881 TITUS ANDRONICUS, Supporting Fucked Up, Merz, Bristol Fleece, Sunday 26 May 2013

The hosts of my 800^th gig, the ball-crushingly epic Bristol Cooler show in 2010, return for my 881^st! Confrontational New Jersey noiseniks Titus Andronicus, who since their magnificent, sprawling epic 2010 CD Of the Year “The Monitor”, then announced a distillation of the widescreen series of players on record and the leaner, punkier core tour grouping into one 6-piece band going forward (don’t ask me either, that’s new millennial punk rock for you…), subsequently releasing a thematically wider-ranging, less “concept”-y and fine-but-nowhere-near-as-good follow-up in 2012’s “Local Business”. Honestly, I hardly expected any follow-up to be a patch on “The Monitor” (which is easily in the Top 3 of my favourite albums of this whole damn Century…), otherwise we’d be talking about quite possibly the greatest rock’n’roll band in the history of forever. Lightning really doesn’t strike twice in that way.

Nevertheless, whilst accepting “The Monitor” was a one-off and adjusting my expectations accordingly, we still have a damn fine, committed and visceral punk band, and one capable of touching some serious heights in the “live” environment. So, despite their status as support here to similarly minded post-hardcore ruffians Fucked Up, I snapped up a ticket for this one over Christmas (!), and 5 months later found myself hurtling down the M4 early doors on the hottest day of the year so far, anticipating an early showing from Patrick Stickles and the boys. I wasn’t wrong, I discovered, as I parked up at 7.40 in a new spot behind The Fleece, in sight of both the river and the Seven Stars pub next to the venue; Merz were just rounding off their opening set, and according to the running order on the door, Titus Andronicus were due on at 8! Yipe !

So I wandered down the front in anticipation of an early start and sure enough, the band came on to set up at 10 to 8, the now-beardless Patrick opening up an equipment case to reveal a quite bewildering array of effects pedals. This however precipitated a lengthy and interminable equipment check, as Patrick struggled to get the correct pedal chain set-up, at one point responding to a hurry-up from a roadie with an exasperated, “what do you think I’m trying to do???” At what point, I wondered as the time ticked on, does he just say, fuck it and start the gig as is?

We eventually got started just after 20 past, Patrick announcing, “we’re back! Just not for as long as we thought,” some pre-set between band discussions having centred around which songs to cut to save time (oops…). However, from the savage opening riff of “A More Perfect Union”, the wait was worth it. The sound was messy but the band were totally “on it” with as intense, kinetic and passionate a performance as possible. The swoops, sweeps and tempo changes of this punked-up version were brilliantly rendered with just the right amount of ragged edge, and the crowd responded with a strident singalong of the “rally round the flag” hook. Brilliant, breathless opening!

“We’ve had to cut a few but we’re not cutting this one,” announced Patrick for “Upon Viewing Oregon’s Landscape With The Flood Of Detritus”, which was again raw, ragged, unbelievably loud and the utter essence of punk rock, rising titanically over the (relatively) muted version on “Local Business”. Another from that album followed in a thrilling amphetamine rush, before Patrick amazingly, turned to me (right down the front, remember…) and said, “you’ve got a Hold Steady t-shirt on, you look trustworthy,” then promptly handed me a Canon camcorder and asked me to film the band! Crikey! 

I then juggled trying to film them and bits of the crowd as best I could (sorry if there’s a bit too much ceiling, chaps…) whilst freaking out to the rest of the set, which due to cuts comprised of an amazing, vengeful and venomous “Battle Of Hampton Roads”, a by-now bare-chested Patrick fitting more ire and brilliantly articulated righteous fury into its’ 14 minutes than most so-called current “punk” bands do into their entire careers, then a final, fitting “Titus Andronicus Forever”, to close, the crowd circling me chanting, “the enemy is everywhere!” as one. A more intense, angry, violent, joyful, all-inclusive half-hour’s rock I’ll be hard pushed to experience this year. Wow. Just… wow.

And Wow more afterwards, as I ran into a very articulate and friendly Patrick afterwards, who insisted on buying me a drink as thanks for my shaky camera work. Enjoyed a chat with a lovely bloke with a real sense of history for his chosen art (illustrated perfectly by a Crass tattoo worn on his shoulder) and a passion for doing it his and their way, with no compromise. Rock’n’roll needs more Patrick Stickles. No doubt.

Fucked Up had no chance after that, so I left their (comparatively) inarticulate howl of a set to the devotees, and I drove home after another momentous and memorable experience in the company of The Mighty Titus Andronicus!

 

880 ADAM ANT AND THE GOOD, THE MAD AND THE LOVELY POSSE, New Killer Shoes, Bath Komedia, Wednesday 23 April 2013

Yup, again! For the 5th time in a shade under 2 years, it’s Adam Ant time! The 80’s pop/ punk/ New Romantic/ simply “Antmusic” icon, now arguably elevated to National Treasure status, his shining star restored to sparking radiance, and quite simply the best, most consummate “live” performer I’ve seen in years, and likely one of the best ever. Yup, Ever. There, I said it. I also said I’d be back whenever time and finances allow, so a trip down to Bath to the new Komedia venue was squeezed in to an otherwise impoverished late April. This time, I’m joined by Debbie the glam punk queen of ye olde Swindon Towne, surprisingly seeing Adam Ant for the first time!

We set off at 7 on a sunny evening, getting confused with the directions around Bath and eventually parking up in a small car park, just around the corner from the riverside park where Rach, the kids and myself had spent the previous Saturday sunning ourselves and eating ice cream! Despite needing to ask a policeman for directions (!), the venue itself was a short walk, very central; a modern frontispiece opening up into a grand mid-sized venue with ornate roof carvings, recalling the Regal in Oxford . New Killer Shoes were just finishing a brash, noisy guitar set with a bit of a swagger. From what I heard, they sounded worth checking out. Next time, then…

Took a spot near the front, stage right, for Adam’s entrance in front of an expectant and respectable but not full crowd, spot on at 8.30 to the orchestral swell of “The Charge Of The Light Brigade”. Adam, on last with a theatrical flourish, and his excellent band blasted through opener “Marrying The Gunner’s Daughter”, the lead track from his current CD, scarcely pausing for breath and making scant concession to his advancing years. Indeed, this was the modus operandi for tonight; a rejigged set over recent live shows, with more than a smattering of newies from said just-released new CD. However, “Deutscher Girls” notwithstanding, there was very little of significance omitted from recent sets, so with a whole lot to get through, it was a case of cut the chat and get on with it. This was underlined by the fact Adam didn’t actually address the audience until after a lengthy ovation for “Kings Of The Wild Frontier”, 9th number in!

By this time we’d also had a brilliant amphetamine rush through “Beat My Guest”, a strident tribal drumbeat-led “Kick”, a thrillingly eerie “Ants Invasion” augmented by a side-lit strobe picking out Adam on the otherwise dark stage, and the usual rambunctious run-through of “Stand And Deliver”. But it was “Kings” that really ignited the previously moribund crowd, Adam performing his “manifesto” number as if his life depended on it, with the lengthy ovation giving him pause and eliciting a heartfelt and quite telling, “thank you,” from the great man.

The overall brevity of communication however didn’t detract from Adam’s performance; glittering and eye-catching throughout, he was his usual brilliant self, a performer born, riveting and kinetic, waving the mikestand around so vigorously that on more than one occasion I thought he would sideswipe occasional backing vocalist Georgie Girl upside the head with its’ circular base, and striding and strutting around the stage like he owned it. Which of course he did…

“This one’s about love, you know L-U-V, fellas… flowers on Valentines, flowers when you make up, flowers on her grave…”, Adam deadpanned by way of intro to “Wonderful”, before, “a different kind of love song,” the guitar sleaze of “Whip In My Valise”. The sussed NYC/ Velvet Underground understated cool of “Cool Zombie” was the best of the clutch of newies on show tonight, although as ever Adam hit the highlights with the old stuff; a brilliant staccato “Zerox”, a dark, sinister “Never Trust A Man (With Egg On His Face)”, featuring some call and response vocals with Georgie Girl, rubber dress dripping off her ample front, and the raucous singalong to “Cartrouble”, inserted later into the set tonight. Actually I sang along raucously to pretty much everything tonight…!

After the regimental march of set closer “Prince Charming”, the encores were pretty damn perfect too; a vitriolic “Press Darlings”, Adam still venomously spitting out the names of his nemeses Kent and Bushall, the wonderful, cheeky “Lady” seamlessly segueing into the call to arms of “Fall In”, then a second encore featuring a sleazy, growling and pace-changing “Red Scab”, an unscheduled run through T Rex’ “Get It On”, and a final, roaring “Physical” to end a 30-odd song, near 2 hour performance from a 58 year old whose energy, vitality and sheer star power puts pretty much everyone else right now in the shade. Another brilliant night in the company of Adam Ant, and here’s to many more!

879 JAMES, ECHO AND THE BUNNYMEN, Bristol Colston Hall, Wednesday 17 April 2013

Happy Birthday Rachel! I sorted these tickets at Christmas for a birthday surprise for Rach to go see one of her favourite bands; James, once again playing The Colston Hall around her birthday. A “live” staple of mine back in the 80’s as well, James’ performance here 3 years ago partly restored my faith in my former quirky student indie faves turned baggy Manc wave-riders, purging their subsequent stadium bore reputation somewhat. Furthermore, this gig had the added intrigue of the support; Echo And The Bunnymen, my “home team” favourite band in my late teens, who crushed me with a poor showing last time out, Ian McCulloch’s voice being particularly off-key, so definitely in need of some redemption in my eyes. The 13th time I’d seen both these bands, stretching back to the early 80’s in both cases; who would prove the most enduring, here in 2013?

I figured this to be an early one, so Rach and I left at 6, hitting some delays en route but parking up on the roof of the partly-closed car park opposite, taking our seats at 7.20. I’d hesitated slightly before booking tix, and this was reflected in our position; on the balcony of this large theatre, 3 rows from the back! Still, a good view… The Bunnymen came onstage promptly (for them!) to their usual Gregorian chant intro music, easing into opener “Lips Like Sugar”. The first test – could McCulloch sustain the octave straddling chorus note? Thankfully, the answer was a resounding Yes. And how!

Tonight the Bunnymen were restored to their imperious best. The backlit strobes made it difficult to pick out the mostly static band, but tonight there was no mistaking The Voice. This wasn’t Mac going through the motions as per last time out, this was a man using the full range and emotional impact of The Bunnymen’s most powerful asset, with the band unafraid to completely strip back the instrumentation at times at let Mac’s voice carry the songs. A chiming “Rescue” featured a lyric reference to obscure oldie “Broke My Neck”, and the magnificent “Villier’s Terrace” segued effortlessly into The Doors’ “Roadhouse Blues”, mid-song. “We’ve not been here since 1982 – but the old girl’s still got it, and I’m not talking about Elton John,” Mac announced. Damn straight.

“Zimbo”, a stunning mid-set highlight, finally saw the inevitable dry ice envelop the blood red backlit stage, adding to the eerie feel of this tribal drumbeat-led elegy. “All That Jazz” was a brilliant, toughened up march, meaty, big and beaty, and a set highlight for me. The sweeping drama of “The Killing Moon” was introduced by an only partly tongue-in-cheek Mac with, “this is allegedly the best song ever written.” Then, a faultless and all-too short set finally culminated in “The Cutter”, Mac taking one last opportunity to let his voice soar unfettered during the song’s climax, giving me goosebumps in the process. Redemption assured; maybe The Bunnymen should always play this early, if this is the outcome!

The set in full; Lips Like Sugar, Rescue, Villier’s Terrace/ Roadhouse Blues, Seven Seas, Bring On The Dancing Horses, Bedbugs And Ballyhoo, Zimbo, The Disease, All That Jazz, Nothing Lasts Forever, The Killing Moon, The Cutter. Every one a winner. Superb stuff!

Rach and I eschewed the bar queues and got ice creams instead during the interval, grabbing some comfy seats to stretch our legs after our tiny confined balcony seats. We wandered back in for James’ arrival at 9 prompt; the band wandered on unheralded, Tim Booth taking the stage last, then announcing stark opener “Dust Motes” with, “this one craves your silence; we use it as a litmus test of whether an audience can shut the fuck up!"

Thence followed one of the most variable sets I’ve seen since Blondie, here back in 2004. Rach’s face cracked into a huge grin for a lovely early “Just Like Fred Astaire”, as Tim abandoned the stage and wandered through the crowd. The staccato dancing of the subsequent chugging beat of “Waltzing Along” saw him again transformed into the little funny dancing guy from those 80’s Bierkeller days. However “Seven” featured some discordant and quite jarring trumpeting, spoiling an otherwise good oldie, and a subsequent dull number actually saw loads of fellow balcony people head for an early loo break! “Johnny Yen”, however, revived the set; a marvellous version of this (very) oldie, tumbling drums to the fore, and “How Was It For You” (pre-empted by guitarist Larry Gott, who played the opening riff prior to “Johnny Yen” then remarked he should be following the set-list, which prompted Booth to confess, “you may have noticed we don’t know what we’re doing!”) was brilliant, herky-jerky and sinewy mutant dance, and damn fine for a song allegedly not played “live” for 20 years! The subsequent “We’re Gonna Miss You” was introduced as a song to exorcise a curse from an old girlfriend, and the dark, backlit stage fitted the song’s moody, mysterious edge perfectly. A lengthy, libidinous “Sound”, featuring some swirling trumpet and low, moody bass, completed a splendid mid-set section.

However, it went downhill for me thereafter. 3 new numbers (hey, it just wouldn’t be a James gig without some newies, they’re perverse like that…) were OK, but the middle one featured an interminable and tortuous violin solo, again spoiling the number. The inevitable “Sit Down”, the former all-inclusive little baggy manifesto turned housewife-friendly radio anthem, was perfunctorily delivered, but nevertheless had all the gig tourists standing up. Ironic that. The late-period Simple Minds-lite of “Born Of Frustration” was frankly rubbish, and it took a good, loose limbed “Come Home” to end the set on a positive note for me, although the band took a lengthy curtain call from the audience.

Encores were also variable; “Getting Away With It” dragged, but the conversational verses of the excellent “Sometimes” built to huge galloping chorus crescendos, and the ramshackle drumrolls and kitchen sink smut of a final “Laid” ended an overlong 2 hour set nicely.

So James; a mix of the brilliant and banal, but overall worth sitting through some Frustration for the likes of “Johnny Yen”. But for me The Bunnymen towered over this evening, restoring my faith in my old “home team”. Overall, though, a fine evening out for the Birthday Girl!

878 THE HOUSE OF LOVE, Patrick Duff, Bristol Fleece, Tuesday 9 April 2013

Another band scratching that reunion itch now; The House Of Love, late 80’s Indie rock guitar heroes who ploughed a similar furrow to the 60’s-influenced rockist post-punk sonic template of Echo And The Bunnymen, Wild Swans, Joy Division etc. whilst skirting around the then-prevalent, more textural and shimmering mood of the Shoegaze crowd, before being lost in the noise of Grunge and Madchester in the early 90’s. A band I saw and thoroughly enjoyed 4 times, “back in the day”, and a band who hold the distinction of being the hosts of the only 2 occasions I’d been evacuated from a gig, both times due to excessive dry ice usage! Back together with its’ original squabbling song-writing duo of vocalist Guy Chadwick and guitar hero Terry Bickers, and back releasing new material, notably current, charming CD “She Paints Words In Red”. A band whom on reflection I really should have been a much bigger fan of, back then, so will the timely revival evident on the new CD translate into the “live” environment? Or will they just choke us all with dry ice and force us scuttling outside The Fleece’s cramped environs for fresh air?

Similar old HOL fan Beef and I set off about 7, hitting the venue at ¼ to 8 and going through the new door at the back of the venue, after a slight ticket-mare for Beef! We were therefore firmly ensconced for support act Patrick Duff, former vocalist of 90’s swirly pop-psych Bristolians Strangelove. Now reinvented as a woolly-hatted acoustic troubadour with some unsettlingly deadpan between-song banter, he played a couple of bare, pastoral numbers before really cutting loose with “Maria”, a huge Scott Walker-esque tale of heartbreak and infidelity, magnificently delivered with an extraordinarily passionate voice. A brilliant song which moved me to enquire of Beef, “where did THAT come from?” and one which he never topped, although “Tourist” (“I wrote this for Amy Winehouse; I didn’t know then that she was going to die but I had a fucking good idea...") came closest. A final number about monkeys featured some entertaining mouth trumpeting, concluding a fine, impressively delivered set, which made me take notice.

The place was busier now, yet the PA announcer advised people to move down towards the front where there was more room! We were therefore a couple of rows back, centre stage, when the uniformly black-shirted House Of Love came on, fittingly, to Canned Heat’s “On The Road Again”. No dry ice or backlit strobes this time, in deference to the smaller venue, but they eased impressively into their set with a couple of newies, a Byrds-like “Low Black Clouds” followed by a rockier “Baby Got Back”, featuring the annoyingly youthful looking Terry Bickers already energetically throwing shapes, in stark contrast to his towering monolith partner in crime Chadwick. A lush “Hope” and crescendo-fuelled “ Sulphur ” delved back to that classic first album and prompted the crowd into some polite moshing, and “Road” was carried by Bickers’ haunting guitar groove.

In fact the mid-set, lower key and more mid-paced, delved equally from the first and most recent albums, highlighting Chadwick’s smooth confessional vocals and supremely crafted songwriting, and Bickers’ swirling, slightly-delic guitar licks, with a countrified “Hemmingway” and plaintive “Beatles And Stones” a notable mid-set duo. However the set roared back with a vengeance, Chadwicks’, “take it away, Terry,” heralding the instantly recognisable guitar intro to the underrated “I Don’t Know Why I Love You”, sung with startling conviction by Chadwick and the magnificent highlight of the set – to date. However this was topped with “Christine”, playfully introduced by Chadwick with, “this is called “Claudine”, I hope you like it…”, and a strident, absorbing version of their best number, melding the Velvet Underground’s droney, monotone sonics with a supreme soaring hook. An almost-equally dramatic “Love In A Car” building to a huge dramatic crescendo, ended the set, and the encore was capped with a brilliant, sinister and singalong “Shine On”.

No “Destroy The Heart” but great stuff nonetheless. Running into the guys, getting my set-list signed and reminiscing with Guy Chadwick about their Swindon gig back in the day was a fun punctuation on yet another entirely worthy reunion show. Welcome back, House Of Love!

877 STIFF LITTLE FINGERS, The Men They Couldn’t Hang, Ed Tudorpole, Bristol O2 Academy, Thursday 28 March 2013

The final part of my End of March Gig Rush is the traditional “Mad March To Bristol” for punk veterans Stiff Little Fingers, only with a slight difference this year; usual fellow Mad Marcher The Big Man cried off at short notice with the flu, so for this, my 8th such gig in 9 years, I’m joined instead by Debbie, Swindon’s Queen of Punk! To be fair, though, she was joining Rich and myself this year anyway, after commenting on Facebook that she’d not seen SLF before. This one was also significant due to the support; 80’s folk/ punk reprobates and recent 12 Bar “live” favourites The Men They Couldn’t Hang! Honestly, I couldn’t imagine a more appropriate SLF support than fellow Clash devotees The Men, so this promised to be a great, all-inclusive double bill.

So I picked Deb up at 6.30 for an entertaining drive down, parking up at 7.20 then losing her as soon as we walked through the door of the venue to some Bristol friends! So I popped down onto the deserted floor on my own for former Sex Pistols hanger-on turned “Crystal Maze” presenter Ed Tudorpole. “I know it’s early, they’ve got me here to warm you cunts up!” he announced during a set of thrashy acoustic tomfoolery, delivered in his distinctive yodelling vocal style. One disastrous singalong attempt for new number “I’m Not A Punk? Fuck Off You Cunt!” saw him berate Bristol, but then concede “you’re not as bad as Hull!” The wild-eyed Tudorpole then finally won the early crowd over with the pantomime punk of “Friggin' In The Riggin’” and “Who Killed Bambi?” (“I wake up at 3 o’clock in the morning thinking of that song!”) before the inevitable “Swords Of A Thousand Men” actually prompted a singalong as reward for his efforts.

Wandered down the front, bumping into old friend Steve Aldridge and his wife, for The Men They Couldn’t Hang, who sauntered on casually shortly afterwards. “You can see we haven’t got any set-lists, so shout out what you want to hear,” Swill announced, then in response to mine and Olly’s calls, burst into opener “Ghosts Of Cable Street”. There followed an hugely entertaining, sing-along, sway-along and all inclusive set of their rabble rousing folky punk collision, with their lyrical content as ever depicting class struggles through the ages, fighting for the spirit of the common man. “Rosettes” was an unexpected terrace chant highlight, before the true jewel of their performance, a stark, bitter rendition of “Green Fields Of France”, a glorious, elegiac requiem to war dead, at the conclusion of which I turned to Olly and said, “we might as well go home now, we’re not going to hear anything better than that tonight!” A rambunctious “Going Back To Coventry” followed, then the hearty singalong of “Smugglers” saw me videoing a clip for Logan, who loves that song. “Ironmasters”, fast and frenetic and always one of my favourite numbers to dance to, ended a set which, while thin on sound (the PA set up for SLF’s guitar anthems rather than TMTCH’s mandolins) was never short on passion, and was reciprocated by the crowd. Great stuff – and yes, they did have a set-list, which co-vocalist Stefan Cush handed to me at the end!

Top that, SLF! The boys kept us waiting awhile but eventually took the stage at the conclusion of their “Go For It!” entrance music, the best in rock’n’roll, period. This tour was entitled “Up A Gear”, and initially totally lived up to its’ billing; the opening salvo of “At The Edge”, “Wasted Life” and “Roots” was delivered in a hurry, not a pause for breath, thrilling and tremendous prime slices of vintage punk rock each, with the beefy Jake Burns and rock-star skinny Ali McMordie (who bore an excellent t-shirt saying, “McMordie – putting the Fast in Belfast”) to the fore. Surely they couldn’t keep this pace up! Inevitably, they couldn’t. A clutch of new and less familiar numbers slowed the frantic pace somewhat, although newie “Trail Of Tears”, a comparison of immigration laws in the US with Nazi Germany, featured some Thin Lizzy-like snaking riffery. “Strummerville” threatened to bring the tempo back, but it was actually “Doesn’t Make It Alright” which really lifted the performance into life again, Jake relaying a story of how he was invited to hang out with the Specials just before coming over (“but we’ll bring the Specials to you!”). This was an all-inclusive singalong from the frenzied mosh, the reggae beat suddenly bursting into life for the amphetamine fast punk rock ending.

Then they were back “on it”. “Fly The Flag” was as venomous as ever, a rabid “Straw Dogs” an unexpected treat, before a ragged, jagged “Suspect Device” ended the set strongly. Back for the encore, Jake announced they were going to do a number by a band they admired, which turned out to be an excellent, faithful rendition of The Ruts classic “Staring At The Rude Boys”. A manic “Tin Soldiers” rounded off the encore, before they were brought back on for fulsome compliments from Jake for Bristol (“you’ve been a brilliant audience – as ever”, which kind of explains why they – and we –keep coming back) and an inevitable, superb “Alternative Ulster”, to end a set which started like a firecracker, sagged a little in the middle for me, but then roared back at the end with a vengeance.

A quick chat with TMTCH vocalist Swill at the merch stand before we hit the road, Deb converted and wanting to come back next year; SLF will be back, no doubt; so will I, and hopefully so will The Big Man!

876 PALMA VIOLETS, Baby Strange, Oxford O2 Academy 2, Tuesday 26 March 2013

End of March Gig Rush part 3; a jaunt down to the old Zodiac room to see the latest recipients of the NME’s dreaded “hype”; young English band Palma Violets, being touted by the “last music rag standing” as 2013’s “Next Big Thing”, despite (as usual) being a distillation of a lot of stuff that’s gone before. When I listen to Palma Violets, I hear ragged, ramshackle indie rock’n’roll, recalling harder-edged C86 bands such as the excellent Close Lobsters, mixed with a helping of primal bluesy 60’s howl harking back to early Rolling Stones and Velvet Underground, inviting comparisons to The Vaccines and Howler. Enough to make this cynical old boy curious, so, as I usually ask at this point; can they justify the hype? A spritely debut CD in “180”, full of punky, blastalong tunes and spunky youthful vigour, promises much, so let’s see how they do in front of a sold-out O2…

Similarly curious old boy Beef picked me up early, also grabbing his mates Dean and Mike, before we hit the road proper, parking up in the last Tesco car park space and hitting the venue about ¼ to 8. Despite this being a sell-out, they admirably kept the gig in the smaller but better old upstairs Zodiac room, and I think us 4 old boys doubled the aggregate age when we walked in! Support Baby Strange, a power trio from Glasgow and not to be confused with Boston’s Baby Strange, were on at 8, blasting through some spritely yet formulaic, heavily late 70’s influenced, spunky punk/ new wave nonsense, heavy on guitars and recalling punk one-hit wonders The Drones and the Last Words! An almost Radiohead-like, slower and moodier number was thrown in amongst all the thrash, and they were invaded onstage for their final thrashy number by some red-shirted moshing nutter, whom, it turned out, was Palma Violets’ bassist/ vocalist Alex “Chilli” Jesson! A young moshpit accompanied their set throughout, the vocalist announcing at the last number; “this is your last chance to get warmed up before Palma Violets fuck you all!” Prophetic words, perhaps?

The PVs were certainly out to have a go; they rushed on at 9 to the unmistakable pounding drums of The Damned’s “New Rose”, and were straight “on it”, in a riot of noise, colour, belching dry ice and hyperactive movement. By second number, the droney, Velvets-like “Rattlesnake Highway”, they were locked in, playing their ragged rock’n’roll with bags of enthusiasm and energy, and the young and increasingly large moshpit were going mental. An early, Lobsters-like “All The Garden Birds” was a highlight, main vocalist and guitarist Sam Fryer slurring his vocal lines in a similar style to The Vaccines’ Justin Young, and “Tom The Drum” nicked an obvious riff from The Rolling Stones “The Last Time” to power its’ chuntering bluesy romp along.

Like fellow pilferers The Vaccines, the Palma Violets right now sound like they’ve been rummaging through their dad’s record collections; however, where The Vaccines grabbed Buddy Holly, they’ve gone straight for the psych, punk rock and 60’s Stones/ Velvets sections, mixing it up into a ragged and ramshackle howl, with some simple but naggingly effective hooklines thrown in. “Live”, however, they’re straight out of 70’s punk; cacophonous, chaotic, all over the place, rabble-rousing and amphetamine-fuelled plain mental, and an all-inclusive experience for their rabid moshing fans. “Best Of Friends” was a bellow-along terrace chant, precipitating a huge singalong, and virtually the whole of this packed crowd responded to Chilli’s exhortations to lift their waving arms, “higher! Higher! HIGHER!!!” during the lengthy intro to the chiming, C86-like jangle-along “Last Of The Summer Wine”. Set closer, “14”, was by contrast a slower sway-along, and the encores included a crazy blast through an unfamiliar number which might have come from The Ramones’ songbook, simple and dumb, before a final singalong “Brand New Song” saw a stage invasion from the support band and assorted hangers-on to round off a startlingly fast 50 minute performance.

Caught our breath before heading off. Believe the hype? The Palma Violets are doing everything they can to live up to it, and right now they’re walking the walk, at least “live”, with breathless and memorable punk rock performances like this. Fair play to ‘em!

875 BIFFY CLYRO, City And Colour, Cardiff Motorpoint Arena, Friday 22 March 2013

Gig Rush part 2 is a trip to the top of Mount Biffymanjaro… This was how the NME referred to Biffy Clyro’s new double album “Opposites”, the career-defining release that appears to have catapulted this Scots power trio into the ranks of Festival Headliners and “Best UK Band” poll winners, a widescreen and wide-reaching album which draws in bagpipe bursts and Mexican Mariachi marching band refrains, whilst not straying too far from their blend of anthemic, arena friendly hooky power rock, atmospheric mood swings and jagged, abrasive and challenging time signature noise. Making a Foo Fighter/ Seafood collision a mainstream staple; good on ‘em!

So, the supporting tour was a must for Biffyheads Rach and (increasingly) myself. Cardiff was the nearest said tour swept by the ‘don (no Oasis gig this time, lightning doesn’t strike twice that way…), so Rach booked tix straight away, and we ultimately turned it into an overnighter, Rach dropping the kids off for a sleepover at Grandmas before picking me up from work at 5. Slow traffic in South Wales and crappy directions from Google meant we didn't get to the hotel until 7 pm; but hey, at least the snow blanketing Wales didn’t reach as far South as Cardiff! A quick turnaround at the hotel, then a, “where are we? Where are we? Seriously, where the fuck are we? Oh look, there it is...” type of journey to the Motorpoint saw us park in the cavernous St. Davids’ car park opposite, then ask a policemen for directions when said car park elevator pitched us into the middle of a shopping centre! So we got into the former CIA in time to catch the last half-song of City And Colour’s support set, which sounded countrified and pleasant enough.

This place is bloody huge! A lot bigger even than I remembered it from our last trip here (Gig 734, Arcade Fire in October 2007), this is a cavernous aircraft hanger of a venue skirted by executive balconies. Probably 8,000 in tonight for this sell-out; The Biff have joined the Big Leagues, and no mistake...

We took a spot 1/4 way back, stage left and close to a mic set up on a runway jutting out from the main stage. Just after 8.30, the lights went down, the low hum of the opening bars of opener “Different People” opened up, and vocalist Simon Neil, already bare-chested, took to the front of the stage, with the brothers Johnston and their extra tour band members visible through a huge curtain. “Different People” then exploded into life and guitar-fuelled colour, and the curtain drew up to reveal a superb stage set; 2 huge video screens either side of a central 2-way gothic staircase leading to an elaborate twist of tree roots and trunk, resembling the underground lair of a Goblin King! After a jagged “That Golden Rule”, all seething drama and menace, “Sounds Like Balloons” provided the first communal “whoa-oh” singalong of the night, as the stage set morphed into a circulatory system, the trunk becoming a spine and the screens portraying a body’s muscular outline. Fascinating stuff, but never detracting from the real core of the performance; the music. As it should be.

This was indeed a top-notch performance, The Biff now clearly adapting better to the larger stage and arena/stadium dynamics required of them, whilst remaining true to their scuzzy rock’n’roll roots. Oldie “Justboy” underlined this; delivered with as much passion as they could possibly muster, I got the impression that they weren’t playing this for their loyal long-time fans (as most arena-level bands would, when delving into the old back catalogue), but more for themselves! A poppy “Bubbles” was an early highlight, the mountainous chorus resonating around the venue, then another oldie “A Day Of...”, featured a trademark old Biff weird drumbeat, like a backwards tape loop. “Jaggy Snake”, frantic and fast, was a none-more Seafood rampage, the Biff now at ease with the stage dimensions, with Neil and bassist James Johnston scampering along the runways either side of the stage with regularity.

An acoustic “God And Satan”, delivered by Neil from the runway close to us, a single spotlight picking him out in the otherwise inky blackness, heralded a slower-paced triad, followed by “The Thaw”, which started all touching and tender, then built to an operatic crescendo; then a bare “Machines”, the, “take the pieces and build them skyward,” hook being whispered reverentially back to Neil by the longer-time fans. “Glitter And Trauma” bought back the rock, before a huge, tremendous “The Joke’s On Us”, probably my highlight (of many) of the night, crushing and thunderous. An imperious “Many Of Horror” again saw a huge communal singalong, the subsequent “Picture A Knife Fight” was an uncharacteristic but fun cheesy 80’s hair band rock stomper recalling Boston’s Waltham, before “The Captain”’s call and response brought this tremendous set to a close.

Encores included a slow-burn “Skylight”, delivered by Neil from a makeshift podium atop the stage set staircase, before a final, huge and passionate “Mountains” brought an absolute top-drawer 2 hours of arena rock to a close. “Cardiff, thank you so so so so so so so so much,” an exhausted and gratified Simon Neil remarked as they took their thoroughly deserved bows. And the feeling was utterly mutual.

A lengthy but persistent wait got me Simon Neil’s set list – result! We then took our time leaving the venue to allow the traffic to thin out, reflecting on The Biff’s performance tonight. Despite a splendid stage set-up, they let the rock do the talking tonight. Damn straight. And boy, did it talk tonight, underlining their elevation to the top echelons of rock’n’roll. Mon The Biff!