Coney Island Jesus, X-Ray Eyes, Instant Agony, Rat Cage, Geoffrey Oi!Cott, Dirt Box Disco, Hard Skin.
We were spoiled for choice for this year’s Xmax works outing. Cock Sparrer in York, Mau Maus in Sheffield, and Hard Skin in Leeds. All on the same weekend. We settled on Hard Skin, mainly because it was part of their last ever tour (and advertised as the last ever northern gig), but also because Dirt Box Disco were supporting and The Brudenell is somewhere we’ve never been before and we like new places. Plus it started in the afternoon, so we wouldn’t need to find somewhere new in the dark, which is always a nightmare of thatcher proportions. So down the motorway to Leeds we went, braving the weird joined together roundabouts in the town centre that only a crazy person or an undertaker would have ever thought were a good idea.
The Brudenell is a lot bigger than I expected, with plenty of seats for us old cunts as well as a large dance area, and there was a surprisingly wide age range in attendance – from teenage to ancients. Good sound system, too, which probably contributed to us both liking all the bands playing. We got there just as Coney Island Jesus were starting. Like a lot of the bands playing that day, they were someone I’d heard the name of before but never actually heard anything by them. They were energetic and noisy enough, and the singer had a punk beard which is always a good sign.
After they finished I went for a wander round the venue to see if there was anyone I knew (there wasn’t) and to look on the tables selling stuff. Sean, Mr Hard from Hard Skin, was there, so I said hello and dumped a few leaflets on his table, then asked where Ben, Mr Skin, was because he’d told me to say hello if I made it to the gig. “Don’t know,” Mr Hard says. Oh well. So I went back to my old cunt seat at stage right, near a Spunk Volcano look-alike and waited for the next band, X-Ray Eyes.
They were all dressed the same – white plastic sunglasses, stripey jumper, spotless blue denim jeans, and red and white trainers. (I had to get up off my seat to check the drummer was wearing the correct trainers). They reminded me a bit of early Damned mixed with White Stripes, and at least one of them brought their young children with them (who didn’t seem remotely interested in the band, and just played on their tablets until it was time to go home).
Instant Agony came all the way from Birkenhead, which is somewhere near Liverpool but they didn’t sound very Liverpoolian. Apparently they were around in the early 1980s, but must have passed me by. Which is a shame, because I definitely would have liked them back then. One to look up on YouTube or whatever, see what I missed.
Rat Cage, meanwhile, came from Sheffield and were a young Napalm Death type band with long hair who seemed to have a bit of a following among young British Asians, judging by the ones jumping around in front of the stage. I half expected Mr Hard to turn up and drag the band off the stage by their hair, calling them crusties, but that didn’t happen. Like all of those type of bands it was hard to make out any of the lyrics, but they certainly seemed to believe quite strongly about whatever it was they were singing about. Someone in the audience must have understood and taken objection though, because they shouted “Keep politics out of punk!” Ho ho, I thought, a torypunk. There’s always one. “Fuck off, nobhead,” Mr Rat Cage reples, and they proceed to play what I assume was another political song, just to wind him up.
After Rat Cage finished there was a raffle, held by someone I assumed at the time was called Geoffrey Oi!Cott pulling tickets out of a bag and handing out prizes like records, shirts, etc. I probably forgot to mention, this was a fundraiser gig for a local foodbank, which made the “Keep politics out of punk” comment even more bizarre.
Mr Oi!Cott himself was on next, and I expected it to be the raffle bloke with a guitar, singing nice folk songs, but it turned out to be a proper punk band dressed up in cricket gear. They were good, but most of the songs were a bit silly. No politics, but they did have a dig at the “Keep politics out of punk” guy, and dedicated a song about gammon to him.
Dirt Box Disco also had something to say about him, but weren’t as polite about it as Rat Cage or Mr Oi!Cott. This was the first time we’d seen Dirt Box Disco since the singer left. Spunk has taken over lead vocals, while the two guitar blokes have taken over what used to be his backing vocals. As usual with this band, it was a sing-along event with the audience joining in. There was a couple of songs I didn’t know, which everyone else did, so presumably they have a new album out or something. I’ll go and have a look for it at some point.
Then it was Hard Skin, and Mr Skin finally made an appearance. I decided to go down to the front of the stage to get a better view because there was a load of people standing in front of me by this point. If you’ve never seen them, Mr Hard always likes to wind up the audience, and this day was no exception. Merriment was made at the expense of hard up northerners who think Greggs is luxury food, and how rich everyone is in That London. It turned into another sing-along, with most of their better known songs receiving an outing. Then a fight broke out during their set, and they stopped playing. “Pack it in,” Mr Skin says, “you’re not teenagers anymore.”
“Fucking Paki,” I hear someone shout, closely followed by “He’s a nazi, let’s get him.” Then there’s a mass brawl on the dancefloor. “You need to get out of here, fella,” Mr Hard says from the stage, then the mass brawl heads straight towards me. My cripstick gets kicked out from under me and I land flat on my back on the floor. I must have hit my head on the wall behind me on the way down, or caught an elbow or whatever, because everything goes blurry for a few seconds. I look up and there’s loads of people punching and kicking each other on top of me. I grab hold of a boot that’s too close to my head for comfort and try to push it away, then give up and wrap my arms around my head and wait for it to stop. When they’ve all gone I sit up, but can’t find my cripstick so I can’t stand up. Fortunately a few people helped me up, then offered me some alcohol. Which I didn’t accept because I was driving, but someone did bring me a glass of water. I was shaking a bit, so I sat down. Found my cripstick, but it was bent. Someone must have stamped on it, and now I need a new one.
After the target of the crowd’s ire was ejected and everyone calmed down a bit, Hard Skin resumed playing and everyone resumed singing along with them. For an encore, they did a cover version of If the Kids are United, with a load of people dancing on stage and someone in a Santa hat singing the words. I did consider hanging around a bit longer so I could go and say hello to Mr Skin, but Mrs Marcus was worried about our car being attacked by nazis so we left. A few people hanging around outside asked if I was okay. “Yeah,” I say, “I just wasn’t expecting the full on 1982 experience.” Because that was the first time in at least 40 years that I’ve gone home from a gig with bruises.
It’s nostalgia gone mad.
Marcus Blakeston 