Fucked Up, Photo by Russell Warfield
July 15, 2010
Perhaps it’s a case rural boredom or maybe it’s the country’s economic depression but, for one reason or another, the Welsh heartily embrace nihilistic and violent rock shows. Oftentimes, this makes for a dreary evening of headaches, bruises and boredom but tonight’s Fucked Up gig is a welcome reminder of how brilliantly visceral – and fun – a hardcore punk show can be.
Facel Vegal begin proceedings by delivering what is arguably the heaviest set of the night. Being mainly comprised of former members of the now-defunct punk outfit State Run, the band share many fundamental similarities with the old band: principally, they rock really hard. However, more than this, Facel Vegal combine sheer ferocity with a musical tightness that State Run sometimes lacked. As lead vocalist Noel writhes and thrashes around the stage, screaming across ever increasing tempos, Facel Vegal become an abrasive but appealing onslaught. If you like your rock music punishing but thoughtful, this is a band to keep an eye on.
If you never expected the word “grunge” to appear in any 2010 music journalism, prepare to be proven wrong: Japanese Voyeurs’ thick, melting, muddy riffs are unmistakably born of the grunge tradition, brilliantly evoking the genre rather than feeling like a needless retread. The band’s secret weapon of vitality is their vocalist who sounds at once piercing, sexy and tuneful as she sneers her way through a surprisingly poppy counterbalance to the heavy instrumentation. Japanese Voyeurs are a marked drop in tempo and abrasion following Facel Vegal, but equally entertaining in their own way – keeping momentum high for the arrival of Fucked Up.
As Fucked Up fire up their opening riffs, Damien instantly appears uncomfortable within the small confines of the stage. Accordingly, by the end of the first song, he’s hanging off the stage’s rafters, offering the microphone to the crowd. By the end of the second song, he’s abandoned the stage altogether – instead spending the rest of the set exploring the full space of the venue, climbing on anything that will support his weight. This has the effect of not just destabilising the centre of attention, but totally eradicating it altogether. Subsequently, this creates an atmosphere of punk rock at its best: a total dissolution of the barriers between band and audience; everyone on equal footing, everyone having an equal amount of fun. With the stage no longer a focal point, there is a genuine feeling of togetherness. People swarm around Damien in all his half-naked, sweaty glory as the audience and the band shout in unison to anthems like ‘Crusades’ – it’s everything a punk rock show should aspire to be.
Equally brilliantly, however, is the fact that Fucked Up don’t fall into the trap of taking themselves too seriously or playing everything entirely straight faced, as so many similar bands are guilty of doing. Whether chomping on a cucumber, walking around with an empty pint glass on his head, or self-deprecatingly admitting that he was twenty before losing his virginity, Damien injects a sense of warmth and humour into a show which might otherwise run the risk of being overcome by an underlying, festering violence. As ever, of course, the band is razor sharp: rattling through their hardcore gems with an unrivalled pace and delivery. As they deliver ‘Son the Father’ at the close of their set, the pit is more alive than ever but never especially treacherous. While people crowd together to bellow the song’s call and response chorus, there remains an underlying sense of fun to the affair: people are quick to pick up the fallen and just as quick to crack a smile. For all their uncompromising brutality, Fucked Up prove that – even in Wales – you can go to a hardcore show and dance with your hips, not your fists.
Perhaps it’s a case rural boredom or maybe it’s the country’s economic depression but, for one reason or another, the Welsh heartily embrace nihilistic and violent rock shows. Oftentimes, this makes for a dreary evening of headaches, bruises and boredom but tonight’s Fucked Up gig is a welcome reminder of how brilliantly visceral – and fun – a hardcore punk show can be.
Facel Vegal begin proceedings by delivering what is arguably the heaviest set of the night. Being mainly comprised of former members of the now-defunct punk outfit State Run, the band shares many fundamental similarities with the old band: principally, they rock really hard. However, more than this, Facel Vegal combine sheer ferocity with a musical tightness that State Run sometimes lacked. As lead vocalist Noel writhes and thrashes around the stage, screaming across ever increasing tempos, Facel Vegal become an abrasive but appealing onslaught. If you like your rock music punishing but thoughtful, this is a band to keep an eye on.
If you, like me, never expected the word ‘grunge’ to appear in any 2010 music journalism, prepare to be proven wrong: Japanese Voyeurs’ thick, melting, muddy riffs are unmistakably born of the grunge tradition, brilliantly evoking the genre rather than feeling like a needless retread. The band’s secret weapon of vitality is their vocalist who sounds at once piercing, sexy and tuneful as she sneers her way through a surprisingly poppy counterbalance to the heavy instrumentation. Japanese Voyeurs are a marked drop in tempo and abrasion following Facel Vegal, but equally entertaining in their own way – keeping momentum high for the arrival of Fucked Up.
As Fucked Up fire up their opening riffs, Damien instantly appears uncomfortable within the small confines of the stage. Accordingly, by the end of the first song, he’s hanging off the stage’s rafters, offering the microphone to the crowd. By the end of the second song, he’s abandoned the stage altogether – instead spending the rest of the set exploring the full space of the venue, climbing on anything that will support his weight. This has the effect of not just destabilising the centre of attention, but totally eradicating it altogether. Subsequently, this creates an atmosphere of punk rock at its best: a total dissolution of the barriers between band and audience; everyone on equal footing, everyone having an equal amount of fun. With the stage no longer a focal point, there is a genuine feeling of togetherness. People swarm around Damien in all his half-naked, sweaty glory as the audience and the band shout in unison to anthems like ‘Crusades’ – it’s everything a punk rock show should aspire to be.
Equally brilliantly, however, is the fact that Fucked Up don’t fall into the trap of taking themselves too seriously or playing everything entirely straight faced, as so many similar bands are guilty of doing. Whether chomping on a cucumber, walking around with an empty pint glass on his head, or self-deprecatingly admitting that he was twenty before losing his virginity, Damien injects a sense of warmth and humour into a show which might otherwise run the risk of being overcome by an underlying, festering violence. As ever, of course, the band is razor sharp: rattling through their hardcore gems with an unrivalled pace and delivery. As they deliver ‘Son the Father’ at the close of their set, the pit is more alive than ever but never especially treacherous. While people crowd together to bellow the song’s call and response chorus, there remains an underlying sense of fun to the affair: people are quick to pick up the fallen and just as quick to crack a smile. For all their uncompromising brutality, Fucked Up prove that – even in Wales – you can go to a hardcore show and dance with your hips, not your fists.
No related posts.
Join the conversation...