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Sunday morning…the sun is blazing down and yet another warm lager and apple is consumed whilst reading Viz seems like an acceptable start to the day.  It has worked the last few mornings, so why break what has been a good routine so far. By now the weariness has set in and my lack of sleep the previous night after some truly epic snoring from the tent across from me, the kareoke in the hat tent and the chuffers who will be first up against the wall, what with their incessant cries of “BUTTSCRATCHER!” Jog on, numpties.

It’s to the second stage for Canada’s 3 Inches of Blood [7] who are as hilarious and over-the-top as expected. Vocalist Cam Pipes channels Rob Halford’s ear-piercing shriek perfectly, whilst the band whips out razor-sharp lashings of concise battle metal. Notable highlights included a rousing rendition of ‘Sword Master’ and a barbaric blast through of ‘Deadly Sinners.’ Not bad for a bunch of Warhammer-obsessed fanatics.

Saxon [6] play a tight set of focussed granddad metal that does nothing for me, however the singer’s remarkable likeness to Peter Stringfellow (long, flowing white hair, the shuffled movements akin to someone’s dad, drunk at a disco) raises a smile. They play through their entire 1980’s ‘classic’ ‘Wheels of Steel’ and chuck in a few extra tracks, which I think helped contribute to the time changes/band clashes that RATT’s absence left.

Cinderella [2] are completely dire and falling asleep takes precedent over standing through the rest of their woeful set. Finally, Slash [10] makes himself known and Sunday’s Download gets a firm kick up the backside/guitar smashed around the face. Joined by Alter Bridge vocalist Myles Kennedy, Slash puts on one of the performances of the festival. The hour long set is packed full of covers, notably 4 Guns ‘N Roses songs, not to mention a version of Velvet Revolver’s ‘Slither’, expertly sang by Kennedy, who’s voice is nothing short of incredible. Take note Scott Weiland, this is how a frontman should be. The enthusiasm of Kennedy, who seems a little taken aback at times at the warm reception he receives, not to mention Slash’s dry humour and note perfect playing is how every band should be on a Sunday afternoon. ‘Night Train’ and ‘Sweet Child Of Mine’ are note perfect, (particularly the latter, which causes the biggest sing-along of the whole weekend) with Kennedy’s incredible singing voice streets ahead of the drawling stutter of Axel Rose. Lemmy joins Slash for ‘Doctor Alibi’; instantly transforming the song into a more guttural version of Motorhead. As the opening bars of ‘Paradise City’ ring out, the second biggest sing-along of the weekend kicks into gear, there’s no denying that Slash is truly exceptional – both as a musician and as an act. Could have (and perhaps should have) headlined playing nothing but G ‘N R covers. Superb.

Billy Idol [9] brings three R’s to Sunday afternoon = rock, roll and rain. It doesn’t just spit – oh no…it absolutely chucks it down. Idol is however in good spirits and doesn’t let the rain dampen his performance. He throws himself into it with feverish gusto and complete disregard for his own safety. Halfway through the set and he’s climbing over soaking people in the pit, running around the death-trap of a stage, sliding into barriers, all the while swinging his microphone like some crude slingshot. As the PA system begins to crackle and pop, vocals are momentarily lost at times, which results in several mic changes and one amusing moment where Idol is seen testing ALL the mics on stage to find them nearly all completely knackered. All the hits are played though, which is what the audience wants. Opening with a rousing version of Generation X’s ‘Ready Steady Go’ and followed up by ‘Dancing With Myself’ Idol storms the main stage. My one gripe is the lack of material from ‘Devil’s Playground’, except for the single ‘Scream’, which despite its hilariously stupid lyrics, is a massive punk rock anthem and one of the set highlights. Idol strips down to his vest and then loses it all together during some sections, reminding me somewhat of a certain peroxide vampire. His cover of ‘LA Woman’ by The Doors is changed to ‘Donnington Woman’ to rapt applause whilst the acoustic first half of ‘White Wedding’ is chilling (although this could be because I was soaked to the skin). ‘Rebel Yell’ closes what has been set slightly marred by the heavens, but on the whole a terrific slice of snotty 80s new-wave punk rock attitude. Come back next time Billy, but leave the rain yeah?

Having returned from my tent after getting absolutely drenched (seriously, the walk back seemed to take hours), missing Steel Panther was a crushing blow. Here was a band we had been chanting the lyrics of all weekend and due to an act of god and my mate being soaked to the skin returning to base was the only option. Thankfully, though, Airbourne [10] made me forget missing singing along to ‘The Shocker’ by being absolutely freakin’ awesome. The rain actually made their set seem more gritty…more alive….maybe the fear of electrical shock from the shear volume of the wet stuff. Anyhow, Airbourne rock like absolute bastards, their sleazy, AC/DC meets Motorhead rock is fantastic. Vocalist Joel O’Keeffe screaming phrases such as “ARE YOU READY TO ROCK?” and “ROCK AND ROLL IS ALIVE PEOPLE! IT BEATS IN OUR HEARS! IN YOUR HEARTS!” like he’s been possessed by the spirit of Dio after downing too much whisky. The set highlight however features O’Keeffe scaling the side of the stage to play a guitar solo. In the rain. On top of the second stage. The man is frankly insane. How he doesn’t get electrocuted/fall to his death I will never know. When the sound guys finally cut him off, the assembled crowd who’ve had their hearts won by the 4-piece begin booing, and screaming “AIRBOURNE! AIRBOURNE! AIRBOURNE!” like they have been possessed by some enraged rock ‘n roll god. As O’Keeffe makes it back on to firmer ground, the atmosphere is incredible. By an act of stupendous bravery, this man has won the hearts and support of thousands. Excellent work from him and indeed the rest of Airbourne – true entertainers.

However, “true entertainer” are two words that obviously don’t fall into Scott Weiland’s vocabulary as the newly reformed Stone Temple Pilots [2] stagger through a set that even they look bored playing. Weiland is obviously off his face on whatever illegal substances he can shove up his backside and from what I see of their fairly lacklustre performance, features the old cokehead shouting his slurred vocals into a megaphone, distorting the sound and making him and the rest of their set seem even more tedious than it already is. Good work, you utter penis.

Aerosmith [7] are a paradox. They are good, but disappointing at the same time. Whilst explosions, bright lights, Steve Tyler’s sparkly suit and his trademark “yyyooooowwwwwlll” dominate the show there’s no real soul. It feels a bit empty to be honest. The rock is there – no doubting that, but maybe the result of the incredibly inclement weather and my sobriety it doesn’t have that edge. ‘Eat The Rich’ is suitably raucous however, as is ‘Livin’ On The Edge’, but there’s very little on offer to keep me interested. Being too much of a casual Aerosmith fan, their set doesn’t really appeal which is a great shame. Notable absences from the set include ‘Pink’ and ‘Rag Doll’ much to my chagrin of the latter and to my friend’s on the former. There’s also no ‘Crazy’, but instead we have to put up with a run through of a song that helped make a movie staring Bruce Willis almost unbearable to watch – ‘I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing’ in all it’s overblown, moist-eyed, sappy-rock glory. Thank god for the encore of ‘Dream On’, a stomping blast of ‘Walk This Way’ (sadly, no Run DMC in attendance) and ‘Toys In The Attic’ to round off what has been a strange set, that was possibly not suited to my taste, but seemed well received by the assembled masses.

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With the sound of Steve Tyler’s irrepressible howl still ringing in my ears, I make it back to camp to finish off the lager and sit outside on a chair listening to speed metal, contemplating on what has been a fantastic Download Festival and one I will look forward to repeating next year.

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By Ross Macdonald

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Waking up feeling extremely groggy and after popping 2 Anadin and having my ritualistic morning breakfast of an apple and a can of Carlsberg, it was soon time to make tracks towards the main arena once again for another 9 hours of the finest hard rock and metal and my first proper full day of music at a Download Festival.
With the sun blazing down, I settled down on the grassy knoll (devoid of snipers) to watch Hellyeah’s [7] set. The combination of Mudvayne, ex-Damageplan members and some guy from Nothingface worked to create something that resembled a bunch of cowboys (from hell) playing southern metal. Nothing remotely wrong with this – it’s a solid set of the same song being thrust down your throat, but they swagger through it with a cocksure attitude. When vocalist Chad Gray introduces the band, it’s drummer Vinnie Paul who receives the biggest cheer and rightly so. They finish with a number entitled ‘Alcohaulin’ Ass’ which perfectly sums up the Hellyeah attitude and sound – a bunch of rowdy cattle rustlers who’ve listened to Clutch and Metallica’s ‘I Disappear’ far too much; a good set.

With the need for sausage and chips, not to mention an ice cream, a detour was made to the second stage to watch Rolo Tomassi [7] play. It’s pretty incredible to see the rise of this band – a bunch of kids who were at one point busting a gut on the toilet circuit and now playing to a strongly assembled crowd at one of the biggest metal festivals in the world. Eva Spence is on form as usual – switching from death growls that sound like a cat being sandpapered, to a shrill croon. Meanwhile, her brother James channels the energy and vocal technique of both Johnny Whitney and Jordan Blillie, throwing himself into the crowd whenever he doesn’t need to man the giant keyboard setup that he spends a good deal of time mashing into oblivion. In any case, their jazz-metal chaos is well received by most, some laughing at the incredibly twee nature of Eva and her in-between song-banter. Good set, sound levels so much better on the second stage than the main, which is a slight concern, especially if you’re Flyleaf [4] who seem to bear the considerable burden of having a deaf person controlling their audio output.

Whilst their white-dressed clad singer tries to make herself heard, she and the rest of the band are buried and I mean BURIED by the echoing bass booms and clanks throughout their entire set – truly fucking awful. Whilst the sound clears for Five Finger Death Punch [2] (thankfully someone unplugged Flyleaf’s bassist) they seem to be stuck in 2001. It’s as if Marty and the Doc went back 9 years, stumbled on this band and brought them back to the present day for no reason what-so-ever. What FFDP have is lowest common-denominator nu-metal. It’s ugly, chugging and embarrassing to witness – a bit like dating your mum. Why anyone would even consider this band worthy t-shirt material (the plethora of chuffers walking about sporting them was baffling) I have no idea. A bunch of Ill Nino copyists who perhaps looked at a picture of nu-metal and tried to emulate all its worst characteristics and sounds.
With much of my Download experience confined to the main and second stage, it was nice to have a change of scenery. Arriving for the last 5 minutes of Genitorturers [?] a band comprised of a police dominatrix and Nine Inch Nails b-sides, I eagerly awaited the arrival of Rock Sugar [9]. Their vocalist, Jess Harnell is every bit the entertainer – swaggering on stage to give a thumbs up, waving at the crowd dressed in a white suit, complete with cowboy hat, sunglasses and a smile that probably makes that Colgate ‘ding’. Those unfamiliar with Rock Sugar should know that they perform mash-ups of various 80s pop and rock songs. It is something that shouldn’t work – it should sound disjointed and clumsy, but in reality it’s an incredible experience. The roar from the crowd is surprisingly raucous; even the band look slightly stunned by the warm welcome (this is Rock Sugar’s first Download and first ever UK show). Harnell is the consummate professional showman – he gets the crowd warmed up with a series of chants, whoops and hollers, before kicking into their Journey/Metallica cut up, ‘Don’t Stop The Sandman.’ The sound of hundreds of metal fans singing a 80s soft rock ballad to one of the most well known metal tracks in history is an absolute joy. It’s not hard to see why Rock Sugar are so well loved; they’ve got the stage presence, the glam, the enthusiasm and cocksure attitude, not to mention this technique for constructing absurd cover-mash ups (Paula Abdul songs at Download anyone?). Harnell treats the audience to some impressions; namely Axel Rose, Paul Stanley and Ozzy Osbourne which are met with a roar of approval. They close with a fantastic rendition of ‘We Will Kickstart Your Rhapsody’; a Queen-polka mixed with Motley Crue’s ‘Kickstart My Heart’ – a sprawling set closer to end all sets and provides one of, if not the biggest sing-along of the whole weekend. An incredible performance of charismatic, heart racing rock and roll. My one gripe is the length of the set – 5 songs just is not enough; the second stage beckons for 2011…

Attention turns to the main stage again and whilst on route to get food and liquid refreshment, I unfortunately witness some of Lamb of God [3], a band that define boring, chugga metal to it’s very core. No one remotely gives a shit what the next song is called, as their dreadlocked singer bounds about the stage, inexplicably swearing his head off. The lyrics and indeed the entire performance are buried under needless screaming, death growls and a sense of growing nausea and boredom. Less of this sort of thing please.

Megadeth [7.5] put on a strong show; their sound quality varies at times, particularly Dave Mustaine’s comical voice, which is tossed about like a juggler with Parkinson’s disease. Nevertheless, their thrash metal is tight, focussed and warmly received, with tracks such as ‘Headcrusher’ and the schizophrenic ‘Sweating Bullets’ (“hello me, it’s me again!” sings Dave) being a particular highlight. After a comical lyrical change made by some friends during ‘Symphony of Destruction’ (“just like Knight Rider…”) Mustaine and Co finish with a superb version of ‘Peace Sells’ and round off what has been a riff-filled, guitar-squeal of eccentric but punishing thrash metal. The band departs with a bow, thanking Download – ever the professionals for what has been another successful set of singing about systems failing and robot overlords.

Deftones [8] plough through their set with gusto and unrelenting rage. Vocalist Chino Moreno (who looks fitter and healthier since his time climbing over school desks) is a whirlwind of a sweat-stained check shirt and facial hair, bounding about the stage with such effortless enthusiasm. Opening tracks ‘Rocket Skates’ and ‘Diamond Eyes’ from the album of the same name are bone-crushingly heavy. The down-tuned grind of stand-in bassist Sergio Vega and drummer Abe Cunningham is punishing. During their 17 song set, Chino and Co. strive to cover ground on most of their releases. There is however notable absence of any material from their self-titled effort, which is somewhat of a surprise. The mid-section is made up predominantly of their work from ‘Diamond Eyes’, whilst the closing tag-team of ‘Root’ and ‘7 Words’ from their first record ‘Adrenaline’ go down a storm. Notable highlights include a passionate, spine-tingling version of ‘Change (In The House of Flies)’ and ‘Passenger’. There’s a great cheer as ‘My Own Summer (Shove It)’ kicks into gear as thousands of Matrix fans scream themselves hoarse, whilst ‘Be Quiet And Drive (Far Away)’ is a destructive wave of crunching alt-metal. A savage, raucous set, but where’s ‘Back To School’ guys? You missed a trick there, I was all set to do my Chino impression.

Finally then…it is the moment nearly everyone has been waiting for. Well, except if you’re a Jared Leto fan. Rage Against The Machine [10] arrive 30 minutes late (I’m guessing Zack de la Rocha was having a roast dinner perhaps?) kicking into ‘Testify.’ It’s as though someone has electrified the entire field – the amount of bouncing, small circle pit outbreaks and unhinged jubilation is staggering. This is followed by ‘Bombtrack’ and 2 attempts at ‘People of the Sun’ (the first one aborted due to someone getting crushed at the front; no doubt a waif-thin 14 year old). After this, it’s essentially a greatest hits run through – all the classics, from ‘Know Your Enemy’, complete with the rabble-rousing chant “ALL OF WHICH ARE AMERICAN DREAMS!”, to ‘Bulls On Parade’ and a surprise airing of ‘Township Rebellion.’ The cover of the Clash’s ‘White Riot’ is an unusual addition, which at first could be a tad dubious, but Rage pull it off with flair and a respectably snotty attitude, with Zack de la Rocha’s vocals suiting the ramshackle nature of the tune. Much like Chino Moreno before hand; de la Rocha is a whirlwind of endless enthusiasm; bounding around the stage like he’s trying to escape an angry lion, whilst guitarist Tom Morello pogo’s around with the energy of a thousand punk rock guitarists compacted into one man. His playing is an aboluslte joy to watch; if he’s not tapping various parts of his guitar in order to get the right sound he’s flaling it about his body, mashing the wammy bar, waving it at the speakers,  forming sounds using just the lead bashed against the palm of his hand, whilst shredding that brilliant, guttural booming sound.

The one-two punch of ‘Guerrilla Radio’ (Tony Hawk’s 2 fans rejoice!) and ‘Sleep Now In The Fire’ are suitably epic, whilst the rap-funk-rock of ‘Wake Up’ and the line “FIST IN THE AIR IN THE LAND OF HYPOCRISY!” is met with the desired raised fist and defiant chant. After the obligatory fake encore, the Rage boys return to run through ‘Freedom’ and finish with a song that was Christmas number 1 or something. The close is spectacular; de la Rocha didn’t even need to show up to be honest, as the backing vocals of the thousands of people singing themselves hoarse, air punching for all their worth, eclipse everything. For a song that was recorded and released 20 years back, ‘Killing In The Name’ still sounds as fresh and possibly more vital than ever before. A fantastic set, by the second best band of the entire festival – Rage take no prisoners and dare I say, pull possibly a bigger crowd than AC/DC the night before. Would have loved to have heard ‘Renegades of Funk’ though – that would have been Jam Sucka.

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Links

Rage Against The Machine
Deftones
Megadeth
Lamb Of God
Five Finger Death Punch
Flyleaf
Hellyeah
Rolo Tomassi
Rock Sugar

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By Ross Macdonald

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After 2 days of gorging on barbecued meat, warm lager and winning several games of poker, not to mention a muddy stagger around the Village taking in the various delights that the Wednesday and Thursday of 2010’s Download Festival had to offer, it was a pleasant surprise suddenly realising “hey, we’re here to see some bands as well, excellent!” With Friday’s musical treats not starting until 3, it gave us enough time to drink as many tinnies as possible (alcohol wasn’t allowed in the arena, meaning over-priced Tuborg lager was the only drink really on offer and was also something I became so desensitized to by Sunday afternoon, it was like drinking fizzy cold water), set fire to some sausages and brave the 2 (bumped up to 3) beer-walk to the arena from orange camp. With the apparent ‘heavy showers’ being mysteriously absent and ‘partial sun’ being heavily upgraded to a ‘scorching heat’ things were looking up.

Sticking to the main stage for the Friday, Unearth [7] opened proceedings. Their metalcore assault is fired up and passionate, with crushing breakdowns and some truly fantastic drumming. The sound wavers occasionally, but vocalist Trevor Phipps bellows himself hoarse in order to be heard – a strong, punishing and suitably heavy start to the day. Unfortunately the sound quality books 20 minutes to shitty town during 36 Crazyfists [6.5] set, causing the bass to dominate everyone and everything within the radius of the main arena, drowning out vocalist Brock Lindow. His perseverance pays off and the monkey that was playing with the sound engineering is removed halfway through their set and the low-end throb is replaced by his impassioned roar and Steve Holt’s razor-sharp guitar. Singles ‘At The End of August’ and ‘Bloodwork’ are well received, as is ‘Slit Wrist Theory’; notably by the group of girls standing near me who enthusiastically scream the obviously and deliberately misheard cry of “LESBIANS! LESBIANS!” Howard Jones of Killswitch Engage (a man who seems to be a heartthrob among the metal-loving female population),  joins Lindow for ‘Elysium’; more on him in a moment.
With a quick relocation to the other side of the massive and badly placed sound stage and a top-up of ice-cold but stupidly expensive Tuborg, Killswitch Engage [10] enter the stage. The roar upon the arrival of Howard Jones for a second time is incendiary – even more so when guitarist Adam Dutkiewicz bounds into the fray; superman cape attached to his back, as well as massive sideburns and a maniacal look in his eyes. Their set is quite frankly astonishing – with the sound levels finally fixed to an audible hearing level; Jones’s powerful booming voice soars above everything, whilst the band ploughs through 45 odd minutes of some of the finest metal I’ve heard. Songs like ‘End Of The Heartache’ and ‘My Last Serenade’ are powerful juggernauts that bulldoze through the arena. Whilst Jones cuts an impressive stance as the frontman (he never stops smiling, his stage presence reminiscent of Matt Caughthran); Dutkiewicz is the star of the show.

The man doesn’t stop – he’s everywhere; roaring into microphones with his indignant guttural vocal technique, flailing his guitar like a whip, death-staring the audience, a volley of foul-mothered shouts to raise support from the ever-increasing crowd and generally acts like an escaped mental patient. Jones looks on throughout, his expression somewhere between embarrassment and pride, like he’s Dutkiewicz’s carer or supportive father. “This song goes out to all of you girlfriends’ vaginas. I wish I was headbutting them all!” roars Dutkiewicz just before ‘My Curse’ – the man can do no wrong. The biggest sing-along appears in the form of set closer ‘Holy Diver’ a song the band take in their stride and perform perfectly, especially Jones who’s vocal technique is something truly marvelous and a worthy tribute to the late Ronnie James Dio.

It’s difficult to imagine anything topping Killswitch’s set, but Them Crooked Vultures [10] come extremely close, and dare I say, equal the Massachusetts five-piece in terms of quality. Joined by additional guitarist Alain Johannes they treat the assembled throng to an incredible journey of blues-rock, intense, noisy jam sessions and mind-bending experimentation. ‘Scumbag Blues’ becomes a lengthy and possibly improvised piece of raucous jamming, whilst the heaviness of opener ‘Elephants’ stamps with a stoner-rock punk racket, courtesy of Mr Grohl’s concentrated drumming. Highlights also include Johannes performing a brilliant solo of squealing, angry blues whilst John Paul Jones (who receives a huge cheer when Homme introduces him) plays an instrument that resembles a guitar crossed with a spaceship on ‘Mind Eraser, No Chaser.’ Normally to me, lengthy guitar noodling comes across as quite snobbish and tedious, but in the case of Them Crooked Vultures it’s a demonstration in pure, raw, bare-bones talent. It’s difficult to describe the intense wave of euphoria I felt during their set and thinking back to it now, I wish that I could feel like that all the time.

Attention shifts from the main stage to the AC/DC [11] construct on the left. Decked out in Angus Young school boy caps, complete with devil horns; a runway and the feeling that something majestic is about to happen. They don’t disappoint. Opening with an explosion and the emergence of a derailed locomotive prop (with the band obviously break into ‘Rock N’ Roll Train’) the next 2 hours are more than just a band standing playing their instruments – it’s one of, if not the most incredible sets I’ve seen a band play in 10 years of gigging. Angus Young is the star of the show – for a man well into his 50s, his enthusiasm and stamina whilst performing is incredible. If he’s not doing the Chuck Berry duck walk, he’s climbing various parts of the stage, bombing it down the runway, or spinning round on the floor in some weird spasm, ala an excited Homer Simpson.
Both the Bon Scott and current Brian Johnson-era are covered extensively. Set highlights include an extended version of ‘The Jack’ which causes a lot of the girls up on their boyfriend’s shoulders to reveal their ample delights contained beneath their shirts. This then leads nicely into ‘Hells Bells’ and of course, the compulsory bell prop rung by Johnson himself. ‘Whole Lotta Rosie’ goes down an absolute storm, complete with a giant inflatable Rosie straddling the wrecked Rock N’ Roll Train. Closer before the obligatory encore is an incendiary performance of ‘Let There Be Rock’, which hammers out faster, heavier and louder than I could possibly imagine. The one-two punch of ‘Highway To Hell’ and ‘For Those About To Rock (We Salute You)’ threatens to drown out Johnson, such is the response from the crowd and the passion and vitality AC/DC create with these two tracks and indeed, the contents of the entire set. It leaves you with that tingling feeling; much like Them Crooked Vultures beforehand, AC/DC’s high-voltage rock n’ roll is an explosive, unstoppable force of power. A flawless set, comprised of a terrific selection of songs that even if you were a newbie to the Scottish/Australian 5 piece, you’d find yourself singing under your breath for the rest of the weekend. There’s no doubt in my mind that AC/DC are the best live band I have ever seen; an incredible, electrifying experience.

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Links

Download Festival
AC/DC
Them Crooked Vultures
Killswitch Engage
36 Crazyfists
Unearth

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Words: Ross Macdonald
Badly taken photo: Ross Macdonald

Band – Rammstein
Support – Combichrist
Venue – Wembley Arena
Date – 4/02/2010
Damage – would have paid double what I originally paid and then some.

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Rammstein are similar to Michael Bay – both like fire and both like explosions. Also, the louder the explosions and the fiercer the flames, the better it seems. Even standing in the middle of Wembley Arena I still felt as though someone had thrust my head towards an open hearth. I’m surprised some people weren’t holding marshmallows up in the air.

Opening and only support band Combichrist forgo the use of stringed instruments, seeing the guitar and bass as redundant and instead utilise two percussionists and a keyboard player who resembles Blanka crossed with one of the Psychos from Borderlands. In fact, this description would suit any member of Combichrist, although the vocalist has the look of an escaped convict pretending to be a computer game sprite. Combichrist build their sound around a wall of percussion, with both drummers at opposite ends of the stage, sandwiching the insane keyboard player within this vortex of blast-beats. They’re loud – like dangerously loud and incredibly cocky. The two drummers alternate between climbing over their kits (which are designed to look like some bizarre coiled tail), especially the maniac to my right, who spends most of the set wailing on only a cymbal, clinging on for dear life. Interestingly the only lyrics I can decipher underneath the hailstorm of abrasive tribal drum patterns and shrieking keyboards consist of a volley of swear words, meaning that my ears must now be finely tuned to detect profanity as of watching too much late night comedy or Combichrist just aren’t very imaginative when it comes to writing lyrics. There’s something animalistic about their performance – raw, almost Neanderthal in its primitive drive but incredibly focussed and aggressive. Plus points for the dismantling of the drumkits at the end and the left-hand drummers desire to swap sticks every 10 seconds. Like listening to a techno-metal version of Slipknot that’s been confined to tribal music and casio keyboard demos for too long. A band I would be interested to see in a headlining capacity very soon.

For the German industrial metal juggernaut that is Rammstein it’s been far too long. Rumours of them splitting have been banded around since the release of ‘Mutter‘ in 2001; but they’ve remained a unified, well oiled (ahem) machine throughout such gossip and controversies associated with their imagery and music videos and to have them back on our shores is a delight.  When it comes to stage entrances, no one quite does it like Rammstein. As the lights dim, dull silhouettes form on what is presumably a fake wall at the back of the stage. Cracks appear as the band break through the partition and make their way on stage, like something from a European re-make of Star Trek.

They open with ‘Rammlied’, the first track from their most recent album, ‘Liebe Ist Fur Alle Da’ a track which shares similarities with ‘Rammstein’ from the band’s debut album, ‘Herzeleid’, i.e. chanting the band’s name in a thick German brogue. This is greeted with rapturous gusto from the assembled crowd. With Rammstein you get more than just a band standing their playing their instruments – it becomes more than a just a standard gig – it’s an extravagant show where 6 musicians attempt to get away with as much mayhem as possible. The drums don’t seem loud enough? Not to worry, every time there’s a particularly heavy beat needed we’ll set off some fireworks or emit a thundering loud bang, complete with a shower of sparks. Some people in the crowd look a little cold, huddling together for warmth? Not to worry, let’s start spraying fire about the place with our hand-mounted flame throwers! – And so on. Every song is accompanied by an explosive blast or a burst of flame, which some cynics might feel seems kind of a gimmick, but in reality it adds to the experience and the music rather than detracting from it. During ‘Benzin’ a stuntman is set alight by Till and spends the remainder of the song dashing about in blazing inferno much to the amusement of the German frontman. Despite ‘Liebe Is Fur Alle Da’ only being released less than 4 months ago, the 9 tracks they play from it (this is after all, that album’s tour) are just as warmly received as older favourites and sung back at Till with passionate urgency. They’re scattered throughout the set, giving old fans a chance to hear their favourites, such as the regimented march of ‘Links 2-3-4’ the bottoming-out riff-a-thon of ‘Keine Lust’ and conflagration anthem, ‘Feuer Frei!’, which is a blazing inferno of pyrotechnics and blasts of industrial noise-metal. Diminutive keyboardist Flake undergoes a costume change halfway through, and emerges dressed in a skin-tight glittering catsuit and proceeds to spend the rest of their set playing his instrument, whilst walking on a treadmill like some camp-80’s spaceman.

The familiar rapid fire keyboard tapping that begins ‘Du Hast’ is like a call to arms. Fists are raised in a determined salute for what is the band’s signature song and vocalist Till is only too happy to oblige in letting the baiting crowd sing the words back to him. The indoor fireworks and explosion that zooms into the middle of the crowd (on a wire) is a nice touch, as is Flake’s journey into the middle of the arena via a rubber dingy (take note; proper crowd surfing). Of course, it wouldn’t be Rammstein without some giant phallus, and the liberal spraying of the front rows using a giant penis cannon brings the second biggest cheer of the evening. ‘Pussy‘ is yet another pleaser; it’s Jimmy-Pop-aping lyrics that cover the subject of intercourse in a mixture of German and English have the entire Arena screaming “YOU’VE GOT A PUSSY! I HAVE A DICK! SO WHAT’S THE PROBLEM? LET’S DO IT QUICK!” – On a side note, this is an excellent chat up line reserved only for those so desperate for sex with anything female who have just attended a Rammstein show. Of course, by excellent I mean ‘terrible’ and you’re more likely to get a new-rock (do metal girls still wear these?) in the bollocks than your bratwurst in some sauerkraut.  Not that I have tried. Ahem.

After a ticket-tape shower, (decked out in the red black and yellow colours of the German flag) and two fake encores later (‘Sonne’ finally makes an appearance, as does the chant-a-thon stomp that is ‘Ich Will’) Rammstein end their set with ‘Engel’. Vocalist Till descends beneath the stage to emerge clad in gigantic metal wings that of course, emit flaming jets from the tips, whilst fire leaps from the stage either side of him over the hail of whistling keyboards and precision tight drumming. As the final keyboard hum drones out, the 6 (and now topless) men of the greatest German metal band in the world bow and give humble thanks and depart – truly a majestic and glorious evening for music from one of, if not, the most impressive live acts on the planet. Next time I’ll bring some sausages.

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Links (TAH!)

Rammstein
Combichrist
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Words - Ross Macdonald
Picture – stolen from some metal forum

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Q: How many bar staff does it take to serve alcohol to several thirsty punters? A: a lot more than three that’s for sure. Despite the price of a bottle of beer being double what you would usually pay in poorer towns, I sometimes wonder if many bars and clubs in our capital actually want to make money. Next time – tinnies on the train and doubling up on orders when I am finally  served.

Due to time constraints and the aforementioned queues to gain liquid refreshment, I missed The Arteries and Zatopeks but caught the last few songs of Hard Skin’s set. Having a bassist who resembles the Sugar Puff monster with alopecia, songs about beer, fags, being dole scum and the kind of singing voice that only a deaf mother could love, Hard Skin are punk rock through and through. Whilst they may not necessarily (ever) be in tune, their oi-punk, “come-and-have-a-go-if-you-think-your-hard-enough” snarls and comedy banter was particularly amusing. What was particularly entertaining from my vantage point was the group of poshos wetting (not actually that would have been hideous) themselves with glee at swear-a-thon antics and the loss of the guitarist’s beer to one over-zealous punter. Props to the penultimate song of the evening; ‘We Are The Wankers’ for it’s complete lack of subtlety, but maximum comedy effect – solid band.

The Dillinger Four experience seems incredibly brief – I am unsure why, maybe that’s punk rock for you – it rockets past with such force, you can feel your teeth rattling inside your head like dice in the hands of Michael J. Fox and before you know it, you’re outside on the street, struggling to navigate your way home through automated ticket checkers and people who pore wine on their cornflakes. Bassist Paddy (who voices concern whether an Irish-American is allowed to be called Paddy) takes centre stage as the more ‘vocal’ portion of the group, content with splicing witty banter (THANKS DAVE) in-between each song. Paddy comments on how he desires to be “famous in the UK, like Fat Bob (bassist from Hard Skin) and buy borrowing the big lad’s bass, he hopes that it will give him credibility and and recognition in the UK.

This is fine for a while, but after one particular monologue, I begin to wish they’d hurry the fuck up. If you’re a D4 fan, you get all the hits: the anthemic gruff-punk barrage of ‘Mosh for Jesus’ raises one of the biggest cheers and surges from the crowd, whilst opener ‘A Jingle For The Product’ from their most recent album is sang back with such force it threatens to drown out main-vocalist Eric Funk and the rollercoaster-shred of ‘Noble Stabbings!!’ is the icing on a particularly fine cake made of beer-sweat and beards.

It’s been a while since Dillinger Four have been on our fair shores, and they seem slightly taken aback by the crowd tonight and indeed the rampant support. I can’t help but feel that they seem somewhat subdued, yet are consummate professionals; crashing through song after song with note-perfect tightness and enough depth in the sound to hear each instrument and not just the muddy hum of a guitar mashing everything else into a pulp. Paddy’s lead vocals on ‘Doublewhiskeycokenoice’ (which he dedicates to his mum, the big softy) are spot on – retaining the right amount of barbed, alcohol-soaked vitality and juvenile aggression.

There’s some commotion at the side of the stage, as one punter (obviously arseholed on the ‘no, I only ordered one drink mate, that sounds like the price of three…oh’) starts to strip down to his boxers and stealing the mic from Funk. Yeah, getting up on stage is ‘hilariously wacky fun great times’ I’m sure, but you’re not the band – people here paid to see THE BAND on stage, not some meathead plane pointer with his cock out. Thankfully, this is short-lived and the Underworld is then treated to the sight of Paddy’s hairy man-boobs – lovely stuff.

For me, the set highlights fall to 2 songs from their fourth full-length, ‘Civil War’. ‘Gainesville’ is so, so good it hurts that this song isn’t ‘Basket Case’ standards of ‘total fucking awesome song’ – it’s pure driven punk-rock excellence, a passionate, uplifting piece with hooks the size of a Tyrannosaurus Rex imbedded deep within the chorus. The slow-burn riff on ‘Clown Cars on Cinder Blocks’, followed by the sudden jerk into life, Funk’s melodic, yet rough vocal-lead and the jangled-bounce is exquisite. My only gripe is the paradox of time that seemed to drain 10 times faster than usual as it always does when you’re enjoying yourself, but this is something that earlier start times can hopefully achieve.

“It feels like summer in October, and I hope this day is never over” sings Funk on ‘Gainesville’ – trut so pure my friend, come back any time Dillinger Four, we need your sunshine and stupid humour.

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Links

Dillinger Four
Hard Skin
Fat Wreck

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By Ross Macdonald

Mad Mac was sent ahead as a scouting party on the Friday. I was at work/lazy/wanted to play Journey on Rock Band and didn’t accompany him. His task was to at least sit through at least 10 minutes of the 2 bands that were playing that night and provide a witty diatribe of the proceedings. His attempt at this task wavers between failure and success, much like an unpredictable seesaw. The results read as follows:

Convulsions

This four man group I heard strike up from a neighbouring tent. If I had listened to my first impressions, I would have moved away from them and coincidently - missed a treat. Of the four, three of the band members had seen a good many summers – the term old rockers seemed to fit. The lead vocalist who screamed down the mike; jerked and jumped about like a puppet worked by someone having a fit or a cat on a hot plate. On one occasion, he leaped over the speaker, over the barrier, and into the crowd much to the delight of all. A large crowd collected to watch this really good group. I did not know any of the numbers but a crowd of all ages was enjoying the spectacle. One rather long instrumental was extremely good and a few people started to dance.  The vocalist who played a variety of mouth organs, for some mysterious reason attempted to lift the keyboard he was playing, then though better of it. It must have been a bit heavy. They all played their instruments very well under the direction of the manic vocalist. I watched them for nearly an hour. They played number after number without a pause during that time. Whatever he was taking I would like some of it.

The League of Mentalmen

I did not have the opportunity to spend much time watching them. A massive crowd was spellbound at the antics of The League of Mentalmen. Dressed in skirts, Mohican headdresses made from many coloured belts, leggings and lots of hairy chubby flesh they looked amazing. They made me think of The Village People on speed. Their numbers, which included covers of rock songs given a manic twist, blasted out across the tent to the delight of all. Their outrageous costumes, prancing about like broken necked chickens and the thunderous music had the whole tent rocking.

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Links

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Intro – Ross
Words – Mad Mac

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BADLY WRITTEN BECAUSE I’M TIRED LIVE REVIEW

Last night I saw Down I Go, which is always a musical treat and at the risk of repeating myself about their space-shuttle-exploding performance, (I’ve blogged about them a lot) you can be rest assured that they were suitably brilliant.

Betty Pariso are an interesting selection. Some notes on their set:

1.)    Songs seem to barely make it past the minute mark.
2.)    Their singer spends most of the set with his back to the audience, except when he’s crashing into the poor unfortunate sods who have decided to stand at the front and suddenly develop ‘beer hair.’
3.)    One of the guitarists is content to flail and swing his instrument around his body like it’s some kind of extra appendage he can’t get rid of.
4.)    In places, their music can be best described as grinding drumbeats and disenchanted vocals under a scrawling fuzz of mangled noise. Hardly any of it is clear, but for the most part, it’s ungodly in all shape and form.
5.)    They sound like Some Girls, stripped of their punk attitude, only for it to be replaced with crust-heavy blast beats and a distinct low-end hum of pulsating dread.
6.)    The only words spoken save for the incomprehensible roars from their checked-shirt vocalist, are a ‘thank you’ as the last mind-crushing bars of noise fade out.
7.)    In conclusion, Betty Pariso are pretty rad, prompting 2 enthusiastic thumbs up and a request for some recorded material. More of this sort of thing please.

Half of Youves don’t look old enough to get in to see a 12A on their own, let alone be in what is essentially a pub with an ‘upstairs bit.’ As a live band, their flamboyance and showmanship is excellent – whilst not essentially camp, they ooze elaborate confidence from ever pore. The songs tonight sound as tight as their jeans on one of their guitarists, while their vocalist exhibits the unhinged nature of a man that’s been doused in itching powder and then given an electric shock. At one point he starts smacking a drum that’s been left in the middle of the floor with both hands, screaming at the top of his lungs without a microphone. What amused me most was that he appeared to be wearing slippers and a vest, giving him the impression of an indie-punk Rab C Nesbitt. Great fun, essentially channelling some elements of Freddie Mercury-meets-Les Savy Fav in places, Youves make dance-punk sound fucking incredible.

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FREE EP

This is old news, but it’s something to blog about: Johnny Foreigner have released 3 new songs for free download on their website. All you have to do is click on the link here, enter your e-mail address and you’ll be sent the link to download from!

It’s another ‘late to the party’ scenario with me and Johnny Foreigner. I suppose at the time when they were just starting to get noticed my attentions were primarily focused on another band with an even stupider moniker and the possibility of liking to bands with the slang reference for condoms on my ipod was deleted from my mind. This obviously makes me an idiot, as Johnny Foreigner are pretty awesome and if they can produce more tracks like ‘Feels Like Summer’ (easily the best track on this freebie) then their second album is going to be a indie-‘Punk In Drublic.’ (Makes no sense.) This summer-themed ditty roars past in just under 2 minutes of exquisite shouty-boy/girl pop-punk that I’ve pretty much had on repeat for the last few days. The insanely catchy “SOME SUMMERS! SOME SUMMERS!” chant at the beginning, followed by the verse-trading back and forth between guitarist Alexis and bassist Kelly is truly wonderful and could well be their undisputed anthem – absolute class.

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FREE MIX

Those looking for some good mixes to rev your car to/relax in the garden/drink until you start stripping naked (delete where appropriate), should direct their download fingers and high-speed internet connection to Nialler9 blog to download Adebisi Shank’s Medieval Summer Mixtape (with introductions by Sting!) – It’s actually pretty decent, with some nice 80s treats, bit of rap and a scenario of simplicity, a scenario of you and me.

Errr…. That’s it.

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COMING UP:

Future of the Left ‘Travels With Myself And Another’ review.
Mad Mac 6: City Under Siege
Free Pie
Free Brian
Freebird

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By Ross Macdonald

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There’s not much to say about Monocle Rose, simply because there’s not much to them in anyway. The music itself is your bog standard trashy rock that compensates for it’s lack of originality by having the bass turned up too high and washing everything else out with cymbal crashes. The vocalist Rose spends most of her time trying to imitate a drunker version of Karen O and her between song banter is confusing and unfunny. They get some plus points for 1 of their tunes having a decent rhythm, but any hope of improvement is dashed by the grating monotony of Rose’s warbling about how tough it is living in London, or being from London or something equally dull and tedious about LUNNNDDAARRRRNN. Poor.

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The second band, Tasha Fights Tigers, drastically improves proceedings by a) not sounding shit, b) having decent songs and c) using synthesiser to add quirky, yet subtle bleeps and bloops to their onslaught of slight-metallic riffage and an almost shoe-gaze wash of sound. Quite why they’re a support band is beyond me, as their poise, playing ability, on-stage repartee and the racket they create has headliner written all over it. Coming across as some spiralling barrage of spluttering alt-rock, with a frontman who’s toned his wailing larynx so it seems to channel elements of Chris Cornell.

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The Rocketeers have only one song, but thankfully that one song is bloody good. Emulating the sort of noise that even Winnebago Deal would shy away from, the trio slam out the same over-driven speed-rock again and again with eloquent precision and a ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude. A lot of the vocals are lost in the deafening barrage, but it doesn’t matter, as the flat out grooves smash all thoughts of apathy like a sledgehammer to a watermelon. Imagine listening to the batman soundtrack being played 10 times faster than the normal speed, whilst drinking heavily – that’s sort of what The Rocketeers are like live. Thank Christ for ER-20s.

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I can’t remember if I’ve seen Vanilla Nightmare before. There’s a good chance I have, but then sometimes I can’t even remember what I did last week, so the chances of me remembering a band I’d seen for about £4 back when I was in 6th form are pretty slim. Vanilla Nightmare deserves this. Their album, which they’ve obviously put a lot of heart and effort into, leaks the essence of DIY ethics, having been produced and mixed by their drummer (hey, I read inlay sheets). Whilst the sound levels return to normality during their headline slot (although chequered shirt wearing keyboardist Ben seems to have picked the short straw in ‘who gets the dodgy amp’ as his synth is barely audible in some of the more raucous sections and he’s left gripping the instrument and head-banging like some electrocuted lumberjack.

They play though with a somewhat scrappy, yet determined precision, ever thankful for those that have turned up to see them and reward the assembled masses with a brilliant mix of trashy punk. Vocalist Mark Smith has quite an unusual twang to his voice, almost sounding as if he’s sat on a load of frozen drawing pins. His tone reaches incredibly high wails, before descending into a drunken, slurred Joe Strummer impersonation that fits their music perfectly. Whilst their sound could be described as an uplifting mix of ska upstrokes and chunky riffs, the lyrics fall on the side being incredibly bitter and sardonic. Tonight, Smith and co-vocalist Hollis, spit their words in sharp, sneering gestures adding a distinctly brasher sound to tonight’s events. On songs like ‘Mr Hindsight’, Vanilla Nightmare lurch from a jaunty, unpredictable swagger, to quick-fire passages of snapping vitriol, whereas on the more ska approach of ‘I’m On It’, they bounce along quite happily in Madness-ville, before slamming home with the zest and disjointed punk of early Rancid material. Set highlights include a boisterous run through of their most famous song, ‘Money Machine‘ (as seen on MTV2), which heralds the biggest sing-a-long of the evening and also the acidic tone of the final track, (it was introduced alongside a volley of swear words),  seems to reference a failed relationship in quite an acrimonious context. As the last notes ring out and the Nightmare boys leave the stage,they should hold their heads up high for what has been a fantastic album launch party and solid performance. Bravo!

Links

Vanilla Nightmare
The Rocketeers
Tasha Fights Tigers
Monocle Rose
Club 85

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By Ross Macdonald

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Life is full of mysteries. The Bermuda Triangle, the popularity of the TV show Friends, advocaat and why The Display Team are still unsigned. It makes my teeth ache thinking that this sextet of unpredictable chaos in musical form is being overlooked for acts that are…well…beneath them. It may sound like a tired cliché, but seriously, you’ve not heard a racket like this before nor will you have seen a more entertaining and exciting performance, except perhaps another The Display Team show.

Due to train complications, i.e. nearly jumping on the wrong tube and riding around on the circle line, Keep It Fast arrives at The Good Ship as Mr Duke and the Hoodlum Circus finish.

Bugger, not a great start, which leads to a heated debate about how many bands we’ve missed already and the downing of several pints. Recently someone said to me that they’d never go back to the Good Ship until they fixed the sound. They must have been on a day where a monkey was on the mixing desk then, because the levels for Jonny Cola and the A-Grades were spot on. For one thing, I could hear the bass guitar, which is something I haven’t heard at a live gig in fucking ages. The A-Grades and their swaggering vocalist, Jonny Cola, are obvious naturals, hammering home track after track with precision, grace and a somewhat arrogant but cheeky swagger. Three highlights of the set include the drummers amazing headbanging; sampling part of Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Holding Out For A Hero’ and Jonny Cola’s abrupt and extravagant need to roll around on the floor during the band’s final song. Would definitely see again.

Nothing prepared me for the rickety rollercoaster of folk-punk nonsense and hilariously cheesy 80s casio keyboard demos of Los Salvadores, who batter their ramshackle sound through The Good Ship like Babe Ruth. Their performance succeeds in etching a permanent grin on my unshaven visage, especially the antics of their hyperactive frontman, the gang-vocals during one track that make me want to punch the air and the axe-shredding skills of their mandolin player. At times it sounds like the result of The Specials and Creedence Clearwater Revival joining forces to cover NOFX songs. Anyway, terribly predictable analogies aside, Los Salvadores are a spirited and passionate bunch, who display the type of ferocity for playing live that many bands sadly lack. Excellent work.

One thing you notice about The Display Team is the shear amount of joy this sextet have when playing live. You will also notice how incredibly tight all their arrangements are and yet they still have this unpredictable element of energy that threatens to break loose and whirlwind around the venue, tearing it apart, note by note. On record, the band are an entertaining and vicious bunch, crunching out their brass-fuelled, heavy rock with ease, but in a live environment, they take that sound and transform it into a flurry of twisted stop-start, brackish chaos. The immediate pounding rush of ‘Worry Sponge’ starts off their exceptional set; vocal harmonies all in check, trumpet and trombone both parping like a baked bean eating champion and the kind of slick, punk rock riffs that thud home like drop pods smashing into the earth.

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This relentless nature doesn’t let up for the next 35 minutes or so, as they charge headlong through tracks from ‘Drones’, their debut album with such gusto and endless adrenalin. By the time you’ve worked out who’s singing, someone else has jumped in to add their own shout/scream/line with such enthusiasm, you can’t help but smile. The music also contains an unpredictable erratic element, switching style, tone and speed in the blink of an eye. It’s the great back and forth between the drummer and lead guitarist, who share the duty of frontman, yet no one is really pushed aside in favour of someone else. There is no leader; every member plays an integral part, whether it is the manic playing of their frenzied bassist or the vigorous pogo-jumps of the brass section.

Whilst ‘Gnaw On The Iron Paw’ treads ground between Patton-style noise punk, ‘Norwegian Honey’ give nods towards Mad Caddies era-‘Rock The Plank’ with it’s swashbuckling stomp and vigorous energy. After several more harmony-filled barrages of vibrant and raucous rock, they finish all too soon with the elegant trumpet flourish and arguably the strongest track of the night in the form of ‘A Letter To Russia’ (a beautiful and tragic tale of Samantha Smith and Secretary Andropov). My only gripe is there should have been more, as The Display Team are a band I cofuld quite happily watch all night. The most entertaining live band in UK? Quite possibly. I strongly urge record label minions to seek out The Display Team and experience their passionate, whirlwind assault. An absolutely cracking start to my gig-going year.

Links

The Display Team
Los Salvadores
Jonny Cola and the A-Grades
The Good Ship

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Words – Ross Macdonald
Picture – Jason Kahl

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What Blackhole lack in originality they certainly make up for it in aggression. Their vocalist stalks the stage like a starving predator, ready to rip the head off anyone who doubts his band’s integrity, whilst barking lyrics in a strange jarring squeal, much like the eccentric screech of actor Rich Fulcher. The rest of the band plough away with their straightforward, no frills, hardcore and scuzzy gang-backing vocals, which brings to mind the work of Kevin Baker’s BARS, albeit a more scrappy one. A strong sounding support act full of promise.

“We were supposed to have some electronic-beats and stuff during some bits, but because the laptop isn’t working, you’ll just hear fuck all” says Daniel P. Carter, formerly of ‘NUFFIN! NUFFIN!’ pioneers ‘A’ and now the singer/guitarist for Hexes. When the laptop finally does work (the drummer had the sound turned down, cue much heckling) the trippy sounds, dance-orientated beats do add something to Hexes’ throaty hard-rock, but is unfortunately drowned out at times by the over-zealous guitar and drums, leaving it to resemble a cheap ringtone going off in a busy kitchen. Praise has to be directed towards the second guitarist, who pulls off some truly fantastic riffs and with Carter’s slow transition into Danny Farkin’ Dyer-isms, they prove to be an entertaining 4 piece.

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The Bronx are quite clearly punk rock through and through. If you cut Matt Caughthran in half he’d bleed Black Flag lyrics all over your shoes. Hell, Joby Ford possibly shits early Husker Du albums. The Bronx are, as the lyrics to ‘Rape Zombie‘ will attest, an “endless wrecking ball.” What it all boils down to though, is their relentless, persistent nature. There’s very little respite in their live shows, as they pound and pound white-hot blasts of scathing punk rock into the listener’s ears, mercilessly clubbing them into submission until they can’t stand/dance/fight each other anymore.

Caughthran’s demand for “the drinkers to drink, the moshers to mosh and the crowd surfers to get the fuck up on stage!” Is greeted with such gusto and enthusiastic whooping from the crowd, you’d think he’d declared tonight’s gig as ‘free money night’ and started lobbing bundles of £50 notes at everyone.

The raw, white-noise blast of punk that is first album opener, ‘Heart Attack American‘ is shunted so violently at the crowd, it causes what can only be described as an indoor, drunken tidal wave of screaming bodies.

Already the LA 5-piece have created total carnage in just over 2 and a half minutes with a song rife with undertones of disillusionment in the American workplace and possible relationship conflicts – but you know, less lame. Plus, that opening scream – fuck me; it’s like someone spitting acid-coated broken glass in your face.

Like Dirty Harry at a shooting gallery, The Bronx fire out hit after hit, consistently blasting great bullet-shaped chunks of angry, cleansing sound through the diminutive King’s College venue. This is a band that really means it – you can see it in the way they play; the way Caughthran stalks the stage, occasionally launching himself into the crowd to be hugged, mauled and pawed at by the enthusiastic audience. Guitarists Joby Ford and Ken Horne stand at opposite ends of the stage throwing out riff after riff with rugged determination, whilst Brad Magers and drummer Jorma Vik bring the much needed dirt-filled rhythm.

Sound problems affect ‘Kill My Friends’, which becomes buried underneath a wave of distorted fuzz and mumbled screams, before normal service is quickly resumed with the 2-minute rollicking of ‘Shitty Future‘, which introduced with such grace and poise by Caughthran, you can’t help but love the big-faced goon. ‘Transsexual Blackout (The Movement)’ gets a surprise airing and after the vicious kick in the teeth that is ‘Rape Zombie’ I just know that this band are more than on fire – they’re practically an inferno; hot enough to snuff out the sun.

The big guns though are in the form of ‘They Will Kill Us All (Without Mercy)’ a song which contains possibly one of the finest choruses ever and the ability to reduce even the fittest individual to a wasted, empty husk of exhaustion. Plus, the sight of seeing several people miming ‘shooting up dope’ is somewhat disturbing and amusing. At the opposite end of the spectrum, “this-song-is-about-drugs” anthem ‘White Guilt,’ heralds the biggest sing-a-long of the night and only strengthens my verdict that it is truly one of the best songs put to tape. After introducing himself as always being “a hardcore kid,” Caughthran then cheekily states his true punk credentials as the thundering drum-roll of ‘False Alarm’ (played about 100% faster than the album version, much like all the tracks) kicks in and the creepy, creaking coffin-opening bass drawl breaks through, staggering along with a drunken, cocksure swagger of ill-repute.

Despite the freshness of new tracks ‘Knifeman’ and ‘Young Bloods’ it’s incredible to see everyone singing along with such gusto. The former, playing homage to Rocket From The Crypt’s ‘Bring Us Bullets’ with the kind of familiarity that makes me scream to “slash out the windows!” Whilst the latter is a spiky, rock ‘n roll jaunt of pure adrenalin.

My only gripe is the briefness of it all. The thing with the Bronx is; they never outstay their welcome. They always leave you wanting more, teasing the listener with their rapid-fire attack, riding off into the sunset before it gets too stale, but they know it never will (“I promise you, we will never release anything shit” says Caughthran.) A truly grueling and gritty version of ‘Around The Horn’, complete with some remarkable guitar thrashing from Ford and Horne, is then followed by a sadistic mauling in the form of ‘History’s Stranglers’ to round off what has been one of the most exhausting gigs of my life. One of my gigs of the year, no question – a first class band with the kind of songs most bands would burn their back catalogues for.

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Links

The Bronx
Blackhole
Hexes

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By Ross Macdonald, photo taken from The Bronx’s myspace (copyright Guomundur Vigfusson – if you want this taken down just let me know, cheers.)