I rarely, if ever, write anything about the gigs I go to – usually because I find it tricky to say more than “good”, “awright” or “crap”. But I promised myself before going that I’d try and produce some words as well as pictures for this gig so here goes.
Three bands on the bill, with (as it turned out) fourteen performers. Not simply band members or even just musicians, but all performers, this bodes well for any live show and gave this gig that little something extra in the “you had to be there” stakes.
De Kuntz began with full-on energy from the very first scream – only the drummer remaining within the stage boundary for the full set. Entertaining as they are to watch parading, strutting, glowering and crawling about every available space, their playing easily kept pace, keeping the horror-punk blood & gore as a compliment to the music rather than a gimmick to keep you interested and hide dodgy tunes behind. I don’t really care much that I never made out a word of lyric or know what any of the songs were about, such a fast, furious onslaught of 21st century punk doesn’t need subtlety.
Thee Merry Widows followed and proved to be the best psychobilly band I have seen for far too many years. Even never having heard them before I’m sure I was (in my own way) singing along with more than one of the chorus harmonies. More than their share of hooks and a set filled with everything it should be, great rock ‘n’ roll rhythms with real punk guitars and enough ’50s comic book horror glam and tattoo ink to satisfy anybody.
By the time The Priscillas came onstage the atmosphere around the place felt better than the vast majority of small venue shows I’ve seen in months – as their drummer remarked it felt like “there’s two hundred people in here“. I’m not sure if they were a ’60s girl group turned nasty or a garage punk band turned glam but it worked for me again, with plenty of posing and posturing to keep the eyes as well as ears interested to the end.
In the end what counts is that on a dark & rainy Monday night in February I found myself walking up Buchanan Street singing “I fucked a zombie, and he’s the best I ever had” and summarising the gig not as “awright”, or “crap”, not even as “good” but just thinking to myself “wow!”
