Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials / Jon Bon 10p at Wrexham Cartrefle College

Between three battered cars, every scrap of PSST gear was wedged in with human cargo, and the convoy rolled east to Wrexham. Along for the ride were Chunky, Rob Snapshot, and Scott (who was way OTT tonight). Back at the House of Crud, Wayne and Robin stayed behind painting until Anna and Sian swung by to collect them at 8pm.

Soundcheck was the usual scramble of wires, amps, and expletives. Iwan from the Student Union had us written-off before a note was played—handing over our massive £15 “expenses” as if to say, that’s all you’re worth, lads. The place was dead (well, it was a Sunday night), so Dean, Tommy, and the roadies went prowling the campus like door-to-door lunatics, dragging in anyone who’d listen. Somehow, they swelled the numbers to about forty.

Time to thaw the room. Cue Jon Bon 10p—me and Robin’s comedy double act, which exists purely to take the piss. A million miles from our more serious psyche-punk project Sons of Selina, we launched into a shambolic Floral Dance / Imagine / Last Dance medley, ad-libbing through the parts we’d forgotten and cracking ourselves up in the process.

PSST’s actual set got off to a wobbly start—not musically, but in spirit. The first three songs landed flat with the crowd, our stage energy about as electric as a wet towel. Then Robin and Chunky whipped out their big ‘CLAP’ and ‘LAUGH’ signs, Dean and I started bouncing off each other with quick-fire quips, and the room loosened. Suddenly it was a gig:

Liar / Happy as Larry / Beirut in Rhyl / Man’s Best Enemy / Kennedy / Powerful Pete / £2.17 / Life Goes On / Fatal Attraction / Kennedy (yes, twice).

By the end, they wanted more—so much so that we got invited back for rag week in a fortnight. Not bad for a night that started like a wake.

Not everything was smooth sailing. I lost my rag at Dean for taking the piss out of a Rasta by calling him “Bob.” He got defensive, I got angrier, and that was that—point made.

Anna drove Sian, Wayne, Robin, and me home. I flogged 15 copies of Crud #7 along the way—proving once again that a gig’s worth isn’t just measured in applause, but in how many fanzines you can shift before the amps are back in the van well, cars.

Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials – Live at Mold Sureways

 

My 72nd gig

After nearly eighteen months away from a full live set, stepping back onto the stage at Mold Sureways felt both alien and familiar. The Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials were never about complexity—three or four chords, often in the same order—but about attitude, noise, and the peculiar thrill of being in a band. The setlist was a blast through the core of PSST’s repertoire: Liar, Beirut in Rhyl, Life Goes On, Kennedy, Fatal Attraction, £2.17, Death on the Motorway, Scared, the instrumental Happy as Larry (with Paul on bass), and Melanie-Jane.

Off-stage, the mood was less harmonious—Jon’s prattish antics during soundcheck and Paul’s subsequent sulking stirred memories of difficult 4Q gigs. Yet when the lights dimmed and the first chords rang out, the frustrations fell away. The room, crammed with what felt like hundred bodies, vibrated with the raw energy of a band leaning into its own ragged edges. It wasn’t perfect, it was a bit shit, but was good fun (I think)

PSST gig and arrests are made

 

I had just come back from three months working in Greece. No sooner had my feet touched Rhyl soil than I found myself back in the chaos — onstage with Psycho Sexual Sex Terrestrials at the Bistro.

The band were already in bits before I even walked in. Robin was pissed, Paul was pissed, Jon and Scott were pissed. Dean, ex–Dam Yankee, was holding it together on rhythm guitar, while Hot Scott was doubling up on bass. I clambered up and joined them for Kennedy and Distance, hammering the bass and generally wrecking the place. The set was a shambles — Robin broke two strings and just carried on regardless, Dean stopped mid-song to bollock Scott for fucking up, and I threw myself into what a reviewer described as a typical demonic Crud performance.

But the gig was a blast. A sweaty, chaotic mess of music, broken strings, shouting, and laughter. It was also the last time the Bistro allowed live music for quite some time. We burned it down in spirit, if not in flames.

The after-show was pure carnage. Paul was trying to juggle not one but two girlfriends — both sat at the same table, glaring daggers, while one of them, soon to be his wife and mother of his child, tried not to combust. The whole band was spiralling into chaos, fuelled by drink and bravado.

Leaving the gig, things got darker. Dean was assaulted outside, which sent Paul, Robin, and Jon — who doubled as a Special Constable — into vigilante mode. Dean spotted one of the culprits, so Jon screeched his car to a halt, leaving the engine running and doors wide open, Robin drunk in the back seat. Dean, Paul, and Jon bolted after the lad, Jon arresting him in full Special Constable glory.

But when they returned to the car, it was gone. Vanished. Robin, in his drunken wisdom, had decided to “help” by moving it out of the road to avoid an accident. Unfortunately, he moved it straight into the path of a police car.

The cops saw he was pissed and hauled him out. Robin, furious at not being recognised as the upstanding citizen he believed he was, kicked off. He lashed out at the officers, smashed the windows of their van, and earned himself seven charges: assault, destruction of police property, drunk driving, no insurance — the full house.

The entire band somehow ended up in the police station, joined by one of Paul’s girlfriends who had just discovered the other one existed. She was screaming, “I hope you catch fucking AIDS!” at the top of her lungs while Robin raged in his cell. The police even tried to confiscate the video of the gig to use as evidence. They didn’t get it.

By some miracle — maybe because Jon was a Special Constable, maybe because Robin had some kind of luck lodged in his bones — he walked away lighter than he should have.

It was a hell of a welcome home for me. Three months in Greece, then straight back to Rhyl, straight into the heart of the storm.