1,124 THE SKIDS, Borrowed Time, Gloucester Guildhall Arts Centre, Saturday 23 February 2019

The Skids 40^th Anniversary “live” odyssey continues, but also shows signs of winding down… Having seemingly been “on the road” ever since their June 2017 sole-intended 40^th Anniversary London Roundhouse date turned into a tour, and then another tour, then another (!), my early teenhood anthemic punk rock faves announced a further clutch of gigs to welcome in 2019, albeit with the accompanying warning that these may be the last electric band dates for the foreseeable future. So, following the cancellation of their January Swindon MECA gig, I thought I’d better grab “One Last Chance” to high-kick, Jobbo style, until my knees cried “enough”, and sing these cherished choruses loudly and lustily. Gloucester Guildhall was the closest, so I relished the chance to bounce to The Skids on one of the springiest dancefloors I’d ever been on!

Strapped my knees up (still sore after Thursday’s Brand New Friend gig!) and hit the road at 7.15, with some road closures in Gloucester throwing some diversions into my planned route, nonetheless not keeping me from my usual Gloucester car park (free after 6. Yay!). Noise was already emanating from the upstairs hall as I entered; I’d got the timings all wrong, with doors at 7 not 8, and support Borrowed Time already halfway done. I chatted to friendly merch guy Gordon, set up by the hall doors, discovering from him that the Swindon cancellation wasn’t at The Skids’ request, they were just told about it. Hmmm… Popped in for the last couple of Borrowed Time’s set, a couple of buzzsaw formulaic leather and studs numbers to round off what seemed a crowd-pleasing set from this gang of local punks. Not my cup of Pasti-Chron-Partizan Discharge though…

Had a chat with some fellow punters, before getting a tap on my shoulder just before The Skids were due on… “are you David Rose?” I sure am, I replied, as I happily – and finally! – met up with Simon, a Gloucester native who for a few years had been commenting on my blog under the (surely Aardvark-inspired!) name of Cerebus 660. Great to meet him at last! We were front and centre for The Skids’ entry onstage at 9, as usual to the backwards loop of “Peaceful Times” and a roar from the full and enthusiastic crowd. Gloucester were representing in style, no messing… The low rumble of “Animation” segued in perfectly to open proceedings,  moshpit breaking out, forcing me and my dodgy knees back to its’ periphery. Vocalist Richard Jobson, as ever, was in fine, voluble fettle, remarking, “Gloucester! It’s been 38 years! You’ve aged well… I can see more hair, so you’re either younger or you’re all wearing wigs!”, then, after another preamble about The Forest Of Dean (“my brother moved there 35 years ago and I’ve not heard from him since!”), he introduced the staccato riffery of “Charade” with, “let’s raise the roof! Really.. we want to nick the lead, as we’re thieving Scots!”

Once again this was a superb rock performance by a practised and finely-honed band in absolute top form, and loving every moment. The perma-grin across the shadow-boxing, wise-cracking Jobbo’s face, the solid base of bassist Bill Simpson and drummer Mike Baillie, and the deft, synchronised interplay of the excellent duelling guitar duo of Bruce Watson and son Jamie. What a band. In the last 2 years “live”, they’ve had few peers and no superiors. “Yankee Dollar”, more so pointedly relevant now than ever, “Woman In Winter” both mournful and triumphant at the same time, “Circus Games” racy and rambunctious, and the classic “Into The Valley”, causing the old dancefloor to take on trampoline proportions as the mosh bounced along. “Out Of Town” closed out a set which seemed barely minutes long, but the encores were utterly magnificent; “Albert Tatlock” (which saw Jobbo wave a laminated pic of the man, handed up from the crowd!), a rampant run-through “Pretty Vacant” then “What Do I Get” in homage to Pete Shelley, a brilliantly snaking, sinister and creepy “Scared To Dance” to mark the 40^th Anniversary of their debut album’s release (today!), then an unexpected and reverential reading of Bowie’s “Heroes” (“something we’ve never done before!” quoth Jobbo), before a rampaging “Of One Skin” reprise took us right up to the curfew, and a huge ovation to close the night.

Waited outside awhile, catching my breath and reflecting on the gig before a swift drive back topped with a Penhill layby kebab (!) for a (very) late supper. As I’d remarked to Gordon on the way out, if this is The Skids winding down “live” shows, they’re going out on fire. And honestly, it’s been one of the greatest pleasures of my gigging days to accompany them on this odyssey. Songs I’ve cherished for 40 years, songs which until 2 years ago I never thought I’d hear “live”. And for that, boys, you have my sincere and heartfelt thanks.

1,123 SEAN MCGOWAN, BRAND NEW FRIEND, Nerve Endings, Swindon Level 3, Thursday 21 February 2019

It’s supposed to be the other way around, this; go see a great headliner and be won over by the support act… but then, I am, I guess, me…! I’d picked up on Northern Ireland’s Brand New Friend last year, one of an impressive clutch of new young 2018 bands I’d discovered thanks to the pages of the excellent “Louder Than War” magazine, along with the likes of Basement Revolver, Liines and Teenage Wrist. Their debut, “Seatbelts For Aeroplanes” made an immediate impression, bursting out of the blocks with some effervescent, upbeat indie-powerpop in a similar vein to Happy Accidents, Martha et al, but with some big beefy choral hooklines, and in “Why Are You So Tired”, a bona fide, first ballot, nailed-on dead cert for my “Best of 2018” CD. Been keeping an eye out for any “live” BNF gigs since then, just never dreamed they’d actually come to my hometown and play my 80’s-90’s “spiritual home”, Level 3! The fact they were support was of no consequence, I booked tix pretty much immediately… headliner and Extra Mile Records labelmate Sean McGowan was a largely unfamiliar name to me; I’d caught part of a set supporting Gaz Brookfield once but didn’t recall much from it. So, here for the support, open mind on the headline act…

Hit the venue about 8.15, after an early evening watching my daughter’s Street Dance class, to find it deserted… apparently the previous night’s soundman had pissed off with the keys, so things were late getting started! By 8.30, only a small smattering of folk were in situ for openers Nerve Endings. Only their 5^th gig, this, they ploughed a furrow between driving riff-heavy grungy rock and more QOTSA-like slow, sludgy stoner blues, in both cases proficiently but oddly politely and understated. The beefy vocalist was an entertaining sort, though, and a lower-key set closer “Chin Up” showed more promise, so you never know… By now I’d been joined by Rich Carter and his mates, and a few more punters had trickled in for Brand New Friend, on just after 9. And after a spritely if unfamiliar opener, “Karma”, there was an immediate example of what top chaps they are; I’d expressed disappointment before the set to vocalist Taylor Johnson, tuning up, that “Why Are You So Tired” seemed absent from the set-list, and second number in, he announced, “we weren’t going to play this one, but this is for that guy down there [on the dancefloor]”, immediately bursting into an ebullient rendition of my favourite BNF track, the keyboard-led speeded-up Senseless Things’ “Too Much Kissing” underpinning riff ceding to its’ soaring chorus. Tremendous stuff, and they had me after that, as I threw myself into as many shapes as my knackered knees would allow. “I Was An Astronaut” was preceded by a sincere reference from Taylor to the “shit time” Swindon is currently experiencing, and praising tonight’s attendance with, “this is a victory for music!”, and “Girl” was tongue-in-cheek dedicated to Joni Mitchell (“who’s here tonight on the balcony!” Yeah, right…), this knockabout track proving particularly excellent “live”, the dual call-and-response vocals of Taylor and keyboardist sister Lauren a feature. All too soon, newie “Carparks” ended a set replete with fresh, buoyant indiepop with towering hooks and melody. That was the real victory for music, right there!

Grabbed a list and some compliments from a breathless Taylor, before taking more of a watching brief for Sean McGowan’s set. And, as hoped, it didn’t taking him too long to win me over; with quite the broadest Cockney accent since Danny Dyer, which understandably bled (no, make that haemorrhaged…) into his singing voice, the rock was firmly and splendidly in Turner/Bragg tubthumping protest folk/punk territory, hooky, barbed and pointedly acid-tongued, holding up a mirror to the fucked-up world we currently find ourselves in, and the often lengthy but entertaining banter veered between achingly sincere (viz. his lengthy tributes to his support acts tonight) and comic (lamenting his usual bandmate who’d apparently entered a crown green bowls competition in Bolton instead of coming on tour!). A mid-set solo break (“it’s all going to get a bit emo”) to play a heartfelt tribute to his best friend and his sadly-lost mum was powerful and poignant, but my highlights came later, with an excellent “Autopilot” documenting his efforts to “wind my neck in” and reduce the booze, and a superb, euphoric and inclusive closer “No Show”, by which time the BNF guys were chanting a very Glasvegas-like, “here we fucking go!” from the balcony and waving their shirts around with glee. Leaving us with a positive and inclusive message, Sean’s set was as entertaining for us as it was evidently cathartic for him. Excellent!

Handshakes, selfies and compliments with the performers afterwards at the merch stand, before I took Rich and friends home, then home to grab some kip before my 6.15 a.m. alarm call (yikes!). So, Brand New Friend were as spunky, spritely and splendid as I’d hoped, and Sean McGowan won me over. A great double-header!

1,122 JOHN GRANT, Southampton O2 Guildhall, Friday 8 February 2019

This’ll teach me to book gig tickets in advance of listening to new albums, I thought as soon as I copped a listen to John Grant's new album "Love Is Magic". I'd latterly properly picked up on this veteran US alt-rock soloist following a track on a "Best Of 2015" magazine compilation, subsequently investigating his 3-album solo oeuvre and particularly falling hard for 2010 solo debut "Queen Of Denmark", a pristine collection of dark, lyrically honest and confessional yet lush and sweeping ballads, sung with the kind of rich, mahogany voice that could frankly stop birds in flight. The subsequent 2 had similar high moments, whilst unfortunately also increasingly indulging Grant's predilection for quirky dance-inflected electronica which seemed quite jarring against the beautifully sung, Scott Walker-esque soaring balladry. A 2016 gig (no. 973, ironically at tonight's venue!), despite walking a precarious tightrope between these 2 radically different styles, was nonetheless an enjoyable affair, hence my promptness at getting a ticket for this one. However, I then heard the new album... with a notable swing more towards the self-indulgent synthy stuff, and a considerable downturn in the quality of the material, this for me was at best patchy, at worst utterly pants. Oops.

So, it was with no small amount of trepidation that I set off for a sodden drive down the South Coast, looking forward to the old stuff and hoping that the new material made more sense "live". Like, waaaaaaaay more sense... Parked up in my usual spot and got in just after 8.15, just in time to see the roadies packing up after the opening act, which, as it was apparently a soloist from backwoodsmen Grandaddy wannabees turned hoary hippy bores Midlake, was no great loss! (And yeah, I know Grant credits Midlake with dragging him out of his post-Czars doldrums and prompting him to make music again – a point he continually made tonight – but that still doesn’t mean I have to like them, right?) Took an easy wander down the front – only about half full, this ornate old hall, tonight; maybe a lot of old school Grant fans had heard the new record before buying tix and had voted with their feet, I thought, cynically… still, open mind, open mind…

The lights dimmed at 8.45 and the band entered, (once again featuring punk legend Budgie on drums, this time restored to Banshee-era straw-blond hair) followed by Grant himself, bedecked in black trucker chic apart from Chicory Tip-style glitter glam make-up around his eyes, partly obscured by the farmer’s baseball cap. Giving the crowd an affable double-handed wave, he immediately seemed to set about winning us over with opener “Tempest”, his wonderfully deep, sonorous vocal towering over some early Human League-like synth backwash. Things seemed very promising then, right up to an early “Jesus Hates Faggots”, (“an old traditional folk song from my country,” quipped Grant), his stately, commanding voice conveying the caustic lyrics perfectly. However, thereafter was when the synths kicked in…

“Smug Cunt” saw Grant stomping around the stage in time to the plodding synth riff, but at this point the monotonous dirge-like sheet metal keyboard riffery started smothering Grant’s own vocals, and after a few numbers like that (including newie “Metamorphosis”, which was just plain awful and headache-inducing, Grant delivering a sneering and unpleasant vocal performance too), I was seriously considering going home… “TC and Honeybear” was however beautifully rendered, touching and tender, throwing a welcome “thank fuck for that!” moment into the proceedings, and newie “Touch And Go” was better too, with the synths embellishing rather than overwhelming the nuances of the song. However, the throwaway disco stomp of “He’s Got His Mother’s Hips” then funnelled us back to the synth-dominated material, so I high-tailed it to the loo to give my ears a break, thereafter watching the rest of proceedings from the back.

 
The man however saved the best for last, as I knew he would (thank fuck for “setlist.fm”, otherwise without prior knowledge I might well have gone home midway through!). Set closer “Queen Of Denmark” was utterly majestic, the plaintive, piano-led Nilsson-like verse contrasting with the thrilling white noise of the crashing hook (that’s how to blend these two styles, right there!), and all the encores were superb too, a stately “Sigourney Weaver” and “GMF” the highlights. Worth enduring the frankly painful noise just to get to these songs, I concluded as I left promptly, mixing desk list in hand, and drove home in inky blackness. I do worry, however, as this feels that Grant is no longer walking that tightrope between these two styles anymore; I fear he may well have tipped right over into the wrong territory, and that’s really not the John Grant I want to see.

1,121 FRANK TURNER AND THE SLEEPING SOULS, JIMMY EAT WORLD, Grace Petrie, Cardiff Motorpoint Arena, Saturday 2 February 2019

Now the 2019 gigging year can really get under way, thanks to this potentially corking double-header... Following Frank Turner's stellar performances last year during his sold-out Academy gigs in support of excellent - and timely - new album "Be More Kind" (gigs which promoted this honest, lyrically incisive punk-folk troubadour, in my eyes, to the ranks of the Very Special Indeed), there was no way I was passing up on more Frank. So I booked tix pretty promptly for the subsequent inevitable arena tour for myself and fellow Frank fan Matt, securing a return to the Motorpoint, scene of my first Frank gig! However, when US alt-rock emo veterans Jimmy Eat World were added as support, we were sure of some company - my dear lady wife and Jimmy uber-fan Rachel jumped in immediately, and, after putting "Bleed American" on constant rotation in the car for awhile, so did my little man Logan!

 

A huge dump of snow Thursday night and Friday threatened to put the kibosh on travelling; however I'd dug the car out and cleared the drive Friday night, and the main roads were clear, so we hatched a plan and tiptoed out of our slippery and compacted drive to drop Kasey off at grandma's for a sleepover. Hit the road at 4, therefore, an easy drive to a clear M5 Gordano Services seeing us meet Matt there for the onward journey to the 'diff. Roads clear there too - did it just snow in Swindon, or what? - so we were easily in the queue for 6.30 doors, grabbing a bit of barrier, house right, for Logan, next to Sarah, a lady who'd travelled from Paris just for this gig! In place therefore in good time for opener Grace Petrie, on at 7. She was great - a self-confessed "masculine" lesbian protest singer ("I've been doing this for 9 years, trying to make the world a better place with my songs... so I've been doing a pretty fucking terrible job so far!") with a wide, almost "Wild Ones" brief ("what are you protesting against?" "What have you got?") and an impassioned, Bragg/Guthrie style delivery, sprinkled with no little humour. So both the parlous state of current world politics and Kasabian ("who the fuck cares about Kasabian," being a lyric couplet from her touching "Ivy") fell victim to the Petrie broadside; however it wasn't all left-wing tubthumping, with the aforementioned "Ivy" a song for her young niece, and closer "Northbound" recalling Gaz' "Let The East Winds Blow" in it's subject matter. A fine start from a talent with plenty to say; I'd certainly pay to hear her say it again!

It got busy but remained friendly down the front, Logan keeping his spot comfortably for Jimmy Eat World's entrance at 7.45; good thing too as from note one they absolutely smashed it, a jagged, breathless "Pain" heralding a huge, anthemic "Futures" opening triple-salvo. Early oldie "Blister" was a seething delight, vocalist Jim Adkins remarking at its conclusion, "we've got some old school fans in! Here's another..." before a splendid if slightly understated "Lucky Denver Mint". Adkins then teased the crowd with, "the Welsh are renowned singers, right? Now's your chance..." before the towering, heart-rending ballad "Hear You Me", then a dark, growling "Cheating Gets It Faster" (thrown in unplanned, instead of "A Praise Chorus"... shame, but it was still great) led a "Bleed American" closing triad, the incredible title track preceding a buoyant, singalong "The Middle" to round off an utterly superb 45 minutes. Having seen them in other prestigious support slots (Green Day, Foo Fighters) we were expecting that; not stupid, these boys, they know what's expected in such circumstances, and delivered in spades. A brilliant support set of utter bangers, at the end of which drummer Zach Lind handed Logan a set of sticks. Nice!

The plan was then to head to the back for Frank, but the front remained remarkably hospitable, Logan was happy there, so there we stayed! Frank and the Sleeping Souls bounded onstage dead at 9, and, as if raising their game to match their exemplary support, they pretty much smashed it from note one too! "Loosen your seatbelts, let's rock'n'roll!" announced Frank as they ploughed into the frantic Irish reel of opener "Out Of Breath", the pyrotechnics spitting out plumes of fire at its conclusion. "Welcome to show 2,308! This is a punk rock show, but there are two rules; one, don't be an asshole, and two, if you know the words, sing!"

Much singing therefore then ensued, from our party down the front (including Logan, hollering along to the likes of "Photosynthesis" and "If Ever I Stray", both early and rousing singalongs) and from the packed and enthusiastic crowd in general. Frank complimented both supports, quipping about 25-year veterans Jimmy Eat World, "I like to have a spot to give a new band a chance!" "Brave Face" saw a charming animated backdrop film illustrating the lyrics in the style of the "Be More Kind" cover, as Frank teasingly berated the audience for a lukewarm singalong ("7 out of 10!"), but then curried favour with this partisan Cardiff crowd by bringing on a roadie to hold "phonetic" lyrics for him to sing "Eulogy" - in Welsh!

"I Am Disappeared" - as ever, a poignant, personal highlight - preceded a solo interlude from Frank, an almost rockabilly obscure oldie "This Town Ain't Big Enough For The One Of Me" (so obscure, Frank had to Google the lyrics beforehand!) the highlight. The rousing singalongs then kept pouring down, none more so than closer "I Still Believe", which rounded off another brilliant, inclusive Frank Turner set, appropriately shaking this 8,000-capacity arena to its foundations. Woah.

At the conclusion of 3rd encore, the ragged, fist-punching "Get Better" ("let's see what you've got left," remarked an equally ragged Frank, who as ever had given his all), we headed toward the back, watching the crunching punk rock of "Four Simple Words" plus the accompanying fireworks and confetti explosion from there, conscious of plummeting temperatures which might make the homeward journey tricky. In truth, after a quick getaway, bidding farewell to Matt at Gordano again, and a careful drive up the M4, the last 10 feet of the journey were the trickiest, seeing me stall then wheelspin getting onto the drive. D'oh! But no such slip-ups from Frank tonight; another stunning show from a true performer now totally at ease in front of such a huge crowd, and backed up ably not only by his stellar and tight band, but also 2 very fine supports. The 2019 gig year is now under way, good and proper!

1,120 DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE, The Beths, Bristol O2 Academy, Wednesday 30th January 2019

So this is the New Year (to quote tonight’s hosts)...! After a false start due to the annoying cancellation of the Skids' Swindon MECA gig, my 2019 Spring Dance Card finally gets underway. Although for a time this one, a return by cerebral and understated US alt-rock veterans Death Cab For Cutie, doing the rounds in support of their fine, plangent 2018 album "Thank You For Today", seemed in doubt due to the threat of snow. Thankfully, that never came about, it's just chuffing freezing instead!

So a chilly drive down pitched me up at the venue at 7.30, queueing up to get in then realising I can use the O2 priority lane instead! Yay! However, I then had to hike up to the balcony, then back down again, and eventually to the outside of everything, where the gents portaloos were situated, as the normal bogs were being refurbished. Bah! Still, grabbed my usual house-left spot well in time for openers, The Beths, prompt at 8. A New Zealand quartet, they immediately impressed with some sturdy and effervescent female-fronted and 80's tinged indie pop, recalling the likes of The Popguns or The Katydids, certainly getting the seal of approval from Big Jeff, bopping and singing along down the front! Some lovely overlaid harmonies backing up the pure, Mary Lorson-like inflections of petite (and slightly nervous) vocalist Elizabeth Stokes augmented their high-tempo and quickfire melodic little numbers very well indeed. Fourth number "Running Away" was a superb amphetamine rush of a song with a splendid ascending guitar outro, after which Stokes burbled excitedly about the headliners; "this band Death Cab For Cutie are great and they're playing here tonight! They've been really nice to us, they don't have to be, they could be real jerks..." A double-header finale featuring a melodic call-and-response chorus, followed by an almost garage rock thrash, rounded off a mighty impressive support slot.

Another circuitous loo trip was punctuated by a chat with FB friend and photo king Martin Thompson, lurking outside for a smoke, then I somehow regained my spot on the by-now rammed floor in time for Death Cab's arrival at 9 to the background rumble of jungle drums. Surprisingly, they positively tore through their initial clutch of numbers with unexpected power and punch, seeming determined at this early stage to deliver a right proper "rock show". This approach initially seemed odd and a little gauche, but I came to appreciate the extra dynamism it offered, as opposed to their previous attempts at rocking out, which I used to find clumsy and unsuiting to the material. And there were times that I found myself doing a double take and wondering if I'd turned up one gig early, as, with his short-sleeved black shirt, floppy fringe and general stance and demeanour, DCFC mainman Ben Gibbard looked for all the world like Jimmy Eat World vocalist Jim Adkins! Certainly he was a man in a hurry, both scurrying around onstage and ripping through the songs without seeming drawing breath.

After an almost punk rock "Long Division", oldie "Title And Registration" provided some small respite, before the hazy Summery vibe of new single "Gold Rush". "No Sunlight" was great, a couple of false endings being teased by a playful Ben. A false start then followed, Ben's keyboard temporarily malfunctioning before righting itself for a poignant, affecting and frankly beautiful "What Sarah Said", tonight’s highlight. Whilst the set thereafter may have drifted slightly for me, there were still highlights aplenty; "Black Sun" was moody and melancholy, "Doors Unlocked And Open" a fluid road trip of a song, and set closer "The Sound Of Settling" buoyant, upbeat and singalong. Before that we heard Ben's evolving manifesto for DCFC live shows; no shorts (!), no inserting the host city into the lyric of a song ("too corny"), and never introduce a song with its title ("not a problem," remarked Ben, "just something I choose not to do... so here's a song that I'm not going to tell you the name of it!"). Contrary bugger!

 

Another fun moment, when Ben took the stage solo for the encore, noticing Big Jeff sketching him down the front and dedicating an acoustic "I Will Follow You Into The Dark" to him! A shout out from Ben for the "delightful" city of Bristol before the sprawling, epic "Transatlanticism" ended the night, building to a layered and looped crescendo to top tonight’s 2 hours performance.

Out via a set-list, a merch stop for the Beths CD and brief chats with Jeff, Devizes gig buddy Alfie and Make A Wish puppet Walter's "dad"(!), before a chilly blast past Swindon as Junction 16 was shut, necessitating a trip to J15, a double-back and a post-midnight arrival home. Bah! Overall though, despite a couple of slightly drifty moments, this was a fine, unexpectedly rocking opener to gig year 2019, thanks to Death Cab For Cutie. So this is indeed The New Year!

1,119 “THE 12 BANDS OF CHRISTMAS”, Swindon Victoria, Saturday 15th December 2018

 

It seems only apt that the final punctuation stop on a crazily packed 53-Gig Year of 2018 would be this one, the crazily packed Swindon music fraternity's "Christmas Party" that is the "12 Bands Of Christmas"... also that it should fall on a crazily packed day! Saturdays often fall into the category of "trying to fit a quart into a pint pot", but with last-minute Chrimbo shopping, picking up undelivered parcels, a cinema trip with my little man ("Aquaman"; not bad but the plot was, well, crazily packed!) and tea at my dad's, this one already felt like fitting a gallon into a thimble!

No matter, I drove up the hill early to ensure parking on a busy pre-Chrimbo Saturday, then caught up with the Raze*Rebuild boys (there it is, you've just sussed out why I'm really here, haven't you!) as the place rapidly filled. Wandered down to the back room, caught up with Andy Fenton and mate Nige, then took a watching brief for openers ABSTRACTION ENGINE at 8.30. As per previous "12 Bands" events, the format was simple; 12 local acts, all doing 2 numbers, both covers and ideally outside their usual genre, in their own style. So this indie jangle lot, seemingly led by Stephen King's younger brother, led off with an appropriately jangly "Can't Take My Eyes Off You", subsequently impressing more with their take on Wham's "Freedom", which turned into a 60's inflected TFC laze-rock strumalong. Good start! BASEMENT CLUB, who'd apparently come out of retirement for tonight, followed with a couple of growly vocalised numbers, including a C Lo Green song, then CANUTE'S PLASTIC ARMY impressed with a haunting stripped-back "Life's What You Make It" which was actually quite beautiful. By their second number "That's Not my Name", vocalist Anish was threatening to flatten the front couple of rows with her strong and strident vocal tones (as her neighbour and local impresario Ed Dyer, who'd joined me by now, had promised), particularly during the segue into "Whole Lotta Love".

Things were already getting busy in the back-room venue by now, so I sought some fresh air and space outside, chatting with Ed, and Graham from Cinnamon Smith (splendidly decked out tonight in a Nefertiti headdress!), before plunging back in for GEORGE WILDING. I'd unfortunately missed this talented young man's TC&I support slot, but I was glad I caught this, as young George encapsulated the spirit of the event by turning "Let It Go" into a funereal (albeit no less singalong!) death-dirge, before a glammed-up and more upbeat Abba medley which went down a storm with the by-now packed crowd. A quick chat with the lovely Bex, a star performer here last year, before CHENEY, who was joined by the ebullient Theo Altieri, who then led a rabble-rousing singalong to "Electric Avenue", which made up for a dull "Bittersweet Symphony"... no reflection on their bleep-bloop synth-effects led version, I just think it's a crap song!

Out again for another necessary breather; by now it was sardine city back there, the concept of "personal space" having long since disappeared, with the compere continually exhorting the crowd to, "take 2 steps forward" (mate, I was down the front; if I took 2 steps forward I'd be in the dressing room, never mind on the stage!). It just felt considerably oversold, and with up to 40 or so performers across the 12 bands as well, it was simply waaaay too full.

So, I squeezed into the back on my return, to catch the MATT BRYANT EXPERIENCE, Mr. Bryant himself sporting choirboy garb and leading his band of cavalrymen through a languid "Be My Baby" and a tinny "Sit Down" during which Bryant tried to get the crowd to sit down - no room to stand comfortably, mate, never mind sit! ATARI PILOT, featuring R*R bassist Paj pulling the first of his double shift, turned "Heaven Is A Place On Earth" into a chuntering and layered REM-alike jangle-fest, although their subsequent "Let's Dance" felt too faithful to Bowie's original.

Talking about double shifts... I grabbed a tiny spot down the front as Jamie took the drum-stool for the first of his own double-header! First THE HARLERS; initially a 2-piece, sneering and growling through a grungy and gravelly "Molly's Chambers" and a snatch of "We Will Rock You", before being joined by a bassist for a tremendous sparky and spiky rant through The Subways' "Rock'n'Roll Queen". Then, the main reason for my attendance, RAZE*REBUILD, Si leading the band on with a quip of, "playing at 20 past 11? I'm as pissed as you lot!" before inviting a singalong for a genius selection of "Nothing Compares 2U", the Raze-boys of course turning this teary ballad into a full-on punk rock rollercoaster thrill-ride, a la China Drum's "Wuthering Heights" or Husker Du's "Eight Miles High". Yup, that good. Journey's cheesy rocker "Don't Stop Believin'" ("dialling the Cheese-ometer up to 11," according to Si) was big dumb stompy fun too, but for me the boys had led off with the real winner, and the single-song Highlight of the Night.

Stayed upfront for YVES, whose "No One Knows" was again too faithful to the QOTSA original for my liking, their take on "Take On Me" also being a bit of a mess, the vocalist not even knowing the words to the verses! Still, they were lapped up by the seething mass of bodies, so what the fuck do I know, eh? Still, one thing we could all agree on was that THE MARTYRIALS' bat-shit mental set was last year's "12 Bands" highlight, so no surprise that this unorthodox band of psychedelic punk ruffians were booked to headline tonight, with an extended 5 song set. Some inspired choices again from the totally wired Sammy and his charges; "Waterloo" was an action-packed and sheet-metal synth layered dirty and dirgy delight, as far removed from Abba's original as possible, "Danger High Voltage" was sneering and snarling, and whilst I could have done without the (almost predictable?) "Sweet Transvestite" and the closing, and comparatively plodding (apart from a frenzied punk rock mid-section) "I Want To Break Free", the unmistakable synth pulse opening of "Kids In America" had earlier heralded a breathless, brilliant version, almost matching "NC2U" for song of the night. As ever, Sammy was a supreme showman, preening, pouting and thrusting like a cross between "Ziggy" Bowie and "St. Julian" Cope, the ideal frontman to conclude a bizarre and brilliant set. I could, however, also have done without the couple of dicks that climbed onstage at the end... it's not all about you, you morons!

That bumped us up to a red-eyed 12.30 so I bade my farewells, heading home reflecting on the night. Way too packed; hopefully talk outside afterwards about moving it to Level 3 next year will bear fruit. A few too many "straight" covers for me too; the bands I'll remember are those that entered into the spirit of the thing, getting into a song, moving the furniture around and offering their own warped take on it. Kudos then to Canute's, Wilding, Raze and Martyrials... and overall (despite my couple of grumbles) a fine – if crazily packed – way to see out Gig Year 2018!

1,118 CHAMELEONSVOX, Siberia, Oxford Bullingdon Arms, Tuesday 11th December 2018

So Paul wasn’t just here for The Skids, after all…!

My old 80’s friend (now a Seattle expat) Paul Crowfoot had startled me with an unexpected call on the evening of last week’s Buffalo Tom gig (gig 1,115), proclaiming an imminent visit to Swindon and a (subsequently fulfilled) intention to join us for The Skids gig at Fiddlers this Sunday past (gig 1,117!). He then mentioned he’d been unsuccessful in getting tix for The Chameleons’ hometown Christmas gig, so I suggested he join us for this one, which should prove a damn sight nearer and more available, ticket-wise! So I suddenly had welcome company in my continuing quest to make up for lost time with this superb – and oft-overlooked, not only by myself – seminal goth-tinged post-punk band. After their stellar Shiiine On performance last month, I knew they were in rare form, so hopes were high for this one!

Picked Paul up early and, after an unsuccessful diversion on the way, we slowly picked our way through Oxford city centre, but amazingly found a street parking spot almost directly opposite the venue. Is this really Oxford in the run-up to Christmas?? Still, not looking a gift space in the mouth, we dumped the motor and hit this splendidly scuzzy pub back-room, taking a bar spot for opening band Siberia, on at 8. I say “band”; it was actually a 2-piece using backing tapes, and there was my real problem with this lot – not even tape loops (which I normally bristle at), but actual recordings of the drum and bass patterns for the songs in question! Sorry boys, I thought I’d booked to see “live” music, not a Blue Peter “here’s one we made earlier” cheat session. For me, the taped stuff completely undermined the credibility of the performance, even calling into question how much the “live” guitarist was contributing. Call me an anally retentive purist snob if you will (you wouldn’t be the first to do so), but lads, play “live” or don’t – none of this fucking half-measure stuff, which just felt like goth karaoke for me. A shame, as the songs themselves were dark, moody and intriguing in an early Mission style, but the format made me too annoyed to like them.

Rant over, I was then looking forward to some proper “live” stuff, from one of the top half-dozen or so bands I’ve seen in the last couple of years (Skids, Hold Steady, Nada Surf, Frank Turner, Raze*Rebuild and this lot… put ‘em onstage, and they tower over the rest by some considerable distance). Grabbed some barrier as the place filled, and we didn’t have long to wait before the monolithic figure of Mark Burgess led his Chameleons line-up onstage, avowing his intention to play the “new” album (only a mere 35 years old!) “Script Of The Bridge” (“available absolutely fucking nowhere,” as he deadpanned) in its’ entirety. So the strident, potent power of “Don’t Fall” kicked it off, Mark’s murky and mysterious bass stylings providing the bedrock for the duelling guitars of Chris Oliver and Neil Dwerryhouse to weave their plangent and intoxicating magic on top, as brilliantly as ever.... I dunno, I’ve mentioned before that had I been aware of this lot back in the 80’s, they’d likely have been serious challengers to Echo And The Bunnymen for my late-teens favourite band, and there’s something about the Bunnys in their approach – the other-worldly sounding guitars, metallic yet chimingly resonant, as if they were being beamed in from another dimension; the insouciant, almost glacial cool of Mark Burgess’ onstage presence, and the voice – less pure and soaring than Mac’s, but no less commanding, and even more so with age.

“Monkeyland” saw Dwerryhouse coaxing eerie guitar effects as the sound creepily built in, before the strident release of the hook pronounced imperiously by Burgess; “Up The Down Escalator” was as soaring and balls-out a post-punk rocker as the likes of “Back Of Love” or “Mr. Jones”; and “Pleasure And Pain” sounded more chiming and resonant than ever. But it was “A Person Isn’t Safe Here Anymore” that proved tonight’s highlight; as Burgess was about to dedicate the song to the memory of Sophie Lancaster, as ever, some wag in the audience (not me, honest!) shouted out, “Pete Shelley!” which caused the otherwise taciturn vocalist to remark, “good call!”, gush about how intrinsic Shelley was to his formative years, then tell us a story of being beaten up by a gang with pickaxe handles when leaving a Buzzcocks gig… the song itself understandably took on new meaning, a blistering and venomous rendition, exorcising some ghosts and paying tribute to others. Astonishing. Some acid comments about Theresa May (“bring back Guy Fawkes, I say…”) got the audience (even more) onside as well, before a tense, atmospheric “Paper Tigers” and elegiac conclusion “View From A Hill” to end another magnificent set.

We then got a 50^th birthday shout-out for an audience member (hey, Gavin!), before a savage encore of “In Shreds”, then “Singing Rule Britannia” saw a lyric check for “What Do I Get” thrown in with the usual lines from “White Riot”, “Transmission” and “Rebellious Jukebox”. “Nostalgia” closed out the encore, although somewhat thematically inappropriately – 35 years old these songs may be, and arguably playing the “nostalgia” circuit Burgess and his charges might be, but there’s nothing dated about ChameleonsVox or their material… if anything, with the likes of new bands such as Liines, Wolf Alice and even my favourites Desperate Journalist mining this dark, gothic post-punk sound, they sound positively contemporary!

Caught up with an equally enthusiastic Rich Craven afterwards before a quick chat and pic with the main man Burgess and his wingman Dwerryhouse, then Paul and I hit the kebab shop for eats before a late drive home. As I mentioned, pre-gig hopes were high, but ChameleonsVox even exceeded them tonight with an utterly stellar and imperious performance. Glad Paul got to see them in this form. A great night!