It’s fitting that The Libertines head tonight’s Love Music Hate Racism gig. No, I don’t mean because drummer Gary is black. I mean because their open-armed romanticism for Albion defies the bigots’ blinkered vision of blighty offered up by the scape-goating BNP. I mean because their punk-fuelled power-pop is a worthy successor to the late 70’s bands that supported the Rock Against Racism gigs 25 years ago, which Love Music Hate Racism is itself a successor to.
After the ups downs and ups of the past year, and the righteousness of this cause, you want The Libertines to shine tonight. And whilst they don’t ascend to the whirling dervish chaos of early days (Carl seems quite subdued by the band’s standards) they dash, duck and dive through an exciting ragged frenetic pick of the best. Starting with a slow build up into the understated gem that is ‘Don’t Look Back Into The Sun’, they speed through the anarchic ‘Horrorshow’, whilst ‘Vertigo’ veers from gung-go to sprawling. It's a sweaty Pete that is on form tonight, in between hugging and kissing Carl, he asks “Anyone told a racist joke?” and some honest johns put up their hands. It is left to us, somewhat bewildered, to pick up the point being made. And then later, “Do you want to hear our political speech?...The BNP are cunts!” Good point, well made Pete. It’s the only language the idiots understand.
The set never falters (18 full songs over all); there’s a terrific ‘What A Waster’ which all but runs over its own chorus in its rush and the mosh-pit pleasing ‘I Get Along’ with it’s anthemic and carthatic “Fuck ‘em” tag. Two new songs (no titles) sounded terrific – the first is subtler, slower than the amphetamine paced stuff, with a reggae groove in it and the second is all jaunty rhythms and a close relative of ‘Waster’. The set closes with a terrific take of ‘The Good Old Days’, with its lyric “If you’ve lost your faith in love and music then the end won’t be long” (a personal fave) sounds just right on a night when love and music are combined to hate racism. Pete kisses Carl on the cheek and it’s like lovers making up (you’d hardly think that afterwards there are further rumours of him leaving the band, dissatisfied).
For the encore, Mick Jones – who headlined the Victoria Park Rock Against Racism gig with The Clash so many years ago – joins the band, grinning like a like a loon and clearly enjoying playing and singing along. Then they launch into an almost elegiac version of ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ – I guess it must have been the atmosphere as there is no other way of explaining the effect of one of The Clash’s more mediocre songs. Thankfully, there’s no attempt to repeat sadly missed Uncle Joe’s Spanish additions, which is just right. God bless you Joe. After that it all goes a bit pear shaped – the band come back and clearly have no other songs in mind, there’s half jams and smiles but Pete and Carl finally give up and, topless, throw themselves into the audience.
It’s fitting The Libertines headline tonight. I mean because they are young and snotty and do their own thing. They’d be banned under the BNP’s (anti)music policy, which would have us listening to Wagner and old Skrewdriver records, no doubt. And as Carl sings, “Fuck ‘em”. Right, kids? (review by Kev O)
Nostalgia for an age already gone. Last time I crossed paths with first wave punk stalwarts The Buzzcocks it was 1979 and Joy Division supported. The 'Cocks bestowed on the world the DIY record label ethos and an enduring legacy of poignant pop with at least one song indelibly imprinted on the minds of even the most non-punk of folk. Harking back to 70s’ Rock Against Racism gigs (in which The Buzzcocks took part) it’s only right they should be at tonight’s worthy re-enactment, and I make no apology for viewing their set through misty eyes and rose-coloured specs.
Opening with the classic ‘Boredom’ from the seminal ‘Spiral Scratch’ EP this was a gleeful romp through their glory days, ‘Fast Cars’, ‘Autonomy’, ‘What Do I Get?’, Pete Shelley’s otherwise jaunty credo ‘I Believe’ with its closing mantra of ‘there is no love in this world any more’, B-side ‘Oh Shit!’ (hard to believe the furore that one caused at record-pressing plants; those were the days). Waistcoated Steve Diggle is almost as much a frontman as Pete (nice view of bald spot from balcony), but Steve, little point holding the mic out for an audience singalong to ‘Harmony In My Head’; even I don’t know the words to that. Despite forgetting to play ‘Nostalgia’, ‘Orgasm Addict’ not squirting its way into the set, and no ‘Ever Fallen In Love…’ nothing was gonna top this for me. Although another reacquaintance came pretty close... (review by Graham S)
The first time I saw 80s Matchbox B-Line Disaster it was at 93 Feet East, a relatively small venue in East London. The band had spent most of the set seemingly trying to hurt each other and frontman Guy McKnight performed one song whilst stood on the bar. You couldn’t fail to like him and his band. I had wondered quite how this would transfer over to a bigger venue, particularly as the band would be separated from the audience by security. I should have known better. Within seconds of the start he’s wandering around the audience and by track 2 he’s crowd surfing. This of course leads to much frantic chasing around for the bouncers to ensure he doesn’t get crushed and that the mike lead doesn’t get unplugged. It also ensures the audience notice him and his band from the off.
By track three the mosh has gone berserk, hyped by the pounding drums, rumbling bass and manic guitar. The band are at their most effective when bashing out the dirty psychobilly swamp tracks such as the incest promoting single Celebrate Your Mother rather than the more predictable 70s rock rehashes. Luckily the latter are kept to a minimum and the B-Line can get the A-23 back to Brighton knowing that the night has been far from a disaster. (review by Paul M)
|
|
|
RSS 
Calling
all music fans based in the UK... Do you want your views to be read
by 5000 people a day? Contact 
Link: 
