Moscow, Merseyrail and a Midnight March

 

It all started with a summer’s afternoon drive to Abergele to ditch the car, followed by hopping on a train to Liverpool with Declan and Rich. The journey, as ever, was a mix of quaint rural views and general chatter. The Merseyrail stretch as always was an epic endurance test: station after station after station... It felt like we stopped at every brick shed with a platform between Chester and Liverpool.

And let’s not even begin on the Merseyrail guards, who seem to fancy themselves as some sort of rail-bound Gestapo — checking tickets with an officious flair and glaring at anyone who dared sit with their feet on a seat. No toilets on the train either, of course — just in case the trip wasn’t uncomfortable enough.

But we made it. Our destination: The Quarry, a DIY venue tucked into the alternative seams of Liverpool’s underground. We were there for Moscow Death Brigade — the balaclava-wearing, antifascist, techno-punk-rap outfit from Russia. Live, they’re pure intensity: no breaks, no filler, just pounding beats, spitting rhymes, and circle-pit nonsense.

Asfixia Social kicked off with brutal energy, a hybrid blistering punk riffs, swaggering rap verses, ska interludes, metal‑tinged breakdowns, and Brazilian percussion. Yeah they're from São Paulo, Brazil and on their 'Planet Is Alive' tour.

Then came Old Radio, a band that only seem to come out on special occasions, and tonight was just that. Good to see/hear their ska'd punk sound and energy.

But alas, we were slaves to the timetable — the last train out of Lime Street loomed, so we had to leg it. We hit Rhyl at 1:45am and there were no taxis. Seriously. This is Rhyl in peak summer — where were the drunken holidaymakers spilling chips and fighting at the taxi rank? Where were the cabs?

Nowhere.

So, we said goodbye to Rich and then Declan and I did the only thing a men can do when faced with five miles of empty road and no options: we walked. Mild weather, thankfully. And there was some late-night drama in Towyn to keep things interesting — a group of travellers in a full-on brawl with themselves and the police. A roadside festival of fists, blue lights and confusion.

Eventually, Towyn became Belgrano and Belgrano became Pensarn and Abergele loomed into view like a sleepy promised land. Declan peeled off home and I got back behind the wheel for the final stretch — a quiet, questioning one-hour drive to the caravan, spent wondering:

Why the hell didn’t I just drive a bit further and get the train from Rhyl?