Manchester. The Swinging Sporran. It sounded exotic, like the sort of place you’d expect to find wild Highland dancers or whisky-fuelled riots. What we actually found was a mostly empty pub with a scattering of punks and a landlord who thought he was running the Hacienda.
When we rolled up, a knot of out-of-town punks were waiting for us — kids who’d been buying Crud fanzine for years. They gave us a hero’s welcome, and for a moment we thought we were in for a packed night. But as it turned out, apart from Danny Williams, John Casey and a mate, that was pretty much the lot. Thirty people, tops.
Still, thirty punks are louder than three hundred indie kids, and we made the most of it. Black Listed, the semi-metal band we’d sort of adopted from Penmaenmawr, opened up. They were eager, tight, and clearly desperate to do everything “the proper rock way” — the posturing, the flourishes, the ritual of “being a band.” I don’t mean that unkindly, but they would’ve done better just being themselves. You can’t fake sweat and chaos. Still, they got through it, and for a bunch of lads still finding their way, it was decent.
Then it was our turn. After the 500-strong Aberystwyth gig the week before, playing to thirty in Manchester should’ve felt like a comedown, but it wasn’t. If anything, I enjoyed myself more. The smaller the crowd, the more personal the piss-taking, and the night quickly became a running exchange of banter between us and them.
We blasted into LSD and Mental Asylum, the sound bouncing off the walls like we were playing in a rehearsal room. I Hate TV and Bat Gooch kept the energy up, but then Matt smashed through yet another bass pedal — his third that week. With him out of action, we killed time with an impromptu Stand By Me, everyone singing along, the sort of daft interlude that makes a gig feel alive.
We patched the set back together with Burn In Hell, Poo on My Shoe, Imagine, and We Want You. During the latter, my bass just dropped clean off — strap gone, instrument clattering to the floor. I just laughed and carried on. The crowd loved it; nothing like a bit of unintended slapstick to keep people happy. We closed with 4Q Blues, Robin shredding like he was headlining Donington in front of 30 bewildered Mancunians.
At the end of the night, the landlord decided to play the heavy. He turned up with a seven-foot-wide bouncer in tow, demanding twenty quid for room hire. Twenty quid! We’d pulled in barely thirty punters. But after some fast talking, a lot of shrugging, and a cheeky promise to “forward the difference next week,” I got him down to a tenner. He probably knew he’d never see the other half, but we shook hands on it anyway.
We left Manchester grinning. No, it wasn’t the triumph of Aberystwyth, but it was raw, ridiculous, and ours. Sometimes thirty punks in a half-empty pub are better than five hundred students in a hall.
