1,222 BOB VYLAN; 1,223 THE BETHS, Cherrym, Bristol Rough Trade Records; Bristol Fleece, Wednesday 27th April 2022

 

(Yeah, I didn't get the Bob Vylan set-list, but took a pic of it anyway...)

Two gigs on the same night in Bristol? Am I turning into Big Jeff, or what…?!

 Very strange bedfellows as well, these two hosts; I’d booked to see spritely pop combo The Beths waaay back in 2020 for this gig’s initial date of Autumn of that year, as part of a UK tour promoting their splendid hook-laden sophomore CD “Jump Rope Gazers”, only for their native New Zealand’s “closed borders” approach to Covid to cause multiple postponements, the date finally settling on 3^rd April 2022 (and also being moved to the Exchange from the initial SWX venue, the tickets for this sold-out gig being split between matinee and evening shows). In the meantime, Logan and I had been blown away by Bob Vylan on their Biffy Clyro support slot last November (gig. 1,197); whilst veering towards in-your-face rap, which isn’t usually to my tastes, I nonetheless liked the underpinning punk rhythms and sensibilities, and saw in vocalist Bobby a passionate young spokesman, a Don Letts or Benjamin Zephaniah for these still sadly divisive times. So it was an easy decision to snap up a couple of tix for an early evening Bob in-store and signing sesh at Bristol’s Rough Trade Records, an increasingly familiar and usually thoroughly enjoyable scenario for us both. Typical of our luck then, that The Beths’ gig was postponed once again, this time due to band illness, and rearranged to a 3^rd venue, this time The Fleece, but for the same date as Bob’s in-store! Bollocks! Frantic e-mails to the Beths promoter ensued, to try to score a single ticket for this long-sold out show, an approach which finally bore fruit with some returned tickets going on sale the weekend before. Phew!

 So, we were up for a rare double-header, heading off just before 5.30 for a swift jaunt down the M4, parking the car up near The Fleece then wandering across to Rough Trade. The start time for Bob was 6.30, so we were expecting a 7 p.m. stage time; unfortunately (as we quickly gathered on arrival at a very quiet early doors store) we were some way off… As the time wore on and we frustratingly milled around the venue entrance at the back of the store, I had my red velvet shirt felt by a very camp lady called Gemma (remember the name…,), who then complimented Logan’s handsomeness! Eventually the doors opened at 7.20 and I killed time chatting to a fellow old punk down the front about, well, mainly old Anarchist punk band Crass!

 

The two-piece Bob Vylan (imposing, heavy dreadlocked vocalist Bobby and comparatively diminutive drummer Bobbie) then arrived onstage at 5 to 8, with Gemma (who’d squirmed herself down the front as well) immediately presenting Bobby with a jar of home-made chilli jam! “There’s a lot to process here,” offered a somewhat taken aback Bobby, also coming to terms with the manic reception from a jam (sorry) packed room; but after an instrumental opener (“for meditation and light stretching”) and a debate with the crowd about how to handle this evening’s show (either take it easy as it’s an in-store, or just treat it as any other gig, Bobby ultimately deciding to, “just play the shit”), he freed the dreads and launched headlong into it…

 Make no mistake about it, when these 2 hit a stage, it stays well and truly fucking hit! Second number in, the ranting hardcore of “Big Man”, the Big Man was in the mosh giving as good as he was getting from the punks and punters, then juxtaposing the sheer rampant energy and aggression of the music and performance with some caring, inclusive and almost light-hearted between-song banter (his Biff-used line of, “Bristol! The land of Uni students that never went home!” getting another airing amongst the constant inquiries of, “y’all alright out there?” and fulsome thanks for supporting the band and pushing the album into the chart’s higher reaches, rubbing metaphorical shoulders with Ed Sheeran and Little Mix!). An early “Country Back” was Rage Against The Machine’s finest hour ramped up about a million notches, “He Sold” a menacing Pixies “Wave Of Mutilation”-alike, and “GDP” a savage and pummelling hardcore BBC critique. All along, Bobby’s message, perfectly articulated through his ferocious commitment, riveting stage presence, righteous anger and bilious quickfire delivery, was clear – it’s a fucked up world, the rich are getting richer, the inner city youth are either being discarded or trampled underfoot, it’s about time something was fucking well done about it. Hear bloody hear!

 

A swift, savage half hour was soon over, Bobby summing it up best with, “we played some fucking punk out there – but I rapped my ass off too!” and we made our way through the still baying mosh as Bobby praised the crowd one final time (“this is our favourite place to play – I’m not just blowing smoke up your asses! You threw that slave trader in the river [so] you’re all right!”) before kicking final number “Health” into savage, screaming life. However, by then, we were front and centre in the signing queue… Cognisant of the time and our next gig, we jumped into said signing queue early and, after a few moments to relax and collect their thoughts, the boys were out. One brief and enjoyable chat with 2 very articulate young men later (whence I also took the opportunity to present them with a signed copy of Don Letts’ excellent autobiography and chat briefly about The Don), and we were on our way to gig 2 of the night!

 We arrived at a sold-out, rammed and sweltering Fleece just as the female-fronted support Cherrym were rounding off their set with a couple of appropriately spritely indie pop numbers, including impressive closer “Take It Back”. Somehow, we still managed to squirm our way to the front, finding a small pocket of space down there, house right. Yay! In seemingly short order, the 3-piece Beths took the stage at 9.30… hold on, 3-piece? Yup, unfortunately guitarist Jonathan Pearce had fallen foul of the dreaded Covid (!), but, rather than postpone this gig for the umpteenth time, they gamely decided to soldier on, with vocalist and usual rhythm guitarist Liz Stokes taking on lead duties with the help of some intensive practice earlier in the day, and copious notes on her set-list (as can be seen!). Occasionally, this unfortunately meant that some numbers lacked depth and oomph as Liz concentrated on the lead line or riff, but these were few and relatively far between as they, in Liz’ own words, gave it a “red hot go!” A frantic opening double of “I’m Not Getting Excited” and “Great No One” were fine openers (the former featuring a great dead stop pregnant pause – I like them, me!), but an early “Not Running Away” was a brilliantly accelerating headlong downhill luge ride and the best Beths number on display tonight.

 

“It’s sad Jon’s not here but this is an opportunity for Liz to overachieve!” quipped bassist Ben Sinclair after the C86 jangle of “Happy Unhappy” and this was true, Liz was certainly doing a lot of the heavy lifting tonight, playing lead and rhythm lines on top of her pure, lilting, Madder Rose-esque vocal delivery. Then there were the birds… a display of inflatable birds behind the drumkit, all apparently native New Zealand species, which inflated and deflated randomly all night and proved a talking point for the band between numbers. A later “Uptown Girl” was quickfire and snarky, “Whatever” featured some lovely layered harmonies augmenting the “Sunday Girl” verse line and general pop fizz, and although Liz hit a couple of bum notes for the lead-in riff to “Dying To Believe”’s chorus, this shiny Popguns-like number was still the 2^nd best of their set. A delicate solo encore of “You’re A Beam Of Light” and another accelerating, tumbling “Little Death” rounded off an overall fine set of bright shiny indie pop. Shame about Jonathan’s absence, he was certainly missed in sound and presence, but The Beths gave it their promised “red hot go” well enough!

 Grabbed a list (Liz’, with all those notes!) then we rocketed home, thankfully unhindered by roadworks this time, both mulling over a couple of fine if highly contrasting sets. Strange bedfellows indeed, although for both of us the dynamism and scarily clear-eyed conviction and message of Bob Vylan won the night. But I’m glad we actually managed to go to this Beths gig after a near 18 month wait and last-minute scheduling hiccups, and overall I hope it won’t be so long before I get to see either of these acts again!

1,221 RIDE, bdrmm, Bristol Marble Factory, Sunday 24th April 2022

 

Reformed Oxford shoegaze/ pre-Britpop roustabouts Ride are on the road again… A band whom I liked very much back in the day, at least until their thrilling shoegaze sound morphed into less innovative baggy/ Britpop and unfortunate band infighting (one apocryphal story of that time seeing co-writers Andy Bell and Mark Gardener fall out so hard, that they insisted their own tunes not be put on the same side of Ride’s 3^rd album as the other bloke’s!), the times I’d seen them since their 2016 reunion (particularly that June 2018 Cure undercard appearance, gig 1,095, when their entrance music alone won them Band Of The Day!) made me actually wish I’d liked them much more back then! So when this tour – a 30^th Anniversary run-through of their stunning debut album “Nowhere” – was announced, I was all over it like a rash. Got me a ticket to Ride!

 I wasn’t the only one either –old Level 3 buddy Robynne and her slightly reluctant daughter Tia were going too, so I picked them up just before 6, anticipating some difficulty parking in this industrial estate-located venue but finding the last spot down a nearby side-road to dump the motor and join the queue. Grabbed barrier spots, house right, and chatted before openers bdrmm at 7.45. Their first 2 numbers were a bit gruesome; inarticulate guitar howls and pounding drums with not a hint of a tune, and although they settled down and played some atmospheric, gloomy and gothy post-punk noise with occasional hints of Cure-like bass and Diiv-esque monotone driving rhythm, they only had a couple of numbers (the 3^rd one, and their last, best number, which had hints of the headliners’ “Drive Blind” about it) which seemed to feature those old staples of tune, verse and chorus. Some brief flashes of promise amidst all the murk, but so far they seem more interested in coaxing “interesting” noises out of their instruments a la My Bloody Valentine (viz. the bassist kneeling to generate feedback from his monitor) than doing something so prosaic as writing songs!

 So, from the (faintly) ridiculous, to the utterly sublime… the place rapidly filled up, seeming busier than a lot of sold-out gigs I’ve been to of late, and expectation was palpable. The lights smashed to black and Ride joined us at 8.45, vocalist Mark Gardener looking somewhat taken aback by the reception as he greeted us with, “good evening Bristol! Wow! We’re gonna play “Nowhere”…” thence launching into the opening guitar squeal of “Seagull”, and we were away…

 

Without wishing to kick off with hyperbole, Ride were fucking awesome tonight, easily the best I’ve seen them since their reunion. They were “on it” from note one, celebrating the 2-year-postponed 30^th anniversary of their 1990 debut “Nowhere” which, when it arrived back in the day on the coattails of a trio of frantic, murky yet thrilling EPs, defined the “shoegaze” genre with MBV’s shimmering, reverb-heavy soundscapes aligned with the epic, stately post-punk “rockist” sound of Echo And The Bunnymen, sweeping and swooping in majestic and grandiose fashion. However, to just harp on about “soundscapes” and atmosphere does this album a disservice; simply put, it’s a collection of superb songs which have comfortably stood the test of time, and which were given full shining justice tonight. The sound was spot on; the swathes of guitar feedback were actually dialled down, allowing Andy Bell’s inverted Indian/ psychedelic guitar licks, almost Byrdsian “5^th Dimension”-like in their baroque intricacy, to really shine. And the band were clearly loving it up there, Gardener teasing the frenzied crowd for more cheers, wearing a wry smile of silent satisfaction throughout, and constantly complimenting not only the audience but the venue itself (“this place is really great, really echoey and gothy!” and “do they really make Marbles here?” being a couple of asides).

 Highlights? All of them! But particularly the elegiac march of “In A Different Place”, the languid majesty, cascading riffery and iconic drumbeat of my set highlight “Dreams Burn Down”, the gloriously sweeping “Paralysed”, the mesmeric, joyful and lengthy denouement to a stratospheric “Vapour Trail” and a frenzied, mosh-inducing but singalong “Taste”. The maleficent brooding menace and extended psych feedback finale to “Nowhere” rounded off as swift an hour set as I’ve seen of late, with a 6 (!) song encore featuring excellent newie “Lannoy Point”, the anthemic “OX4” (the crowd reaction prompting Gardener’s thanks for “taking this song to another level”) and the lugubrious, lengthy closer “Leave Them All Behind” taking us up to 10.30 and the finale of a stunning set, Gardener commenting, “let’s do this again… but not in 30 years!”

 A relatively easy set list, but a horrendous drive home thanks to a motorway closure, a subsided diversion and getting stuck behind a lorry, so home at midnight. Bah! But worth it for Ride on this form. Superb gig!

1,220 PSYCHEDELIC FURS, Pauline Murray and the Invisible Girls, Wasted Youth, Bristol O2 Academy, Wednesday 13th April 2022

 

The 9^th time of asking for one of my enduring 80’s faves, Bowie-influenced post-punk art rockers turned leather-clad 80’s FM anthemic fist-punchers – and thankfully back again! – The Psychedelic Furs! This one’s also slightly different from recent encounters (2005, 2012 and 2017), inasmuch as there’s “new” material to promote – 2020’s “Made Of Rain”, a first new album for 29 years! Showing the current swathes of dark, brooding post-punk groups how to do it, this was a bleak and morose yet cohesive and triumphant return, a blend of hooky melody and underpinning sinister, almost pseudo-Goth (before Goth was even a thing!) malevolence that was the Furs’ trademark circa their first 2 albums, particularly the angular, off-kilter sophomore effort “Talk Talk Talk” which is often considered their finest work (I prefer the subsequent, slightly more polished “Forever Now”, me, but I’m perverse like that…). Growing old disgracefully, perhaps, so I duly snapped up tix for the accompanying tour, which was then shunted back at least a couple of times due to that damn Covid bug…

 Nonetheless the date finally arrived, so I collected old buddy Doug – a regular companion for Furs gigs going back to July 1984, gig 15! – for the drive down. Hit the quiet venue (somewhat poorly attended, this one, the balcony remaining closed all night) as openers Wasted Youth took the stage at 7.30; a very dapper gent in hat and cane, who looked as if he’d walked out of a 60’s London kitchen sink drama, led a couple of Johnny Thunders lookalikes and a couple of younger blokes through some standard 70’s pub-rock/ early new wavey fayre. Apparently a post-punk/ early Goth band back in the day, I really didn’t hear any of that in their somewhat tired sounding sludge. “Jealousy”, their more pastoral first single and the Cramps/Ramones-like NYC rock sleaze of closer “Do The Caveman” were the only ones to rise above the murk, but they went down well with the early comers, so what the hell do I know, eh? Anyway, half an hour later we were wishing they were back… main support Pauline Murray, former punk icon with Penetration and tonight fronting up her supposed “post-punk” act the Invisible Girls, was sadly terrible! I’d expected some challenging upbeat post-punk, but tonight’s fayre was very bland and dated sounding 80’s pop, as if they’d been rummaging through latter-day Altered Images’ dustbins, a mid-set “Shadow In My Mind”(their best number and one which briefly threatened to kickstart the set) notwithstanding. Also Pauline, bedecked in houndstooth trousersuit, sounded seriously out of breath between numbers from the outset, and the voice, dismissive yet soaring back in the day, deteriorated badly throughout, so much that later numbers were a trial of endurance for our ears. When a number was dedicated, “to all the keen gardeners out there…” I really felt as if I was on a Saga cruise or something! So disappointing, as I really wanted to like her/them, but maybe it’s time to pack it in and head off to the garden centre, dear…

 Still, thankfully tonight’s headliners weren’t showing their age in quite as pronounced a manner… Keeping us waiting over the scheduled 9.30, the Furs took the stage, gentleman ruffian Richard Butler last on, sunglasses in situ throughout, rasping into opener “High Wire Days” with that distinctive drainpipe sneer, fighting for attention with Mars Williams’ blaring clarinet. An early “You’ll Be Mine” first of the new material on display tonight, was a clattering regimental march, but it was the galloping and tough-sounding “Mr. Jones”, next up, that really kickstarted this set. Now we’re talking!

 Thereafter once again Psychedelic Furs delivered another superb performance, led by Williams’ strident virtuoso sax, imposing monolith Tim Butler’s rock-solid bass base, and his brother’s gesticulating, expansive stage presence and whisky-soaked, world weary vocals. Newie “Wrong Train” (which had actually appeared in their set as long ago as June 2005’s gig 667!) was dark, brooding and quite magnificent, the plangent “Ghost In You” then switched the mood to bright melancholy, and “The Boy Who Invented Rock’n’Roll” discordant and off kilter, the “Made Of Rain” material easily standing tall with those 80’s Furs classics. “Pretty In Pink” was again thrown casually in mid-set (it’s just another number, right?), with “President Gas” superbly widescreen yet horrifyingly prescient for today’s fucked up times. “This Will Never Be like Love” was a stretched, morose yet stately slow-burn, but the subsequent soaring hook of a stunning “Heaven” saw me squirming my way forward from my house right spot, holding my arms aloft to Tim Butler’s approval. All too soon the massive chiming hook of “Heartbreak Beat” drew a stunningly swift set to a close, the band returning in short order for a virtuoso sax-powered “Sister Europe” and the careering “India”, by which time I was rocking out down the front and mouthing the lyrics to the equally frenzied dancing lady next to me.

 A heartfelt, “thank you!” from Richard (taciturn throughout, only ever thanking the crowd occasionally but not introducing a single number – no need, I guess!) and that was that. No list again, a friendly roadie apologising to me for being “not permitted” to hand them out. Hmmm… Still, another fine night out in the fine company of my old friend Doug and equally old friends The Psychedelic Furs. Definitely growing old disgracefully!

1,219 THE WAR ON DRUGS, Lo Moon, Birmingham Academy, Monday 11th April 2022

 

The first time in over 7 years – November 2014, gig 930, on their “Lost In The Dream” tour, in fact! – that I’ve crossed swords with Americana/alt-rock collective War On Drugs and their idiosyncratic and slightly flakey main-man Adam Granduciel… said rather splendid album was followed up in 2017 with a good-but-not-great one in “A Deeper Understanding”, accompanied by an elevation to much bigger, almost arena-sized venues, so I gave that tour cycle a miss, and subsequently approached last year’s release, “I Don’t Live Here Anymore” with a degree of caution. My mistake. A proper return to form in my eyes and one of my favourite albums of last year, this one, their trademark hazy sun-dappled melody, lyrical references to dreamy memories, recollections and regrets, and occasional krautrock metronomic workouts being given a greater degree of clarity and melancholy, making for an understated yet enticing listen. Also, some excellent, best-of-career vocals from Adam himself; as if Tom Waits and Bob Dylan could actually sing in tune! So I was well up for seeing how this would come across “live”. Shame that a longhaul up to Birmingham was the nearest gig to the ‘don, but hey ho…

 My eldest lad Evan came down to visit for a couple of days, so I picked him up from the station then abandoned him with his younger siblings (bad dad!), heading off at 5 and hoping for street parking near the venue. Clearly I underestimated the draw of this band, as all nearby streets were choc-a-bloc, so I ended up dumping the motor on the top floor of the adjacent Horsefair car park, and wandering down the grassy knoll to join the massive queue. Hooray for the O2 priority lady then, who shuffled me forward into that priority queue, bumping into erstwhile Raze*Rebuild drummer Jamie and his dad there! Got a spot house right near the front, enjoying some rock chat with a pair of fellow solo flyers, a lady from Nottingham and a bloke from Chiseldon, no less! Support, LA’s Lo Moon, squeezed onto the front of the stage at 7.40 – I’d picked up their new album beforehand so was looking forward to them, and opener “Carried Away” set the tone well with a slow burn early verse building to a sleigh bell jingle crescendo, overlaid with some high-pitched, gossamer vocals from Matt Lowell (recalling for me Dean Wareham’s work with Galaxie 500) and some fine intricate fretwork from guitarist Sam Stewart – son of Eurythmics’ Dave and Bananarama’s Siobhan Fahey, no less. The boy’s learned well… “Thanks for coming out early to watch us!” announced the gregarious Matt before my favourite number, “Expectations”, an understated verse line ceding to a soaring, pulsing and almost early U2-esque choral hook! “Raincoats” returned to the previous quiet-loud structure with a widescreen Sigur Ros atmosphere morphing into an angular jagged guitar workout, Matt then quipping “I feel like the Grateful Dead! This [tuning] is taking forever!” The “Groovy Kind Of Love” melody line of a haunting “Dream Never Dies” and the almost Simple Minds guitar flourishes of “Loveless” crowned a varied and impressive vignette from an intriguing and intelligent new band. Fine start!

 

Then suddenly our front spot got very busy… and very hot! The 7-piece War On Drugs joined us after an uncomfortable wait at 5 to 9, Adam shooing off the roadies and greeting us with a, “hello, hello, how’s everybody doing?” and the stately, windswept opener “Old Skin”. Thereafter we were treated to a superbly chosen set of their melting pot of stately, understated Americana balladry, occasional Springsteen-like heartland storytelling and undulating, keyboard powered rollercoaster rides, all played with impressive balance and clarity (a later, unplanned and rather muddied grunge workout through Neil Young’s “Like A Hurricane” notwithstanding). The potent steamhammer of “An Ocean Between The Waves” was preceded by brief details of keyboardist Robbie Bennett’s “wild night” in Birmingham (“jellybeans, 7-11s…!”), “Victim” was a tense, taut change-of-pace with Adam’s vocals veering between strident and conversational, the verse lyrics tumbling out like discarded marbles, and an early “Red Eyes” was possibly my set highlight, a careering thrill-ride with Adam shredding vigorously over an extended denouement. “Arms Like Boulders”, a new entry to the set, was for, “a 7 foot one bloke who’s going to attack us if we don’t play it!”, “Harmonia’s Dream” featured some discordant cheesegrater synth, then after a fragile, hushed and yearning “Rings Around My Father’s Eyes”, we even had a good-natured moshpit for a later, meandering and lugubrious “Under The Pressure”. Well, largely good natured, but there’s always one dickhead…

 

Said dickhead, a large and visibly over-refreshed curly haired chap propped up by his tiny girlfriend, whacked into the back of us – fine, no worries, occupational hazard, not my first rodeo etc. etc. – but I drew the line at him trying to barge past us like an entitled “5 to 3”-er into an already crowded stage front. You can fuck right off pal, where’ve you been for the last hour and a half! A word with the steward in the pit thankfully put paid to his antics, so I was back in the room for the aforementioned squall of “Like A Hurricane” and an almost curfew-busting “Occasional Rain”, Adam (who’d been fulsome in his praise for the engaged crowd throughout) quipping, “it’s £10,000 if we play one second past 11 [so] we’ll play it fast!” and even turning his digital clock around at 10.59!

 So, a splendid but hard-on-the-knees 2 hour set; grabbed a list then endured a difficult journey home… half an hour to get into and out of the car park (some bozo was holding up the only exit for ages because of some card payment problem), then the Quinton Expressway was closed causing an interminable diversion through Stourbridge, then, after ranting it down the M5, another diversion through Cirencester thanks to another road closure saw me home at a red-eyed 10 past 1! Bloody hell! Still, hopefully I’ll look back on this one and remember a couple of fine sets from a couple of superb US alt-rock bands, rather than the difficult journey or the moshpit dickhead…!

1,218 SPIZZ ENERGI, Healthy Junkies, Articulate Outburst, London Camden Underworld, Friday 8th April 2022

 

The second of a boy’s gig double-header was a trip oop The Smoke for this potentially mental one… despite discovering Spizz Energi (one of many band pseudonyms for complete punk rock fruitcake Ken “Spizz” Spiers) as a 14 year old on my 1979 Under-18 Brunel “epiphany” night, falling hard for his mutant Sci-fi punk rock classic “Where’s Captain Kirk?”, I’d seen him/ them “live” only once, back in 2013 at The Fleece (gig 891) on a barmy night out. An irregular gigger at best, Spizz, I’d nonetheless kept an eye out for any future shows, and had actually seen him out and about in London a couple of times last year (in the distance for Heaven 17 at the Roundhouse, and at the Hope And Anchor bar for a chat at The Starjets). I’d even bought a rare “Athletico Spizz 80” tshirt off him earlier this year, being sent some even rarer promo badges in the process. Chap! So when I got wind of this Friday night Underworld gig, I was well up for it, and also happy to expose my “gig buddy” son Logan (at 14, the same age as me on my Brunel “epiphany” night, and to whom I’d been playing “Where’s Captain Kirk?” since he was about 6!) to some Spizz tomfoolery!

 A teacher training day meant no school for Logan, so I took the day off work and we made a day of it, parking in our Kentish Town spot just after 2 p.m. and hitting Camden for some shopping, splendid Thai/ Chinese street food and an overall great father/son afternoon out. Hit the deserted venue about 6.30 – it’s as oddly shaped as I remember! – and wandered through to the main hall to catch some of openers, Leeds’ inappropriately named Articulate Outburst at 10 to 7. Their hefty Selwyn Froggatt soundalike vocalist led them through a passable cover of “Blitzkrieg Bop” for starters, their set then unfortunately degenerating into noisy, one-dimensional oi/street punk, sadly the kind of inarticulate howl that put me off the genre in the first place, and causing us to retreat back to our spot in the bar! Still loud from there, their “Is There Anybody Out There” featured a ramalama repetitive hook and was easily their best number, before another run-through of “Blitzkrieg Bop” bookended their set. Nice guys (as we later found out) but sadly not my cup of Upstart...

 We noted that most of the mainly leather-jacketed punker punters arriving were sporting either Spizz t-shirts or painted Spizz motifs on their leather jackets; a small but highly dedicated collective here tonight! The man himself then arrived, greeting all and sundry just before we took another wander in to check out main support Healthy Junkies. Featuring a Daisy Chainsaw-alike female vocalist, their opener “This Is Not A Suicide” set the tone for their set with some Iggy/ CBGBs sleazy and glammy proto punk, quickly followed by the bratty repetitive hook and effects-pedal led riffery (the guitarist liked his pedals, of that there was no doubt!) of “I Don’t Give A Damn.” Infinitely more palatable than the openers, but I wasn’t in the mood for bratty teen defiance played by a decidedly older band, so we once again retreated to the bar!

 

Stirred into action just before ¼ to 9 by noises emanating from the main room, we wandered back in and took a spot front row, house left, along with a half-full but dedicated and eager crowd. The band took the stage first, the rhythm guitarist sporting a cossack hat and Joker make-up and immediately getting in our faces with a manic laugh; then Spizz theatrically joined us with a flourish, sporting flashing neon rings and an electronic display belt buckle playing a lurid green “Spizz Energi” across it (then getting stuck on the “S” for most of the set. Whoops!), leading us into the call and response “that’s what I said!” hook of opener “Shallow End”. “Good evening motherfuckers!” greeted the man; “We’re in Camden… where we live!”

 A hometown gig, a room of devotees; this demanded a stellar performance, and boy, did we get one! Tonight this Spizz Energi incarnation not only sounded tight and dynamic, but visually were striking, all-action and kinetic, delivering a proper performance. And Spizz, as ever, was a total star; posing, pouting and preening like the proudest of punk rock peacocks (if that’s not too much “p” alliteration for ya!), his slightly camp “Carry On” ooh-er missus persona would have been entertaining enough, but when augmented with antics such as letting off numerous confetti cannons, discarding his flashing rings into the crowd (Logan happily snagging a couple!), pulling USA and Russia flags out of his trousers before a brilliantly tough sounding “Soldier Soldier”, and reading the mood of the room perfectly with a brandished Ukraine flag and a pointed “Ding Dong, the witch is dead” barb on this, the 9^th anniversary of thatcher’s death (and yes, no typo there… she doesn’t deserve a capital “T”) he was an utterly riveting presence. You couldn’t take your eyes off him!

The 60’s B Movie car chase of “City Of Eyes” was an early highlight, then Spizz threatened to, “scare the living daylights out of you happy campers!” with the sinister metronomic beat of “Here Come The Machines”. The verses for “No Room” were a little messy and garbled, but the hook was still irresistible and the middle 8 magnificent, Spizz then ironically quipping, “I forget what’s next,” before an angular and savage, moshpit inducing “Amnesia”. As previously mentioned, “Soldier Soldier” sounded brilliantly tough, and a rampant “Virginia Plain” was given 3 finishes as Spizz chastised the crowd for not singing the hook loudly enough! However, the highlight was to still to come, of course…

 Following the call and response of “Clocks Are Big” (“machines are heavy!”), they careered headlong into a frankly astonishing “Where’s Captain Kirk?”, the sci-fi punk classic sounding as fresh as ever, the chanted hook raising the roof. Wow. A quieter, almost ballad-like “Denmark Street” calmed things, before a couple of covers – a faithful, metronomic “The Model” and rambunctious, rabble-rousing “I Fought The Law” ended a supremely entertaining set. Utterly superb!

 

Then, just to augment a brilliant night (and thanks to a kindly steward), we barged our way backstage, meeting the bands and having our pix taken with the friendly but utterly crazy Spizz Energi guys. A wander back to the car and a difficult drive home through a sodden capital and 2 sets of M4 closures (bah!) then saw us home at a red-eyed 20 to 1. Yipe! But no matter. This was a gig – and overall, a day out – for the ages, a brilliant boy’s night out thanks to the mesmerising mutant punk rock madness of Spizz Energi!

1,217 B-SYDES, Brightr, Swindon The Tuppenny, Thursday 7th April 2022

 

We’ve had a couple of recent snippets of Sydes of late, but tonight’s it’s time for a bigger helping… B-Sydes, the nom du guerre of that excellent gentleman Benjamin Sydes, has recently cropped up on my Dance Card as the opening act on Gaz Brookfield’s “Original Trilogy” tour (gigs 1,206 and 1,208), both occasions entertaining with a short snappy set of his own idiosyncratic take on the solo acoustic format. Throwing in elements of urgent indie and angst-ridden emo into the mix (particularly when in the full band format), Ben’s music is an intriguing outlier in comparison to his more overtly folky/ punky mates and contemporaries (Gaz/Nick/Jake et al), plus he’s a splendid chap of the first water, well worthy of a trip up the hill for an extended version of his particular brand of acoustic tomfoolery on a Thursday evening!

 So, Logan and I did precisely that, as part 1 of a boys’ gig double-header; me first, driving up solo and catching up with Ben, a visiting Gaz and other friends and fans (including The Big Man!) in “The Tupp” on arrival. I also grabbed the front and centre pews, and Logan joined us, having been dropped off by mum after his swim session, just in time for opener Brightr who took the stage dead on 8.30. A hefty bearded gent resembling Manchester Orchestra’s Andy Hull, he immediately rattled through a couple of opening numbers with a decidedly fast-paced, urgent emo-ish edge, accompanied by some high-pitched yearning, almost keening vocals, immediately bringing to mind one pretty obvious comparison… admittedly I’m normally one for hearing clip clops and shouting “horse” rather than “zebra”, but I nonetheless thought I’d check my hypothesis with Mr. Hartley-Smith, the learned gentleman to my left, and he agreed; “yup, the first time I saw [Brightr] I [also] immediately thought, he’s the British Dashboard Confessional!” Okay then!

 No one-trick copyist though, this bloke; “Pavement” was a racey pacey strumalong with off-mic harmonies, about realising he was carrying his former bandmates; “Coffee” a splendid treatise on the state of this fucked-up covid world and a proper workout for his larynx; and a later, more melancholic “Mark Strong” his “coming back from the abyss” number. Much of the material, in fact, felt as if he was singing his own therapy, a point underlined by his opt-lengthy between song explanations; “I tried to write something positive but it ended up being even sadder; my songs are miserable but I’m a happy guy really!” Final number “We” (his best-known, apparently) was more of a group therapy clarion call to arms, rounding off an impressively snappy set. Shame that for the most part he was fighting against the hubbub from the back of the room…

 In short order (time enough to get the round in from the table – thanks Linda!), Ben was up, promising a set of “upbeat songs” and kicking off with my favourite number, the anthemic woah-oh hook of “Crutches”. Some wag down the front (ok, me…!) tried to replicate the Gaz tour diary “knees! Knees! Knees!” chant to general hilarity but no accompaniment; I was a little disappointed about this and casually mentioned that I’d have to beat everyone up afterwards for not joining in, my off-the-cuff remark then taking on a life of its own and becoming a running joke throughout Ben’s set, eventually escalating into an impending full-on car park donnybrook! Actually, that level of humour and sarky yet relaxed banter between performer and audience was a feature of the set throughout: promoter and soundguy Ed Dyer switched Ben’s sound off when Ben started a tongue-in-cheek “Wonderwall”; the “Stourbridge clapping guy” and the “Norwich why-aye guy” from the recent Gaz tour both got mentions; Ben commented that his gig pairing with Brightr tonight was like a “musical blind date”, quipping, “we should have more; not with Jake [Martin] though!”; and of course the ubiquitous shots were present, provided by Gaz whenever Ben hit a bum note (not too many this time!)

 

And the music wasn’t bad either! Actually, Ben was in fine fettle tonight, his soaring nasal lilt powerful and resonant, filling the cosy confines of “The Tupp” and obviating any potential concern about the hubbub drowning him out. “All At Sea” built to a potent, angst-propelled crescendo, “Safe And Sound” (described as “a musical hug” by a fan) was a delight, and “This Was My City Once” was a roof-raising singalong. “The Desperate Dance” saw Ben quipping, “have we had a lovely evening? Well, I’m about to ruin it as I’ve got a harmonica…!”, then discarding said instrument midway through in pantomime frustration. The impressively held final note of a splendidly creepy and discordant “Still In Saigon” ended the set, before Ben’s arm was twisted by Ed for an unplanned encore, Ben delivering an unexpected but excellent cover of Radiohead’s “Creep” and nailing the falsetto mid-section perfectly. Great stuff! Thanks and farewells to all and sundry, then we cleared off, thankfully avoiding any car park ruckus (!) after a splendid extra helping of Sydes!