1,303 DEATH CULT, Lil Refrain, Birmingham O2 Institute, Tuesday 14th November 2023

 

(Again, not my list...)

I’m rounding off a hectic 4 gigs in 6 nights burst with another “Anniversary” show, and this time I’m channelling my early 80’s inner pseudo-Goth kid, with a 40th Anniversary show (I presume so anyway, it being billed as “8323”) from pseudo-Goth legends Death Cult! I say “pseudo-Goth” (twice), as the bands initially lumped together under that early “Goth” banner were a broader and more diverse church than those most folks think of as “Goth” (the black leather fetish look, dyed black spiky hair and white panstick faces, and overpowering doomy synth/ guitar paeans about bats and post-apocalyptic landscapes), ranging from shimmering haunting post-punk to herky-jerky art-school rock. And right in the epicentre of this were Southern Death Cult, who seemed to take the Native American imagery of Adam and the Ants a step further, incorporating both the tribal pounding drumbeats and circular chants, yet imbuing them with darker and harder-edged, expansive dusty Navajo Desert rock atmospherics. As the band dropped the “Southern” and then the “Death”, I enjoyed their initial clutch of singles (particularly the tremendous propulsive rhythm of “Spiritwalker”, great to dance to at U18 Brunel!!) and plangent album “Dreamtime”, but by the time I got to see them as The Cult, on the Simple Minds Milton Keynes Bowl bill in 1986 (gig. 51!), they’d moved on to a more driving American FM rock radio sound, in an attempt to break the States, which frankly wasn’t for me.

 However, when they announced a slew of dates for this Autumn as “Death Cult”, promising to revisit that early material, I was suitably intrigued to shell out the somewhat steep ticket price (£60! For the Institute! Yipe!) and head off up the M5, accompanied by old Brunel friend and Punk/Goth/Techno Queen of Swindon, Milady Debbie. An entertaining drive saw us park up on a side street just past the venue at 6.30, and we popped into the “Big Bulls Head” pub next door to avoid queuing in the cold, thence enjoying some splendid rock conversation with a couple of fine local gents (hi Jon and Andy!) which took us to nearly 8.30! So we then popped into this ornate yet impractical venue (bottlenecks aplenty at the back bars!), finding it totally rammed and eventually squeezing into a spot halfway back, house left under the low overhanging balcony. The support act, a solo artiste called Lil Refrain, was rounding off a haunting yet anodyne set with some Asian-tinged chanting and monotone synth mood music, and honestly I was glad I missed most of her set!

 Debbie met an old friend and ventured forward, and I ran into my old friend and former TTP compatriot Roger, finding a bit of space slightly further forward for the entrance of Death Cult at 9.15, onstage to a typically dry-ice swathed and incense-smelling stage. No intros, but straight into taut, undulating opener “83^rd Dream”, building into a yelped hook by Ian Astbury, dark sunglasses, man-bun and leather trench coat firmly in place, leading the proceedings with his commanding, dark and sonorous vocals. The resonant ringing guitar riffs of “Gods Zoo”, ably provided by guitarist Billy Duffy and so redolent of his 80’s contemporaries McGeoch and Sargeant, dovetailed in with the strong-armed military backbeat for an early highlight; “Brothers Grimm” was a haunting 60’s spaghetti western soundtrack, stretched, parched and eerie with strafing riffery interludes again courtesy of Duffy; and a stripped-back “Flowers” again saw Astbury’s voice to the fore, holding a lengthy choral note perfectly (the previously taciturn frontman quipping, “some things do get better with age!”). Former Cult bassist Jamie Stewart was introduced for tonight only, adding his talents to a combative and angular “Horse Nation” and widescreen “Go West”, then the repetitive hook of a hurtling “Dreamtime” ceded to my set highlight double; firstly a quite brilliant “Spiritwalker”, the cascading intro drums and huge reckless launch into whirlwind life as wonderful as I’d hoped, then a stately yet roof-raisingly anthemic “Rain” which maybe – just maybe – even topped “Spiritwalker” for me tonight, the band then taking their leave just after 10.15, after a slightly disappointingly short set, clocking in at barely an hour, but one replete with stunning highlights. Quality over quantity, I guess… 

And if Death Cult finished the set strongly, they followed up with 2 absolutely tremendous encores in the dark dynamic build of “Moya” and the anthemic ringing chimes of the inevitable yet superb “She Sells Sanctuary”. Astbury, whose rich and resonant vocals had sounded brilliant throughout, reintroduced the band as they took their bows, stated they weren’t just doing this for the money but, “because we still believe!”, and left us with a single word – “Ceasefire”. You know, the world could do with some of that right now… A swift drive Northwards looping around B’rum got us back to the ‘Don in short order at 12.30, contemplating the gig. Not perfect and, as I said, a bit short for the price, but when Death Cult hit the mark, they were quite, quite stunning. My inner Goth kid was treated tonight, no mistake!

1,301 SUPERCHUNK, Junk Drawer and 1,302 DINOSAUR JR., Man On Man, Bristol Strange Brew and London Highbury Garage, Friday 10th and Sunday 12th November 2023

 

Another very definite “double header” here; 2 gigs in the space of 3 nights, both hosted by veteran 90’s grunge-era dynamic guitar-heavy US alternative rock acts, celebrating the 30^th Anniversary of the release of their most commercially successful records! Although at the time, my then-28-year old US alt-rock heart belonged to my beloved Gigolo Aunts and their 1993 “Flippin’ Out” release, I still bought and enjoyed both Superchunk’s “On The Mouth” and Dinosaur Jr.’s “Where You Been”, and caught said acts “live” that year, the ‘Chunk headlining at Windsor Old Trout (gig 246) and later appearing on the Teenage Fanclub Anson Rooms undercard (gig 252), and Dinosaur mainman J Mascis’ noiseniks playing a dusky Sunday evening set at that year’s Reading Festival (gig 248)! For these 30^th celebration dates, Dinosaur broke cover first, announcing 4 nights (!) at London’s Highbury Garage, which Mascis devotee Tim was all over, getting us both tix for night 1 before they all quickly sold out, then Superchunk followed suit with a tour which passed through Bristol, so I hooked myself up for a trip to Strange Brew, a new Bristolian venue on me…

 Chunk was first, so I hit the road about 6.45 for a Friday drive down the M4, figuring doors at 7 so no need to rock up earlier, right? Wrong, as it happened, as support Junk Drawer had started their set at 7.15! However, missing half their set proved to be a lucky escape, as it turned out; a big guy in a kaftan never bodes well for my prog/ hippy-averse tastes, a comment about their stopping at Stonehenge on the way down from London only serving to underline this point! Their set consisted of a mulch of droney metronomic noise (one song briefly sounding like The Doors’ “LA Woman” before retreating into the sonic murk), ultra-dreary soporific balladry and an interminably long closing plod about the sky falling into the sea. Yikes! 

I took a glance around this newish but worn-in venue, a wide bar with interesting art pieces suspended from the ceiling, and a stepped open stage which I took a spot in front of, house left, as lead singer Mac McCaughan and his charges set up, before taking the stage at 8.30. A slightly different ‘Chunk line-up this time, shorn of Bob Mould’s backing boys Jon Wurster and Jason Narducy (Jason himself subbing for ‘Chunk mainstay Laura Ballance, who’s a non-toura Laura these days) and instead featuring another Laura, hard-hitting drummer Laura King, plus Ex Hex favourite Betsy Wright on bass. This line-up however immediately showed a more relaxed band dynamic than their most recent UK foray, on the back of politically-charged “What A Time To Be Alive” back in 2018 (gig 1,088). Mac announced, “We’re Superchunk; it’s been 30 years or so, some of you weren’t born then!”, before launching into the untitled opening squall of languid noise. The irresistible groove of “For Tension” followed, Mac’s few-octaves-too-high-for-comfort vocals overlaying the propulsive rhythm, getting me rocking down the front from the outset and setting the tone for the early set. The superb ascending riff and air-punching chorus of oldie “Seed Toss” (which took 2 attempts to start, Laura initially playing too fast!) was an early highlight, as it became evident that Chunk’s set tonight wasn’t a full-on start-to-finish rendition of “On The Mouth” but rather a set spotlighting its’ key tracks… 

The slower burn fire alarm blare of “Kicked In” preceded a clattering, drum-propelled “Water Wings” and a quite brilliant “Crossed Wires”, then the off-kilter strumalong and regimental drumbeat of “The Question Is How Fast” built to a circling climax, oddly bringing to mind some of The Byrds’ more psych-rock wig-outs, albeit with swathes of growling guitar overlay. Set closer “Hyper Enough” was as frantic a headlong tumble as ever (had NME scribe Simon Williams not referred to early Idlewild as “sounding like a flight of stairs falling down a flight of stairs”, he could just as easily applied that description to the ‘Chunk) before a 5 song encore, featuring a ragged yet anthemic as ever “Slack Motherfucker” and “Precision Auto”, another warp-speed hurtle, capped a splendid – and yes, fun – set which proved that despite personnel changes and advancing years, the Chunk still have it “live”. Great stuff! 

Sadly I missed a list (this being a pic I took earlier), Mac instead handing it to a fellow front-row punter, but I did get to finally meet the man after 30 years of fandom, enjoying a brief chat about Big Dipper (Mac’s Merge Records putting out The Dippah’s “Supercluster” compilation back in 2008) before hitting the road for a difficult and annoying M32-closure affected drive home. Dipper vocalist Bill Goffrier was in the UK but wasn’t able to make it to this gig; shame, that would have been something!

 A hectic weekend didn’t give me much time to relax my aching one-man Chunk moshpit limbs, and a superb family Sunday lunch at Miller and Carter got me back home literally 10 minutes before Tim arrived to pick me up for Dinosaur Jr.! So we caught up during a soggy drive up the Smoke, deciding to drive the whole way in so hitting slow traffic on the A40M but still parking up around the corner from The Garage just before doors. Grabbed a spot near the front, house left, as the place quickly filled up with black-jeaned US alt-rock grunge casualties, dragging out old school Dinosaur Jr. tshirts which largely looked as if they hadn’t seen the light of day in decades! A happy surprise about this evening’s bill was the late announcement of Man On Man as support; the new project of Roddy Bottum, formerly of plangent melodic 90’s rockers Imperial Teen, and his musical and life partner Joey, their excellent “Provincetown” album is one of my favourites of this year, with some dynamic synth propelled Stereolab-like darkwave rhythms underpinning hushed vocals and lyrics which was all about the gay life (hence the band name, I guess!). As if for emphasise this latter point, the two-piece (Roddy gesticulating and arm-waving behind the keyboards, and Joey on guitar) took the stage then shared a lengthy kiss before kicking into the irresistibly groovy opener “Showgirls”, my favourite on the album and a deliciously metronomic Sloan “I Am The Cancer” soundalike. Fears that they’d peaked early were however unfounded as the rest of the set maintained that level; “Piggy” was a sleazy grunge march, “Daddy” an eerie monotone grind(‘r) and closer “I Feel Good” was a New Order-esque synth-laden singalong. Between numbers, Joey and particularly Roddy were buoyant, voluble personalities, Joey asking, “do we have any gey people in tonight? Surely there’s more than that… time to come out tonight!” and Roddy thanking us for coming early to support the support (“do you remember when you turned up for [a great] support band? I saw the English Beat opening for Talking Heads…”) and preparing us for the impending Dinosaur sonic onslaught (“you guys are in the line of fire – shit gonna get loud!”). Great start! 

We stayed in the “line of fire” as the roadies plugged in the wall of 9 huge Marshall amps cloistered around J; then the surprising yet unmistakeable atmospherics of Echo and the Bunnymen’s all-time classic “Over The Wall” heralded the band onstage, J in front of us with his cartoon baseball cap covering his back-length white hair, Murph solid and bald, oddly resembling my father in law (!), and bassist and former Sebadoh man Lou Barlow sporting a huge tousled mane and resembling a 70’s hair band rocker! “We’re going to attempt to play “Where You Been”,” deadpanned J, and the words proved prophetic, as it took 2 attempts to kick into the delirious laze-rock of opener “Out There”; although when it did get going, it and the slow build to huge chorus hook of follow-up “Start Choppin’” both sounded tremendous, overlaid with J’s drowsy vocal slur and intricate yet squalling riffery. The hurtling drone of “On The Way” was also an early highlight, Lou preceding this by announcing, “we’re nervous! [It’s a] big London show!”

 However, while nerves didn’t seem an issue, lack of preparation subsequently did. A few of the “Where You Been” tracks needed a couple of goes to get started, roadies constantly took to the stage to swap huge lyric prompts around in front of J, and at one point proceedings stopped as they didn’t have a keyboard ready for the next number, J drawling, “we’ll have to borrow Roddy’s…” and Lou lamenting, “we’re giving our crew a workout today…”. Also, some numbers seemed rushed and haphazard, J attempting to make up for the shortcomings by piling on layers of hard riffery and noise. A bit of a shame, as “Where You Been” is a fine album, fully justifying Dinosaur’s description of “ear bleeding country”, with a definite Buffalo Springfield/ “Sweetheart of the Rodeo”-era dusty countrified vibe, if you blast past the grungy guitar noise… 

Ironically, things improved after the album run-through, as the band proceeded to invite a number of guests onstage. Amazingly, first was comedian Richard Ayoade (!), looking typically awkward and gauche as he contributed extra guitar on hard-rocking and largely instrumental “The Lung”; then My Bloody Valentine bassist Debbie Googe provided extra solidity (if such were needed) for a quite brilliant version of the classic “Freak Scene”; and finally, after a cacophonous and lengthy set closer “Gargoyle”, Primal Scream guitarist Andrew Innes and swaggering Thee Hypnotics vocalist Jim Jones (Jones remarking, “this is a fucking treat, isn’t it?”) joined J and Co for the savage proto psych-punk of the Stooges double “TV Eye” and “No Fun”. At its climax, J mumbled a quick goodbye as the band departed, following an uneven and occasionally unrehearsed, but also occasionally quite breathtaking set of potent and powerful noisy rock. As Roddy had promised, shit got loud, but actually it was never unbearable – quieter than a Bob Mould show, f’rinstance! 

Back to the car after another failed set-list attempt (bah!) and home fairly promptly for 20 to 1 after speed restrictions on the A40M hampered our egress out of town. So, overall 2 definitely worthwhile Anniversaries to celebrate; I think the consistency of Superchunk shaded it for me, but high spots aplenty in both gigs. A fine dynamic 90’s grungy guitar double-header!

1,300 MELANIE MARTINEZ, Upsahl, Wembley Arena, Thursday 9th November 2023

 

Second in a row with the daughter of the house, but one I wasn’t looking forward to with much relish… … Jami got hooked on weird pop diva Melanie Martinez’ 2015 debut “Cry Baby” which I found frankly infantile, a horrible mish mash of puerile nursery rhyme kiddie r’n’b/ “pop” pap overlaid with some disturbing sexual imagery and loads of potty-mouth lyrics, seemingly for effect. Last years “Portals” is better, whilst still not to my tastes; Lolita reinvented as a weird 4-eyed elfin woodland creature, with similar musical and lyrical imagery, and thankfully a toning down of the bad words (hey, I came in with punk rock, I don’t mind a gratuitous “fuck” or two in my music, but that all seemed a bit much…). Anyway, in a “Dad of the Year” moment, I promised Jami that I’d take them to see Mellie when the subsequent “Portals” tour came to the UK. Which it then did, to bleedin’ Wembley Arena of all places! Still, a promise is a promise…

 A flare-up of J’s torn calf muscle earlier in the day forced a travel rethink, so we booked a parking spot in Wembley’s Pink Zone, the nearest available to the arena but still a 12-minute slow hike away, after an equally snail-pace A40 run into Hanger Lane pitched us up there at 6.30. Massive queue outside, but happily a steward saw Jami’s crutches and ushered us into the express entrance! Result! Result 2 came shortly afterwards, as we contemplated J’s ability (or otherwise) to climb up to our row R seats at the back of this old aircraft hangar venue; a chat with another steward and supervisor later, and we were relocated to a row G spot (so half the stairs for J to manage) halfway along, house left, for a much better view! Huge immobile queues for everything around the venue, and lots of especially dressed up fangirls there with mums and/ or dads; Jami made the effort by rocking pixie siren chic, along with pointy false ears!

Following some quite telling p.a. music (Jami recognised Mitski, I recognised The Cocteau Twins and Mellie’s more likely spiritual forbear Bjork, another quirky pop vocalist I never really got along with), we had some rock! Unexpected support Upsahl took the stage at 20 past 8 to a wall of deafening shrill noise from the Mellie massive, the eponymous singer and her 2-piece band bursting into an initially hard-riffing grungy fuss, an early “Good Girl Era” quite hooky in a Heather Nova/ Tracy Bonham vein. Props also for getting 8,000 pre-pubescent girls chanting “drugs!” in the subsequent eponymous slow-burn number. The mid-set drifted a bit into r’n’b and balladry, but finished strongly with a robust, funky “Sad Sorry After Party” and the hooky, riff-heavy statement number “Lunatic” which saw Upsahl take to the photo pit, keeping her promise to, “warm you guys the fuck up!”. Mission accomplished, I’d say…

 Another quick wander, another inspection of interminably long queues for everything, before we took our places. The lights smashed to black at 20 past 9 to another deafening roar, and thousands of phones held aloft to record the arrival of Mellie, dressed in Raggedy Anne meets Pikmin the Mushroom (!) woodland nymph chic, massive pointy ears and some weird mask, surrounded by 4 singers and intoning her vocals for eerie opener “Death” through a vocoder. The creepy, minimalist r’n’b of “Void” followed, and it became apparent (along with some setlist.fm research!) that the “Portals” tour effectively meant Mellie was playing said album, in order, and nothing else! So at least that mean none of the puerile “Cry Baby” bollocks, and that the projected backdrop films of tunnels lined with flowers and moss, and colourfully lit woody glades, remained consistent throughout. Professionalism at its height; sounding pindrop perfect, choreographed to a fault and lit with searching strobes, this was a brilliant “show” for the fan, enriching and enhancing the understanding of the album, and verging on musical theatre. So, really not my thing, then, and, combined with the relentless deafening screams from the Mellie massive, this one was ramped up to almost sensory overload level…

 So, after the art-school Laurie Anderson weirdness of “Light Shower” and the swayalong, percussion-led “Spider Web” (which predictably saw a massive spider web unfurled onstage) I took a walk out to grab J some merch; unfortunately (or not!) this took 5 songs and 3 merch stands (the first 2 having sold out of J’s merch of choice), and another snail-pace queue of indecisive punters and couldn’t-give-a-shit servers. Really unpleasant. However, I got back in halfway through the bright nursery singalong of “Nymphology”, in time for my “favourite” Mellie number, “Evil”, a menacing metronome click build into a bright, Beabadoobee-like US 90’s college pop-influenced chorus, Mellie’s best number by about a million billion miles and comfortably my set highlight, particularly as the song climax was punctuated by a wall of fire onstage! The smooth jerky r’n’b pop of “Womb” (another half decent one, I have to confess), featuring an eruption of confetti cannons from the stage and midway along the arena floor, rounded off the set and album run-through, Jami then deciding an early exit was preferable to staying for then intended encore of the 3 “bonus” album tracks and risking getting caught in the melee. So, back to the car for 10 to 11 and a virtually unimpeded drive out of town, before M4 closures took us cross-country near Newbury but still got us home for 20 past 12, my tired pixie siren heading straight to bed. So, as I mentioned, totally not my thing, but Jami once again loved it, which was the point. So overall another successful evening out being “Dad of the Year”!

1,299 WATERPARKS, Stand Atlantic, Cardiff University Great Hall, Friday 3rd November 2023

 

A hectic 8-gig November kicks off with a double with daughter Jami, the first being bouncy Texan trio Waterparks! Since J “discovered” them thanks to their track “Telephone” featuring on “Heartstopper”, their CDs have seen heavy rotation on the car stereo; well, whenever Jami fancies a change from their beloved Tay-Tay, that is! Waterparks stock-in-trade is a colourful and bouncy hot mess “kitchen sink and all” melting pot of So-Cal pop punk/ emo lite, US alt-indie guitar, catchy boy band hooks, even hip hop, rap and pulsing garage beats. Some of it works, some of it doesn’t… actually they’re a pretty decent band with a few fairly palatable songs, so I was happy to get tix for a non-school night trip to this one, the nearest they came to the ‘don on their UK tour supporting recent album “Intellectual Property”. And as an extra treat for Jami, I booked tix for the pre-gig “meet and greet” event, because, why the hell not? 

Jami threw an unexpected spanner in the works by straining their calf muscle, but luckily was mobile enough to make the gig, albeit on crutches! So, I picked them up after school for an arduous diversion- and traffic affected run, parking up outside the venue after a 2½ hour journey! Yikes! This however merely meant we were at the back of the slow-moving meet and greet queue, the band laudably spending time chatting with each group. For our turn, singer Awsten Knight gave J a warm hug and recorded a brief video for their friend, whilst I shook hands with guitarist Geoff Wigington and drummer Otto Wood and briefly chatted about the Texas Rangers’ World Series win. One pic and a short wait later, we were off to the balcony disabled viewing section, house right, whence Jami made fast friends with Violette, there with mum! Support band, Australians Stand Atlantic joined us at 8.15m playing a hard-thumping set of bright jumpabout pop punk, an early “Pity Party” a highlight with a stripped back verse building into a soaring powerpop chorus, lustily sung back by the crowd. Clearly a well-known band to the young black-clad, dyed hair Waterparks massive, their thudding set, enthusiastically delivered by eager vocalist Bonnie Fraser and her boys, reminded me of Bostonians Waltham and Damone, with hints of emo goth and even 80’s hair pop metal, although the savage, circle-pit inducing riffery of closer “Molotov (OK)” was a dead ringer for Nirvana’s “Territorial Pissings”. A very popular support then, a little relentless and overlong for me, but seen worse…

 We kept our watching brief over the very full dance-floor (a sell-out, this one…) as the roadies dressed the stage with foliage and marble bust statues, rather like an upmarket garden centre! Waterparks themselves bounded onstage at 9.15, the big-jumpered, firetruck-red haired vocalist Awsten, face Pan-Stiked silver grey with Ziggy eye make-up, emerging last to screams from the young crowd – and also from my left, Jami (and friend) being up on their feet from the off, screaming enthusiastically, singing along and filming bits of the boys’ performance, loving it all and fully justifying the difficult journey and expense. Job done! 

Waterparks themselves were a colourful, dynamic and kinetic onstage presence, both Awsten and guitarist Geoff jumping on and off the onstage plinths with gay abandon, and the voluble Awsten himself continually rabble-rousing the crowd, inciting circle pits and mass singalongs like a young Billie Joe Armstrong. “We’re in a school? Weird! Oh, it’s a Uni! My Uni was shut – so I quit and [formed] Waterparks!” Musically their sound had more oomph than on record, and I could tolerate their odd lapses into hip hop and speed-rap, so long as there was a soaring powerpop chorus on its’ way, which was usually the case. Oldie “Grave” was a strong-armed glam stomper, the emo-lite of brand-new number “Sneaking Out Of Heaven” was preceded by Awsten greeting the balcony posse (including, “the window people!”), and “Telephone” was a bright and upbeat pop-punk delight, Jami going nuts next to me. Not so sure about the subsequent acoustic interlude, which saw a meandering Awsten play about half a dozen half-songs, but after bringing the band back on and thanking the crowd for their support (“we do not take that shit lightly!”), the penultimate “Closer” was easily my set highlight, a widescreen build to a stately yet melancholy chorus with a distinct 80’s post-punk feel.

I did a quick merch run for our free posters before a 3-song encore featuring the almost speed garage verse and frantic, savage choral babble of “Turbulent”, and the smooth singalong We Are Scientists-esque synthy 80’s pop of closer “Funeral Grey”, this final number delighting Jami as they had worn a similar sweater to that mentioned in the lyric! Fond farewells to J’s new friend before we successfully chanced our arm for a mixing desk list, then a thankfully much quicker drive home, back about 20 to 1. A very successful evening overall; Jami loved it, which was pretty much the point, and honestly, this cynical old punk enjoyed it too!

1,298 THE SKIDS, Supporting From The Jam, Swindon MECA, Friday 13th October 2023

 

Rounding off the current flurry of gig activity is a welcome return to my “Dance Card” of my first proper “Favourite Band”, 70’s anthemic punks The Skids. As a 13 year old, I’d fallen for Richard Jobson’s manic dancing when I first saw them perform the fist-pumping “Into The Valley” on “Top Of The Pops”, and so revelled in their recent reunion shows. We’d been “on a break” since the last time (October 2021, gig 1,193) as the Skids line-up essentially morphed into the still-up for it Jobson plus a backline of hired hands; however I wasn’t going to miss them playing in Swindon, moments from my doorstep (ironically at the criminally underutilised MECA, where they were due to play waaay back in January 2019!), even if it was as support to an ersatz Jam line-up. Also, as Mark E Smith used to say, “if it’s me and yer granny on bongos, it’s The Fall,” so surely the same hold true of the effervescent frontman Jobson and The Skids?

 Only one way to find out, so off I went, finding the Wyvern car park full so dumping the motor in the cinema car park, running into Rich in the queue, getting drinks in then taking a wander down the front, bumping into Beef on the way! I’d grabbed a bit of barrier, house left, by the time The Skids took the stage, 4 black clad desperados followed onstage by the muscular Jobson, usual St. Pauli t-shirt firmly in place, still looking fit and well for 63, perma-grin affixed to his rugged granite features and quipping, “fuck me, how much rain fell in Swindon today – and I’m Scottish!” before leading the band into the staccato rhythm of “Charade”, followed in short order by a thrillingly headlong, hurtling “Of One Skin”. “The last time I came to Swindon was 1978,” remarked the frontman; “it hasn’t changed!” 

Any fears about the quality or proficiency of this Skids line-up were immediately blown away. They sounded great! Young guitarist Connor Whyte particularly had some seriously big shoes to fill but handled the late Stuart Adamson’s intricate snaking guitar patterns with aplomb, and drummer Nick Hernandez was a strong-armed, hard-hitting beast, driving the sound with relentless force, a worthy successor to Messrs Kellichan, Egan and Baillie. But of course the jocular, kinetic Jobson was the main focus; joking about ageing (“there’s a time when your cock gets smaller…!”), taking aim at usual targets Savile and Sayer (Leo of course having deprived The Skids of a number one album, some wag down the front – OK, me – shouting, “get over it!”, Jobson replying, “I can’t! I’m still bitter!”) and lending his rich, stentorian vocals to classics such as the fist-pumping terrace chant “Yankee Dollar” and the soaring “Circus Games”. A ragged rant through “TV Stars” (“the worst song in the history of punk rock!” according to Jobbo) was throwaway fun, preceding an equally breathless cover of The Clash’s “Complete Control” (“the best!”); then the inevitable, towering “Into The Valley” was a brilliant finale, Jobson punching the air with furious intent, then leading the enthusiastic early comers through an a capella singalong of the hook. Tremendous stuff! 

Drummer Nick kindly supplied me with a list, and we took a breather before taking a spot a little further back for From The Jam, original Jam bass player Bruce Foxton and long-time oppo Russell Hastings the main man in this 5-piece line-up. The Jam had never been massive favourites of mine – I’d owned 2 singles of theirs, back in the day, both bought in the Woolworths cheapo “Ex Chart” box! – and after the roaring, terrace chant dynamism of The Skids, this iteration of FTJ sounded flat and insipid, statically going through the motions like a poor pub band, and Foxton (who took bass duties on a few Stiff Little Fingers tours a dozen or so years ago) sadly looking fragile, every one of his 68 years, and sounding particularly shaky on lead vocals for an early “David Watts”. Distracted, I took a walk, running into a number of old friends and faces for catch-up chats, including Jobbo himself, whom Rich had located at the merch stand and who happily recalled our previous meetings at other Skids gigs. Nice!

 Went back in for FTJ, who at least were finishing strongly with a sinuous, sinister “Down In The Tube Station At Midnight” and a fine “Butterfly Collector” but who never rose above workmanlike for me. Still, they had a sizeable moshpit of Fred Perry-clad old blokes, particularly for encores of the jagged clarion call “In The City”, a lengthy, slightly self-indulgent “Eton Rifles” and the inevitable “Going Underground”, so what the fuck do I know, eh? As for me, I ran in to another old friend – hi Charlie! – on the way out, dropped Rich up the Vic then headed home for just after 11 with Jobbo’s early set proclamation ringing in my ears. He may have meant it as a joke, but it was totally true for me – tonight the headliners played first!

1,297 GANG OF FOUR, Miki Berenyi Trio, Hallan, Bristol O2 Academy, Saturday 7th October 2023

 

I’m not really sure what I was expecting from this one, but it certainly wasn’t that…!

I confess that seminal Leeds New Wave politico-agit post punkers Gang Of Four rather passed me by back in the day. Unlike kindred spirits Wire (whose “12XU” was a regular floor-filler), they never got played at U-18 Brunel, my local nightclub and main source of my late 70’s-early 80’s musical finds, so when I diverted into Bunnymen territory in the early 80’s, I never bothered checking them out. My mistake. An early 2000’s revisit of that era (most current bands then finding inspiration from that time) included GO4’s landmark debut “Entertainment”, and sure enough I found it an excellent if uncomfortable listen, the music taut, tense, stripped back and claustrophobic, reflecting the bleak cold war threat and political/ industrial unrest of those times, with pointed, acerbic lyricism practically barked out by vocalist Jon King. Somewhere between industrial post-punkers Comsat Angels and anarchist sloganeers Crass, then… It had always been at the back of my mind to catch them “live”; sadly I left it too late to see a line-up featuring influential original guitarist Andy Gill, who died in 2020, but this tour was a tempter, going from possible to definite by the addition of “The Queen of Shoegaze”, Miki Berenyi and her trio, as tour support.

Old friend Keith was up for it too and just happened to be in Bristol during the day, so I drove down early, meeting the man at 5 for some splendid BBQ Chinese nosh up Park Street, then grabbing a barrier spot house right at doors (next to gig buddy Alfie again!), after gaining O2 Priority entrance! Not long to wait for young openers Hallan, on at 7.25; their first 2 numbers were dark, angry bass-led beasts with a proper crap-rap rant-style vocal delivery, strongly reminiscent of The Fall, but just as I was about to dismiss them as another bunch of incoherent shouty Fontaines DC-alikes, they served up the splendid “Cut With The Kitchen Knife”, a dark brooding early Editors-esque number with a proper “sung” vocal. Yay! The subsequent “Colline Gate” had shades of early New Order with a gothy descending Hooky base, and the crisp, regimented riff of closer “Money Talks” recalled Killing Joke’s “Love Like Blood”. Strong finish to an overall promising set…

 

Miki (who I’d briefly spoken to on the way in, Miki claiming to remember me from March’s Stroud gig (no. 1,272) which was nice) then led her boys onstage for 8.15 to a warm welcome, the stark and detached opener “Light From A Dead Star” setting the tone for the mood of the set, if not the sound… initially the guitar was very muted, the programmed drumbeats the main feature for Miki’s fragile, high-register vocals to compete with. I get that this line-up won’t have the upfront, smothering guitar reverb and effects of Miki’s former charges Lush and that’s fine, I just wanted a bit more oomph… thankfully the guitars chimed in properly for the haunting feel and textural pitter patter of 4^th number “Vertigo”, and the soaring yet plaintive “For Love” was lovely. Miki, relaxed and urbane onstage, chatted about Moose’s beloved Spurs being top of the Premier League and made excuses for a hangover from last night’s London gig, before the bubbly dance of “Big I Am” and dissonant mystery of closer and best-of-set “Baby Talk” rounded off another overall charming set. Looking forward to seeing them at “Shiiine On” now…!

 It got a little busier down the front but this was a fairly quiet one overall, with the balcony shut tonight. Still, one hoped that GO4 would play to the folks here rather than lament those absent… and so it proved; and how! Led onstage to a fanfare by their singer, the wild-eyed imposing Zefram Cochrane lookalike (well, actor James Cromwell, but hey, I’m a Trekker so I’m bound to say Big Z!) Jon King, they were immediately “on it”, opener “Return The Gift” fast, funky and frenetic, with guitarist David Pajo sending jagged shards of sound around the venue, and the aforementioned King throwing David Byrne staccato shapes belying his 68 (!) years. “You’re all very attractive!” announced a beaming King, clearly in fantasy band camp onstage throughout, as “We Live As We Dream, Alone” was an irresistibly groovy early highlight, the man then announcing, “I cheered when you chucked that evil motherfucker [Edward Colston]’s statue into the river!”

 

As I mentioned, I wasn’t sure what to expect from this veteran bunch of political post-punkers, and, given the material, I may have been anticipating this to be a bit tinny, moody, dour even… Nope, none of that; Gang Of Four were pretty much the opposite; upbeat, irrepressible and actually downright fun, propelled by King’s kinetic onstage antics and full on in-your-face delivery, and Pajo’s virtuoso guitar work, the guitarist often using the mic stand to coax ever more dissonant, squalling and serrated noise from his instrument. “He’d Send In The Army” saw a roadie wheel on a used microwave for King to batter to pieces with a baseball bat as percussion (said object being on sale at the merch stand afterwards for £30!); a subsequent Dr. Feelgood cover “Roxette” was an unexpected swaggering bluesy stomp; and “I Parade Myself” was brilliant, Pajo’s Middle-Eastern guitar inflections the base for King’s flamboyant gestures and mellifluous, teasing vocals. Miki made an onstage appearance for “I Love A Man In Uniform”, joining drummer Hugo Burnham’s daughter on backing vocals, then Burnham himself took centre stage, his rock-steady, regimental drumbeat powering the clipped military march of “At Home He’s A Tourist”. “I Found That Essence Rare” was my set-highlight, a brilliant, jet-propelled and hooky blast, before the strident terrace chant of a pointed “To Hell With Poverty” closed out a quite startling set. 

Another cover – this time of fellow Leeds post-punkers The Mekons’ “Where Were You”, for former Mekon Mark White, apparently in the crowd tonight (!) was the highlight of a 3-song encore, the band taking a deserved bow after a triumphant and celebratory performance. I grabbed a list (batting down some other punter’s hand to do so – the roadie’s giving it to me, bucko!) then we headed off, reflecting on the gig. Tense, claustrophobic, dour, downbeat, monotone? Nope, tonight’s Gang Of Four gig was just absolutely bloody joyous!

1,296 COACH PARTY, Girl Scout, Nightswimming, Bristol Thekla, Thursday 5th October 2023

Second of two in two nights down in that there Brizzle, and if last night’s hosts Desperate Journalist are pretty much the high watermark for UK rock, then tonight lines up the band most likely to challenge them for that honour in the coming years… Isle Of Wight’s Coach Party have been slowly and sneakily becoming “live” favourites of mine, their blend of urgent melodic indie pop, tense Pixies-ish US alt-rock guitar inflections and lyrical teen diary breakup angst gaining some serious traction of late, thanks to some high-profile support slots. Said experiences seem also to have filtered through to their debut album “Killjoy”, it being a varied but harder-edged, punchier and confident affair than previous EP releases, but an album that rewards repeated listens, revealing hidden depths to their ostensibly bouncy indie sound.

 After last month’s Rough Trade acoustic CD release show (gig 1,292), I was looking forward to hearing the new material fully amped up on “the Dirty Boat”. And I was happily joined by Tim, Peej and Beef, the boys all meeting round ours for 6 then Tim driving us down a sunny M4, squeezing into a tiny overparked spot before getting in at 10 to 7, just as first band Nightswimming were taking the stage. Taking their name from one of R.E.M’s finest works, they sadly came nowhere near living up to their name with some wispily and soporifically dull dreampop, recalling The Sundays (yawn) for me, and Portishead for Peej (ditto). A few interesting resonant textural guitar licks, maybe, but no tunes to rub together to make fire, and instantly forgotten the second they left the stage. Thankfully main support Girl Scout were much more the ticket, kicking off with a sturdier, hooky Beths-like powerpop toon which set the tone for their enjoyable set. “Tight set tonight people! Not going to banter like usual…” announced vocalist Emma Jansson, clearly a woman both in a hurry and on a mission tonight, as they whipped through “Mothers And Fathers”, a snappy Veruca Salt-esque song about divorce (!), the vocalist again displaying a fair set of pipes on the “do it again” hook. “This venue is sick! I wish they had boats for venues in Stockholm!” she gushed, before the amphetamine gallop and soaring chorus of “unreleased and unrecorded!” newie “I Don’t Know What It Is”, which proved my highlight of the set (one for my “Best of 2024” compo CD, maybe…!). Closer “Do You Remember Sally Moore”, with its Public Image drum opening, hurtling verse and well-observed mid-song pregnant pause, however ran it close, climaxing another impressive support set from the Stockholmers – particularly kinetic guitarist and Louis Theroux lookalike Viktor Spasov, who could shred with the best of ‘em…

 I took a loo break then, and on returning to our spot house left, 3 or so rows back, proclaimed to Peej, “don’t think this is near the sell-out it’s supposed to be…” Famous last words, as the place then filled up quickly and, whilst not near as rammed as The Menzingers gig (gig 1,284), was more than amply full for the arrival of Coach Party onstage at 8.45 to a startlingly huge roar, vocalist Jess Eastwood nearly taken aback by the reception. Jess, resplendent in schoolgirl chic and with The Isle Of Wight’s Ass barely covered by a micro rah-rah skirt, led the band through grungy, growling opener “Micro Aggression”; then the band hit a snag as technical issues with Joe’s guitar forced some nervous banter between Jess and guitarist Steph, Jess then bringing their photographer onstage to do a dog bark! Once sorted, the irresistibly flippant “What’s The Point In Life” launched the set into orbit, and there it bloody well stayed…! 

Coach Party were quite, quite brilliant tonight, possibly the best I’ve seen them (which I seem to say every time, but hey, it’s true!). Unlike the insouciant, detached cool of last night’s hosts, however, this set was all about kinetic energy, noise, dynamism and barely contained full-on in-your-face punk rock; so much so that on the occasional wall-of-noise guitar squall I could swear they were channelling 00’s “live” favourites Seafood, or even Bob Mould! “Can’t Talk, Won’t” (“about the best day of my life,” remarked Jess) was a hurtling downhill luge ride of a song; a debate about dry shampoo (!) preceded a lovely, Alvvays-ish “Be That Girl” (see, that’s how dreampop is done properly – Nightswimming, take note), and after the off-kilter sneery grunge of “All I Wanna Do Is Hate”, the strident, acerbic “Shit TV” was another mid-set highlight.

But it seemed we were just gathering momentum for the set climax; after Steph commented on a noticeable left-right list on the old boat tonight, Jess concurring with the comment, “my mic is on the wonk!”, the set then just seemed to get harder, faster, punkier, noisier! “Hi Baby” was a breakneck Beths-like powerpop gabble, “Breakdown”’s pin-prick verse launched into a racey, strident chorus and some serious shredding from a strident, screaming Steph, then the savagely angry howl of “FLAG” was “dedicated” to Rishi Sunak (Jess roaring, “he’s an absolute Cunt! Fuck that fucking prick!”), before the vocalist grabbed the echo mic and got in the faces of the front rows for the fierce, fire-breathing finale “Parasite”. Hell of a double whammy to end a quite ferocious set.

Grabbed a list from the friendly lights guy and briefly doorstopped an elated Jess and Steph to sign it, before the Gang of Four of us drove home for 10.45, debating tonight’s events and all coming to the same conclusion. Coach Party are bloody ace, particularly “live”, and are going places fast. Brilliant stuff!