably late at 7.40. “A Horrors experiment, playing as a 3-piece,” Faris later said, but with a huge bank of keyboards sufficient to land a 747 with, this was no “stripped back” or “acoustic” performance…anyway, they’re more synthetic than acoustic?! 

Anyway, opener “Mirror’s Image” snuck in surreptitiously with a synth pitter patter courtesy of keyboardist Amelia Kidd, followed by a big bassy beat overlay, whilst Faris, resembling a “Saint Julian”-era Cope only more like a distorted City Hobgoblin, ten times his height and one tenth his weight (!), draped himself over his mic stand like a half man, half preying mantis, to deliver his haunting baritone vocal, whilst bassist Rhys Webb underpinned the beat with a distinctly Peter Hook-like low, resonant bassline. New number “The Silence That Remains” featured a muffled synth beat redolent of “She’s Lost Control”, with Faris’ vocals particularly echoey, adding to the spell of mystery and menace woven by the atmospheric synths, and oldie “Who Can Say” was more upbeat, propelled by a growling, almost gravelly bassline.

“More Than Life”, another “Night Life” cut, was for me the best of the 3 new ones tonight; almost an 80’s throwback in mood and songcraft, this pulsing and pulsating number gave reverential nods to the likes of early Human League and Talk Talk. Then Faris quipped, “this [room] is literally what Rhys’ living room is like! We did most of the record there…”, before the sweeping, almost stately Bunny-esque feel of a swaying “Still Life”. The absorbing and occasionally discordant “Sea Within A Sea” saw a beatific Faris clasping a front row punter’s hand, almost as if to keep himself upright (!), then this 7-song vignette concluded with the Krautrock industrial bleakness and Chameleons-like verse construction of a final new number, “Lotus Eater”, before Faris thanked us for our attention, leaving with, “see you in a moment…”

By now I’d wormed my way to the back of the room so was one of the first in line for the signing, chatting with a fellow punter (and fellow David!). On my turn, Rhys complimented my old school goth Bauhaus tee and Edvard Munch “Scream” shirt ensemble, so I retorted with a story of my first Horrors “live” experience, the black balloon fiasco of gig 723, waaay back in 2007 (!), causing Faris to recoil at the memory and declare that, “a one-off…”. Despite this gentle ribbing, I found them personable folk and left declaring my intention to catch them on their proper tour later this year, before a much easier drive home (ignoring my SatNav and following the diversion signs!) got me home in half the time it took to get there! So, hibernation now being over, The Horrors have re-emerged, blinking into the light. Welcome back!

1,375 STIFF LITTLE FINGERS, Ricky Warwick and the Fighting Hearts, Bristol O2 Academy, Friday 21st March 2025

 

Tale as old as time… or at least one as familiar as old socks! Every year the SLF tour is announced, every year a thought flits through my mind saying, maybe it’s time to pack this in, pop this tradition on the shelf after a couple of decades… yet pretty much every year I find a reason to go. This time it was its’ very familiarity that gave me the impetus; after initially hesitating, I then considered that, given the awful events of late last year with my wife’s cancer diagnosis (which happily seems to be responding to the prescribed treatment), a familiar night out in the company of old friends, singing along raucously to some equally familiar anthemic old school punk, might be just the ticket. So, my Chrimbo list ultimately included one Fingers Brizzle ticket, and “Mad March to Bristol” Take 17 (in 21 years, and 22^nd SLF gig overall) was on…!

As the date arrived, however, I unfortunately wasn’t the only one in need of some familiarity; my long-time best mate and constant “Mad March” gig buddy Rich sadly lost his dad in the preceding week. Gratifyingly, Rich took the same stance that I did after hitting the gig trail a couple of days after my mother’s passing, insofar as doing something that gives life meaning and value, such as “live” music always seems to do for me, is the best way to honour those passed. I therefore picked The Big Man up, also scooping up old school friend and, astonishingly, SLF first timer Keith on the way for a swift drive down before the M4 shut at 7. In the venue, we toasted to the memory of Rich’s dad, before taking our usual house left spot on the fringes of the anticipated mosh area (this becomes a bit more relevant later!) for openers, SLF main man Jake Burns’ old mate Ricky Warwick and his Fighting Hearts. The hard-hitting and hard-rocking opener set the tone, with strong-armed US rock riffery overlaid by Warwick’s Phil Lynott-esque delivery (no surprise, that, given I saw him fronting an ersatz Lizzy line-up at the Meca, many moons ago – gig 819!) and lyrical references to “roads to ragged ruin” and “angels of desolation”. Some musical nods to Thin Lizzy as well, in a later “new” number, and I also liked both the tinges of Gaslight Anthem in the singalong “oh-oh”s of “When Patsy Cline Was Crazy”, albeit shot through an Aerosmith rather than Springsteen filter, and the ragged cover of old US punker Johnny Thunders’ “Born To Lose”. Overall, though, this was earnest music to spit tobacco and ride Harleys to, which whilst palatable, wasn’t my thing.

Took a loo break and bumped into Rach’s old friends and fellow “Shiiiners” Duncan and Rick, also popping their SLF cherries tonight (Duncan exclaiming this as his first “punk rock show!”), before shoehorning my way back to our now very crowded spot. If this wasn’t a sell-out on the night, it was damn close… The Greatest Intro Music in Rock, the pounding drums and soaring “diddly-doo!” singalong of “Go For It” saw the imposing girth of Jake Burns lead the band onstage at 9, greeting us as ever with a cheery “Bristol, how you doing? Y’allright?” then hurtling into opener “Roots Radicals Rockers and Reggae”, the buoyant and engaged crowd lustily chanting back the “Go For It!” hook, the band then segueing seamlessly into the dramatic drumroll opening of “At The Edge”, followed again in equally short order by a venomous “Wasted Life”. Not fucking about tonight, this lot…!

Thankfully, momentum was maintained; despite going off-piste with some mid-set song choices, Stiff Little Fingers delivered one of their better performances of recent times and ended their tour (tomorrow’s London date notwithstanding) on a real high. An excellent “Strummerville” preceded “story time” from Jake, explaining the sleazy slum lord ancestry of “the greatest spoiled brat the world has ever seen!”, i.e. the orange buffoon incumbent of the White House, a pointed newie “Mary’s Boy Child” (no, not that one) hammering the point home that, “Mary’s parenting skills were shite!” An unexpected “Straw Dogs” nearly saw me joining the mosh, but, after an unexpected deep cut of a fine “Piccadilly Circus” and a diatribe about looking out for each other’s mental health prior to “My Dark Places”, I was eventually swept in thanks to a flurry of big blokes piling past me for “Nobody’s Hero”, detaching me from my crew. So, why the fuck not? Thereafter, the rest of the set for me was an object lesson in staying upright in the hectic mosh, grabbing on to folks for dear life (including my old punk buddy Plum!), and blasting out the lyrics of “Hero”, a brilliantly widescreen “Tin Soldiers”, a savage “Suspect Device” and unexpected set closer “Gotta Getaway” into fellow moshers’ faces, and having them shouted back with equal conviction. Nice!

Rakish bassist Ali McMordie then addressed us “old scrots, like us!”, also noting some younger fans amongst the crowd, before the first encore of “Barbed Wire Love” saw me finding Rich for our traditional mid-song doo-wop waltz. “Alternative Ulster” ended a breathless (quite literally from my mosh position!) and redemptive set, the band taking a deserved bow, then a relatively easy setlist and a pause for breath got us back in the car in short order to tackle a less arduous than expected diversion, home just after midnight, late kebab tea in tow. “Thanks, that was just what I needed,” said The Big Man as I dropped him off, although the feeling tonight was entirely mutual. The tale continues…

1,374 EXTC, Gloucester Guildhall Arts Centre, Saturday 15th March 2025

 

Night 2 of my late “Dance Card” additions thanks to my old friend Paul Crowfoot’s UK visit, and this is a closer one as promised, just up the A419 to Gloucester to see EXTC at the splendid Guildhall! This lot, ex-XTC drummer Terry Chambers’ brainchild to keep on performing his iconic former band’s classic idiosyncratic back catalogue mix of 70’s herky-jerky new wave and smoother, 80’s Beatles-based melodic and slightly-delic pop “live”, had of course been recent regulars on my gig schedule. However, our paths hadn’t crossed since late 2021 (gig 1,188), as Chambers and co. had taken their music beyond the ‘don to more far-flung fields, also trimming their number down to a 3-piece in the process with the departure of wide-eyed, wild haired centre-of-attention vocalist Steve Tilling. This latter point had, in all honesty, been on my mind when I initially eschewed the chance to book for this one, but when Paul suggested this one as well as last night’s trip, I didn’t really need too much persuasion…!

He picked me up this time in his rental, and we hared off up the A419, parking around the back of Gloucester’s Leisure Centre, scene of some legendary 80’s gigs from the likes of The Smiths and The Bunnymen, then we met Roger and a group of locals he’d befriended in The Thirsty Pine pub, enjoying some rock chat to the backdrop of some noisy locals cheering on the egg chasing on the big screen. They carried on to another local hostelry, but I popped into the venue early to suss out the scene and running order. A couple of sets with interval and no support awaited, and I picked up a fully signed setlist from the merch stand for a tenner, to avoid the bunfight afterwards, because do I really care where I get a list from, so long as I get one? I do not! The guys arrived and we grabbed a spot near the front, house left, as the 3-piece band arrived at 8.15, opening with an understated version of angular oldie “This Is Pop”, with bald, wizened guitarist Steve Hampton taking a growly lead vocal on this one, then exclaiming, “look at you! There’s millions of you!”

Fears that the performance may suffer in comparison to the 4-piece line-up happily didn’t come to pass; despite Hampton lacking the manic ebullience of former frontman Tilling, he was a relaxed and affable main man, at ease with the crowd and bantering with the front rows. That said, the initial set was a little muted and low-key, the song selection mainly drawing from latter day deep cuts and album tracks. “No Language In Our Lungs”, for example, plodded along, enlivened only by a lengthy outro note from Hampton, causing him to exclaim, “can someone hand me my spleen back?”, although the lugubrious “Towers Of London” was an early highlight, followed by Hampton’s story of borrowing the XTC album “Black Sea” from bassist and long-time comrade Terry Lines, and hating it! We also got an early singalong for the jolly chorus of “Senses Working Overtime” and I enjoyed the descending plaintive hook of “Peter Pumpkinhead” but overall, this opening set was proficient, sedate and reverential, with the “Handle With Care” warnings fully observed.

Took a late loo break and ran into old 80’s gig buddy Tim Lezard, who then joined us for the second set which, following the pastoral breeze of opener “Grass”, happily took things up several notches. The undulating pop of “Mayor Of Simpleton” got me shaking a leg, and the excellent growling backbeat of “No Thugs In Our House” kept it going. Thereafter it was Hitsville, North Wiltshire, as the fist-pumping “Sgt. Rock” (a song with, “more hooks than a longhaul trawler!” quipped Hampton) and the jagged angular rhythmic shapes of “Rocket From A Bottle” kept the momentum high. The bluebeat chant of “Living Through Another Cuba” segued effortlessly into a brilliantly bouncy “Generals And Majors”, the singalong middle-8 “almost sexual!” according to the vocalist. The inevitable “Making Plans For Nigel” capped the set proper, although Hampton announced their intention to plough through into the encore, mainly to avoid, “going down the [venue’s] Death Stairs – [they’re] like going down to Mordor… or Portsmouth!” Overall set highlight, the ridiculously infectious hook of new wave classic “Life Begins At The Hop” ended a superb sweaty second set, the band, with Chambers deferentially front and centre, taking a bow after a right proper game of 2 halves, but one which rightly saved the best till last. 

A gathering of breath and farewells to our accumulated gang, then Paul and I hit the road, grabbing a Penhill kebab on the way home. So overall, another excellent night out with old friends, but this time – the second EXTC set in particular – the entertainment matched the company. Safe travels, Paul, let’s gig again when you next muddy these shores!

1,373 THE LOFT, Yeah Yeah Noh, Birmingham Castle and Falcon, Friday 14th March 2025

 

A couple of late additions to my Spring Dance Card for tonight and tomorrow, courtesy of my old friend Paul Crowfoot! Seattle-domiciled Paul gave me the heads-up earlier this week that he was flying in for a business meeting in France and had finagled a weekend family visit in the ‘don, but had also arranged a couple of gigs whilst in Blighty, and would I fancy joining him? A chance to catch up with an old friend with “live” music as a backdrop… why the hell not? Tomorrow is a closer trip to see some hometown heroes, but first, a long jaunt to catch jangly proto-C86 janglers The Loft in Birmingham, near where mutual friend and another expat Townie Roger Herman lives. The Loft had already split by the time I picked up on them back in the 80’s, singer/songwriter Pete Astor and drummer Dave Morgan then forming the more countrified guitar merchants The Weather Prophets, whom I did like, picking up their albums and seeing them one time in 1987 (gig 76!). My musical tastes had subsequently led me elsewhere, so I was unfamiliar with Astor’s post-WP activity, so tonight, musically at least, was a voyage of discovery…

Speaking of voyage… I picked Paul up from his sister’s place at 5, and a swift drive catching up on family matters and putting the world to rights got us street parked up a stone’s throw from the venue just after 7. The place wasn’t yet open, so we met Roger and his charming wife Kate in the queue, before continuing the chat in this pub back-room venue, which reminded me in size and orientation (if not altitude!) of Cardiff’s Clwb Ifor Bach! A smattering of old musos and locals had gathered for 6-piece support Yeah Yeah Noh, on at 8.10. Of similar vintage to the headliners, they’d passed me by back then and honestly gave me no reason to regret that tonight. I liked a few of their numbers – opener “Bias Binding” was a racey rambunctious number with a chanted hook, “Beware The Weakling Lines” was a jolly Fall/ Sultans Of Ping-esque droney rant and my favourite of their set (despite the vocalist warning, “this is terrible, but what the fuck…”), and a little vignette from The Shop Assistants’ “Train From Kansas City” enlivened the final number – but overall their basic ramshackle DIY toytown jangle sounded dated and even incongruous, particularly when played by be-suited 60-somethings. At nearly an hour as well, this was one to file under, “Heavy Going”…

We’d secured a table, house left, on entry, and I stayed there while my gig companions grabbed a spot nearer the front for The Loft’s entrance at 9.45. “You’re all looking fine,” complimented guitarist Andy Strickland (whom I’d recently seen in the reformed Chesterfields line-up) before dapper turtle-necked vocalist Astor counted them in to opener “On A Tuesday”, a robust Byrds-esque jangle-fest with a slight hint of underlying menace. This pretty much set the tone for a melodic, accomplished sounding and well-crafted set of thoughtful and erudite indie pop, with various classic 60’s influences at play (The Byrds being an obvious signpost, although a louche early “Elephant” had hints of Jonathan Richman, and a mid-set “Up The Hill And Down The Slope” – a track I did know well before tonight – featured Astor going all Lou Reed on us with his garbled yet languid vocal delivery, over its’ taut, tense duelling guitar riffery), and delivered with an understated laconic wit. “It may stun you, but I actually have a job,” deadpanned Astor before the more trad-country rockisms of “Got A Job”, “[as] a garbage collector…!”

I missed most of the mid-set layered textural guitar workout of “Winter” as I took a call outside from my son Logan, off with his mates in Bournemouth this weekend, but grabbed my seat back for their rendition of The Weather Prophets’ late-period Violent Femmes-esque murder ballad “Worm In My Brain”. Then the plangent and plaintive harmony of a late “Why Does The Rain” was my overall set highlight, a hooky “Dr. Clarke” rounding off the set before a 2 song encore took us up to a late 5 to 11. Roger and Kate had already headed off to catch their local train home, so Paul and I made a quick getaway on The Loft’s final note, a confusing SatNav route initially taking us North before getting us onto the M42 and M5 for an equally swift chat-enlivened drive home, getting Paul home at 12.30.

So overall, Yeah Yeah Noh were a no no no from me, but The Loft were better than I anticipated, despite a fair percentage of the material being a little too trad-countrified for my tastes, and I’d certainly be happy to catch them again. However, tonight was all about catching up with old friends, so in that regard, this was a splendid and entirely successful evening out!

1,372 BOB MOULD, Bristol Rough Trade Records, Sunday 9th March 2025

 

These Rough Trade “Meet and Greet”s are going to serve me well this year, it seems; this is the first of four such instore CD release shows I’ve got booked on my Spring Dance Card, and let’s face it, they don’t get much bigger, either in size or reputation, than Bob Mould! Mould, the iconic US alt-rock figurehead of both seminal 80’s popcore pioneers Husker Du and equally influential 90’s power trio Sugar, announced some instore shows in support of his forthcoming new release “Here We Go Crazy”, his 13^th (!) solo release (on top of 7 for the Du and 3 for Sugar!) yet first since 2020’s “Blue Hearts”, and happily Bristol was on the list, albeit on a Sunday lunchtime. Hopefully this would mean a decrease in volume for both the small RT back room and with respect to the Sabbath, given that my last time out with The Man was “Shiiine On” 2019 (gig 1,161), when he singlehandedly burst 3,000 eardrums in Centre Stage with a palpable assault of noise…

A lunchtime gig meant a morning departure, so I dragged Logan out of bed and gave him a quick crash course on Bob’s works on a sunny drive down, grabbing my hungry son some breakfast in Taka Taka before we hit Rough Trade to grab our CDs. Did a bit of shopping as well, Logan filling up my useful bag with flexidiscs and books before we wandered into the already-busy back room 20 minutes before Bob was due on, grabbing a spot house right, about 4 rows back from the stage. Spotted Devizes gig Alfie front row centre; he must have been first in the queue! Also had a nice chat with fellow punters Mary and Dave, Mary having seen Husker Du at the Bierkeller in 1986! Jealous!

The Man Himself wandered on prompt at 1 p.m., arranging his backline before strapping on his faithful Strat, greeting us with a surprisingly softly spoken, “good afternoon,” then ripping into buoyant and upbeat opener “The War” with his usual fierce and intense conviction, blasting out his vocals with his usual stentorian Smilodon roar and striding around the small stage like a caged tiger. Having said that, the sound was loud but not overpowering this time, the riffs strident but not brutal, so a definite improvement from “Shiiine On”, I’m glad to say! Husker Du oldie “Flip Your Wig” flew by in an effervescent hooky flash, before the energetic attack of “Hard To Get” heralded a slew of the new album material. “It’s gotten warm in here in a hurry,” admitted an already-perspiring Bob, replying to a punters’ heckle with, “that’s because I’m hot as fuck!” 

Hot stuff indeed! The new album numbers trod the same time-worn path of his previous extensive and impressive canon of work; strident hard-rocking punk rock electric guitar sandblasting your ears, then the underlying irresistible hooks and melodies kissing them better. The Trail Of Rage And Melody, as his revealing autobiography states, indeed! Title track “Here We Go Crazy” was next up, slower burn yet potently melodic, then Bob blamed the pandemic for the unusually long interval between album releases, prior to a more understated and even melancholy “Breathing Room”. The affable and unusually voluble singer then shared his thoughts on the state of the world, and particularly his home country of the USA, admitting, “I’m so embarrassed for my country,” then explaining US politics through the filter of “MAD” Magazine. Sounds about right…

A brilliant, desolate and mournful “Too Far Down” followed a pro-Trans rights speech from The Great Man, before he left us on a high note with a triad of deep cuts from his past; firstly, the irresistible hurtle and sinuous tempo-change of the Du’s “Celebrated Summer”, then the soaring metallic resonance of Sugar’s “Hoover Dam”, and finally, after sincere thanks to the audience, the cherry on the icing that was “Makes No Sense At All”, Bob eliciting the help of the audience to sing back the ridiculously infectious hook. In any other world, this song would have dominated the airwaves for decades, but on this, it was just an excellent way to finish a rather splendid 40-minute vignette from The Man and, appetite whetter for the new album. 

We caught our breath and chatted to Alfie (who’d got Bob’s list of course… nice one!), then joined the back of a happily swift-moving queue to meet The Man. I’d brought along my Gig Book No. 1 to show him the flyer for my first Bob “live” experience, on the “Workbook” tour back in 1989 (gig 146!)… he signed said flyer, took a pic of my book and called it, “a beautiful thing!” Whoa, I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy etc… A Taka Taka for late lunch before a swift drive home for just after 4pm. Great stuff, and a most agreeable way to spend The Sabbath; Bob is back and restored to his full plangent glory (noisy, sure, but not too noisy!), and the new album material sounds very promising indeed…!

1,371 PERSONAL TRAINER, Westside Cowboy, Bristol Thekla, Monday 24th February 2025

 

I should really take more notice of musical tips from friends called Andy… Both the esteemed Messrs. Fenton and Perfitt have been banging on about Personal Trainer to me for a while now; I’d initially checked them out and liked them fine, but heard nothing new and inspiring to these cynical old ears. However a second check revealed some intriguing upbeat Summery powerpoppy stuff from PT, a loose collective centred around Dutch singer/ songwriter Willem Smit, overlaid with Smit’s own world-weary, laconic vocals, which thankfully stayed the right side of sounding bored a la Wet Leg et al, and actually recalled Jonathan Richman as if he were backed up by, say, The Wannadies, albeit less straight-forward and more eclectic than that sounds. An intriguing combination, then, evidenced on cracking and immediate 2022 debut album “Big Love Blanket” and last years’ denser and more challenging, yet still damn fine “Still Willing”, both of which I hunted down for prep in advance of this “live” date.

Not surprising then that I had an Andy for company for this one! My turn to drive, so a ticketless Beef wandered over and we hit the road, scooping up his friend Jas on the way and parking up in good time for Beef to get sorted (eventually) on the door. Grabbed a spot on the stage underneath the hanging speaker, house right, next to occasional Devizes gig buddy Alfie. Painfully young 4-piece support Westside Cowboy were on in pretty short order at 7.30; after a largely instrumental opener which reminded me of the theme to the James Bond film “You Only Live Twice” (!), their first couple of numbers were riff-heavy grunge-athons, and I was initially fearing, oh no, here’s another support band trying to bury me with an avalanche of noise… However, “Scaring Me Now” changed my tune, being a brooding and introspective slab of 90’s heavier college rock a la Pavement, Buffalo Tom even, and thereafter the song quality improved notably. Subsequent numbers featured some Pixies-esque jagged riff patterns, some overt, almost chanted choral harmonies from the front 3 (all of whom took their turns at lead vocals), and the final couple of numbers even recalled the folky Americana/ Appalachian backwoods murder ballad feel of Cordelia’s Dad or Titus Andronicus, particularly when they performed the set finale acoustically around one mic. Stylistically quite scattergun, then, but nowt wrong with that, and with some intriguing ideas, they might be a name to watch…

Both venue and stage became quite crowded thereafter; a real tight squeeze to get back from a comfort break to my front row spot, plus the 6-piece Personal Trainer setting up a varied collection of instrumentation onstage. Neutral Milk Hotel all over again? Anyhoops, on they came, prompt at 8 to the strains of Beck’s loose-limbed slacker anthem “Loser”, and this initially seemed a touchstone for their performance, opener “I Can Be Your Personal Trainer” being equally louche and languid. “Round” however came across all Boo Radleys with its’ buoyant, almost Britpoppy bounce and ebullient trumpet blare, and early “Intangible” had an almost stripped-back Prince-like funky feel, before once again breaking into a big brass choral blast, courtesy of one of all-action guitarist Leon Harms’ regular forays onto a massive (contrabass?) saxophone. 

So yes, Personal Trainer “live” were as eclectic as anticipated, with ideas tumbling and clashing together, often rerouting songs mid-stream. However, at the heart of the matter, they’re a pop band, pure and simple, with none of the clever-dick eclecticism happening at the expense of the tunes; “People”’s atmospheric pastoral sax intro segued into an ebullient Wannadies singalong chorus, and “Testing The Alarm” featured a naggingly effective repetitive hook build to a speeded up crescendo outro. Also, they’re great “live”; loads of kinetic energy and movement, and in Smit possessing a frontman of wry charm and open-hearted humour.

Oldie “Key Of Ego” was a grungier stream-of-consciousness piece with some Primus-like gabbling vocals from Smit, before the pastoral build of “Upper Ferntree Gully” and plaintive hush of “Still Willing” rounded off an upbeat, effervescent and, yes, rather joyful actually showing. However, the best by some distance was saved for last; despite keyboardist Abel Tuinstra protesting, “we don’t have any more songs!” encore “The Lazer” was a brilliant piece of soaring terrace chant pop, with that laid-back Richman-esque vocal verse delivery, proving the cherry on top of a sparkling showing. Grabbed a list (my 1,100^th!) and grabbed signatures and compliments with 5/6^th of the band, guitarist Franti Maresova sadly eluding me, before a quick blast back got us home just before 11. Colour me old, but I like early curfews, me…! So, great stuff from Personal Trainer and some potential as well from their embryonic support band, and testament to not giving up on a band after first listen. Thank you to Andy and Andy for getting me on board with Personal Trainer!

1,369 and 1,370 FRANK TURNER AND THE SLEEPING SOULS, Jim Lockey and the Solemn Sun, Ben Brown (both 1,369 only), The Lottery Winners, The Meffs (both 1,370 only), Frome Cheese and Grain, London Alexandra Palace, Wednesday 19th and Saturday 22nd February 2025

 

They often come in two’s, do Frank gigs…!

A welcome double-header after a recent more unsuccessful duo, this; I had tickets for 2 gigs last week by promising Scandi indie-poppers Girl Scout, but for various reasons never got to either! Anyhoops, impassioned and inclusive alt-folk-punk orator, and “live” favourite down our way, Mr. Francis Edward Turner, had announced a massive one-off date at North London’s palatial yet out-of-the-way Ally Pally, to celebrate his milestone 3,000^th Show, and immediately this felt like a potential Tribal Gathering, one definitely not to be missed. So as soon as tix went on sale, I booked for myself and Frank acolyte Logan, before they all sold out. In a day. Yup, all 10,000. Wow. Might be right about that Tribal Gathering vibe… Frank then added a couple of warm-up dates on the week leading up to said gig, presumably also to get the gig count right, so we also booked for gig 2,998, at Frome’s splendid Cheese and Grain, which at 800 capacity is roughly 1/12^th of the size of the Pally! So, as far as counts go, Frank’s gigs 2,998 and 3,000 are my own 1,369 and 1,370, also representing my 16^th and 17^th “live” Frank experiences!

Frome first then; the plan was for Rach to join me, but she sensibly blew this one off after her recent hospital stay. However, gig buddy Jeremy, who’d jumped too late for a Frank ticket himself, was happy to take up Rach’s spare, so after a difficult journey down I met the man outside, chatting until Matt and Liz arrived. We then popped into the already-full venue just as early-starting solo acoustic guy Ben Brown was reciting the myriad ways he can be contacted, including his dad’s mobile number (the affable brawny bearded Ben quipping, “ask him to move his car!”). He did play some music too, a pretty wedding song ditty and a tape loop accompanied final number of summery indie pop, during which he also overlaid his own vocal percussion a la Gaz Brookfield! Had a wander around after this decent set, running into “2000 Trees”/ “Shiiine On” buddy Mel and his charming partner Tammy, before meeting up with Jeremy again, halfway back house left, for main support Jim Lockey and the Solemn Sun. I’d anticipated some folky punky shenanigans from this veteran lot, but opener “Conditional Love” was instead an expansive, chunky and emotive rocker with a naggingly familiar big choral hook. This set the tone for their set, with brooding, bass driven verses building to hooky, harmonic terrace chant level choruses, with myriad rock references for me (an early slower number recalled the strum of 80’s faves The Big Dish, one number resembled the bolshy arena rock of “Only Revolutions”-era Biffy Clyro, and “Medicine” for me even had shades of latter-day Mega City Four!). I liked them fine; should have liked them better, but I just found it a bit safe, formulaic I guess, with final number “You And I” even coming across like “Wonderwall”, albeit with a better chorus!

Grabbed some air outside with Matt and Liz, then we rejoined Jeremy in the now-rammed venue just before Frank took the stage, solo and prompt at 9 p.m., leading the raucous singalong of “The Ballad Of Me And My Friends”, the enthusiastic crowd already giving it full beans on the, “definitely going to hell!” line. The Sleeping Souls joined him onstage during the slow build of “Prufrock”, then “I Still Believe” saw Frank asking for a call and response from the crowd, The Man deadpanning at its conclusion, “you know we’ve been building up to one big [gig] number… and this is it! 2,998!” 

A warm-up for the Saturday biggie this might be, but Frank set to his task as usual, laying out the ground rules (and being amused at the audience chanting back Rule 1 – “don’t be a dickhead!”) then attacking the set with his trademark vim, venom and kinetic fervour – this also despite twisting his ankle a couple of days ago! A couple of newer numbers from last year’s “Undefeated” (“we’re technically still touring [it]”, according to Frank) in frantic, first-pumping “No Thank You For The Music” and the more ebullient “Girl From The Record Shop” preceded a quite astonishing early double; firstly came the raw, bilious and still horribly relevant “1933”, then, after Frank introduced home-town drummer, “Make-A-Wish winner, Callum from Frome!” the happily-restored “I Am Disappeared” was my absolute set highlight, haunting and elegiac, with the stark piano accompaniment adding to its grandeur. Heartbreaking and hopeful in equal measure.

The snaking Thin Lizzy dual riffery of “Haven’t Been Doing So Well” was an abrupt mood-changer, then the impassioned “Plain Sailing Weather”, with its full-on angst-ridden emo outro, was utterly tremendous, almost – almost – topping “Disappeared” for me. An acoustic interlude saw Frank comment, “it’s 2025, and the world just keeps getting shitter!” before an exhortation for kindness and decency, underlined by the plaintive “Be More Kind”. As if to illustrate his point, a punter fainted behind us shortly afterwards, immediately being given attention by the quick-acting venue medics (well done folks) and being ushered outside for some air, ironically as an unaware Frank was running through “Recovery”! A circle pit for “Photosynthesis” ended the set proper, after which a widescreen and anthemic “Polaroid Picture” and the full-on-punk thrash of “Four Simple Words” highlighted the encore, following a quite brilliant showing. If this is just the warm-up, then, wow, Saturday’s going to be off the charts…

My companions headed out and I wandered to the front, more in hope than expectation, but promoter Kieran saw me from the wings and sorted out Franks’ own list for me. Chap! Chatted to Ed and Linda outside under the awning, then, as the car park egress was considerably slower than usual, I chanced my arm around backstage, a short wait being rewarded with a bit of face time with Frank himself, my taking the opportunity to show him my epic photo of Logan crowdsurfing during Frank’s “2000 Trees” set last year! A breakneck blast back saw me home at half past midnight, eagerly awaiting The Big One on Saturday…

 And it duly arrived… we set off for the lengthy shlep over to Ally Pally at 3.30 after Logan’s driving lesson, making reasonable time actually, despite a 3-stop strategy (blaming over-hydration in my morning gym sesh for that!), then hiking breathlessly up the hill from the car park to join the queue at 6.15, grabbing some duck wraps for tea on arrival into the large entrance hall. Into the massive Great Hall for 6.55, for openers The Meffs, a primitive punkish 2-piece featuring a female vocalist/ guitarist with an impressive mullet. Beloved of Frank, they sounded to my vintage ears like a lot of those old second division 70’s early punk bands, Model-ling Shapes and Drone-ing on…! An early, bolshy and growling cover of Prodigy’s “Breathe” and their own Ramones-esque “Stand Up Speak Out” were my highlights of an energetic and spirited performance, if one-dimensional musically. 

Ran into old friends Terry and Rich and their respective better halves afterwards – not seen Rich in particular for years! Swapped news before popping back into our spot, house left, for The Lottery Winners. A band I’d been meaning to check out for some time (indeed, a band who I saw waaay back in 2016 on a Wonder Stuff undercard (gig 981), shamefully being too preoccupied with a conversation with Mr. Russ Hunt to pay proper attention), their opener “Worry” was pleasant breezy indie-Britpop, like a moodier Lightning Seeds, and the subsequent “Turn Around” a knockabout bit of audience participation fun, vocalist and hyper-ball of energy Thom Rylance remarking at the end, “that was the best experience I’ve ever had onstage!” However, just as I was close to dismissing them as flimsy throwaway indie chancers, “Letter To Myself” totally put me in my judgemental place; a paean of self-affirmation from the vocalist to his 12-year old former self, this was plaintive and uplifting in equal measure, and featured a superb harmonic hook-laden chorus. Tune! They had me after that; “we love Frank and want to follow his work ethic, [but] this is our 3001^st show so he needs to pull his fucking socks up!” quipped Rylance before the big anthemic hook of “Start Again”, his nervous enthusiasm and onstage banter infectious, then closer “Burning House” was another buoyant and annoyingly catchy piece of Shiiiny happy pop, earning a deserved ovation from Frank’s massive. Great stuff!

I nipped out to get Logan a drink, then lost him to the impending mosh just before the lights dimmed and a 4-digit counter appeared on the backdrop, ticking up to No. 3,000 to huge cheers… predictable, but a nice touch of theatre. Then Frank appeared, solo again… straight into the manifesto-setting and roof-raising “Ballad Of Me And My Friends”, welcoming on the band for the subsequent “Prufrock” and again coaxing a mass singalong from the 10,000 strong Frank Turner All-Inclusive All-Voice Choir for “I Still Believe”, it becoming apparent that we were following a very similar list pattern to Frome’s on Wednesday… 

So it transpired; the set was in fact exactly the same as per Frome, gig no. 2,998 clearly passing muster as prep for the big 3-oh oh oh. The obvious difference was, whereas 800 of us hardy souls were singing back on Wednesday, this time it was the full 10,000, creating a joyous, inclusive and participatory atmosphere, underlined of course by Frank’s own passionate performance, plus his usual gig rules of enjoyment but not at others’ expense, and singing along whenever possible. “I’ve been looking forward to this sentence for a while… welcome to show Three Thousand!” announced the ebullient Frank to a massive ovation, before the frantic hoedown of “Try This At Home” segued seamlessly into the expansive and anthemic “Next Storm”.

That mid-set salvo of “1933”, “Disappeared” (again my set highlight tonight) and “Plain Sailing Weather” were as savage and heartbreaking as last time; then after Frank commented, “I love [Ally Pally]; it’s the only non-Royal Palace in the UK!”, a poignant and emotional (and difficult to sing, according to Frank) “Somewhere In Between” was another brilliant highlight, recalling the widescreen hook of American Hi-Fi’s classic “Wall Of Sound”. The solo interlude showcased a lovely “Be More Kind”, the audience holding phone lights aloft and prompting Frank to comment, “it’s beautiful – and cheaper than how Coldplay do it!”; then my slightly breathless son returned from mosh duty, Logan deciding to take an extreme right barrier spot instead, and I joined him for the set denouement of “Recovery” (again ironic as Logan was still getting his breath back after his mosh outing!) and closer “Photosynthesis”.

“3,000 Shows!” announced Frank again during the encore, “There are people who’ve done more – John Otway, Blue Oyster Cult… [but] we’ll keep coming around if you keep having us!” On this form, Frank… yeah, we will! Final number “Four Simple Words” saw Frank launch into the mosh for one final punk rock celebration and also saw us miss the confetti shower and band pic from the stage, as we headed off halfway through to beat the rush. This nearly backfired as we took the wrong turning out of the venue, but still cleared the car park in short order, onto the North Circular 15 minutes after getting in the motor, home just after 1 am. So, two excellent Frank Turner shows as expected, and I’m glad we were there to Celebrate the Milestone with The Man. That in particular was, as expected, a proper and triumphant Tribal Gathering!