Sunday night in Birkenhead, and instead of doing something sensible like preparing for Monday, we pointed the car toward The Swinging Arm for a charity show in aid of the Clatterbridge Cancer Charity. Punk garage rock, shaved heads, packed room — the sort of wholesome community event your grandparents definitely didn’t imagine when they said “get involved locally.”
My band, Spam Javelin, played this event last year and were kindly invited back to fill the slot left by local heroes Sonic Assault, who have apparently imploded. Not completely, mind — two of them resurfaced long enough to jump onstage with a borrowed rhythm section and chug out a single song like a brief and touching punk rock séance.
After a gentle ninety-minute scenic tour of the North Wales coastline (translation: driving and talking nonsense), we arrived just in time to see Decibel finish sweating through their set. I’ve seen them five or six times, so I knew exactly what we’d missed — and besides, I’ll catch them at Curiad Pulse Festival soon, conveniently located near my sofa.
Next up were punk-psychedelic explorers MRI. They admitted to being under-rehearsed, which in our terms just means “rehearsed enough.” Their short, snappy songs were a blessing — proof that not every psychedelic band needs to wander off into a ten-minute jam and forget where they parked. Also, I remain deeply envious of Richie’s Gibson SG, which is frankly doing more for my guitar jealousy than any therapy session could.
Grenades followed and immediately triggered a debate among our camp. Two guitarists, slightly understated volume, and a vibe our Dave described as Pavement. A quick YouTube Music investigation the next day confirmed this was both accurate and complimentary. They may have played one song too many, but when it’s for charity you’re hardly going to wave them off mid-chorus. Their singer also took one for the team and had his greasy mop shaved off, raising £200 in the process. Venue meets barber shop: a winning formula.
Meanwhile, earlier that morning I’d been at home wrestling my battered Marshall amp into harmony with my Boss GT-6 pedal. It’s only taken me about ten years to achieve this technological breakthrough. Standing on stage, basking in the glorious sound of equipment actually cooperating, I couldn’t help wondering why I hadn’t done this sooner. Probably because I’m an idiot.
Spam Javelin did what Spam Javelin does. Loud, fast, job done. People seemed to enjoy it, which is always a relief.
The Dry Retch closed the night with their gloriously filthy, Stooges-tinged, cosmic garage punk chaos and dodgy guitar leads. Unfortunately, although desperately wanting to be their dogs, by this point we were an hour behind schedule and still had a long drive home. So we caught the first five excellent Stalingradient songs before quietly slipping out at 10pm like responsible adults and cursing the fact none of will be in bed before midnight.
All in all: loud music, shaved heads, a room full of people raising money for a good cause, and only mild hearing damage. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday night.
Saturday night in Bangor's The Skerries was exactly what a local gig should be: packed, loud, and full of glorious uncertainty. As the person handling the booking (a role I don't embrace often, thanks to the sheer terror of "what if no one shows up?"), my anxiety levels were already pegged. Add to that the fact I was also playing with Spam Javelin, and you have a recipe for jitters.
Fortunately, the venue’s backroom was overflowing with freshers—new grant money in hand and hungry for something that wasn't chart pop—ready to dive headfirst into the local scene.
Just to complicate my night, our main drummer, Llion, was off earning some cold, hard cash playing covers like a true drum whore—probably polluting some poor bar with 'Sex On Fire' or other crowd-pleasing nonsense.
Enter our short-notice saviour: Gwyn from Emissaries Of Syn (or "Emissaries Of Gwyn," as he's known around these parts). Gwyn, who even toured with a surrogate SJ lineup years ago, stepped up and absolutely smashed it. We resurrected some old-school Spam Javelin tunes for his benefit and blasted through an energetic 30-minute set. Jitters gone; everyone was ready.
Next up were Thumbsucker, the two-piece power-violence ensemble who had travelled down from Leicester. And when I say they played, I mean they ripped Bangor a new proverbial arsehole. One of the members, who I remember playing the same night as Spam Javelin’s debut over ten years ago, delivered a relentless, ear-muff-testing set.
In 25 minutes, they were over before they started, barely pausing for air. The result? A room full of people left shellshocked, exhilarated, and maybe a little confused—in the best way possible. Ace.
Finally, it was time for the headliners, Prey (although there's none of that 'headlining' nonsense in our punk rock world). They are usually a highly uncompromising outfit, but tonight, they were elevated by the presence of Laura, whose uncompromising vocal style added another layer of intensity to their already immense sound.
Their set was also short, sharp, and totally shocking in all the right ways, ensuring the energy level never dropped. It was great to see, especially since the crowd was engaged and sticking around.
The night wasn't just about the music. I was glad to see the merch table busy, moving not just Prey and Thumbsucker gear, but even shifting two of our Spam Javelin vinyls!
The experience continued back at "Hotel Bastardos" (my place), where the quest for maximum consumption was completed with the opening of a vintage (2023) bottle of Penderyn Whisky. We finally crashed around 2 AM.
Both bands must have been on a mission because when I woke up, they were gone! Thumbsucker had a matinee gig back in Leicester, and apparently (I'm told), they looked "a bit delicate" after their little Bangor adventure. Worth it. All's well that ends well—a great gig, great people, and a night where nothing went wrong (unless you were watching a covers-band a few miles away).
Charlie and I went exploring just outside Llanberis, drawn by the half-whispered legend of an old RAF bomb store buried in the slate hills of North Wales. It's not a place you’ll find on tourist maps or TripAdvisor—no signs, no footpaths, and certainly no welcome mats. Which, given the place’s history and hazard warnings, is probably for the best.
After some determined poking around (and a few wrong turns), we eventually found a hole in a fence and clambered down a slope of loose shale. The kind of descent that crunches underfoot and makes you feel like you're about be snowboarding, or shaleboarding.
At the base was a large, imposing building—industrial, forgotten, and eerie in the afternoon light. There's one door, thick and rusting, and forced ajar. With a little effort and a lot of caution, we stepped inside.
Inside the Bomb Store
What we found wasn’t just a space—it was an atmosphere. The kind that presses in on your ears and settles behind your eyes. The inside swallowed sound, thick with damp air and decades of silence. Our only light was the dim torch on my phone, which flickered against rusted steelwork, and darkened concrete corridors.
We didn’t venture too far in. Something about the place suggests self-preservation and you shouldn't overstay your welcome. It’s not fear, exactly—more like reverence. A respect for a space that once held thousands of tons of ordnance, and where a catastrophic collapse in 1942 buried a loaded train and forever changed the site’s role in the war effort.
We stood in silence for a while, trying to make out shapes in the dark, then quietly made our way back to the light of day.
A Vision for a Gig in the Void
Back outside, I couldn’t stop thinking about that front façade—the wide open slate amphitheatre, the silent bulk of the building, the raw acoustics. It sparked a vision: a Spam Javelin gig right there in front of the bomb store. No audience, no festival logistics—just the band, a film crew, and the slate echoing every distorted riff into the hills.
It brought to mind Pink Floyd’s "Live at Pompeii"—a concert with no crowd, just the music echoing through a space heavy with history. A performance for the ghosts, the ruins, and the mountains themselves.
Final Thoughts
There’s something about that place—about all of Glyn Rhonwy, really—that sticks with you. It’s a relic of a world at war, buried in a landscape that's older than memory.
And maybe one day, with the right light and the right sound, we’ll bring some noise back to it. Just briefly.
Spam Javelin at the bomb store: no merch stand, no crowd surfers—just riffs in the void.
Busy week in the world of how we rock and how we roll… and by the end of it I felt about ten years older, deafer, and slightly more confused about how any of us manage to function in this so-called “scene.”
Most of the week was spent wrestling with the finishing touches of the new link2wales compilation, This Patch Of Land. Seventeen bands. Seventeen different levels of disorganisation. Trying to get them all to send artwork, approve tracks, or even reply to a message felt like trying to herd drunk cats across a minefield. I swear, if there’s a purgatory reserved for music people, it’s project managing a compilation album.
Saturday (Sept 5th) brought Spam Javelin’s fifth gig at The Dirty Weekend, now relocated to Chester Lakes after Rhyl’s venues finally out-shitted themselves into irrelevance. We were on at 3pm in a tent, which was fine, except we nearly didn’t get there thanks to a tyre blowing out so badly it was down to the bare thread. There’s nothing quite like changing a tyre with a knackered back while all your amps sit in the boot smirking at you.
We made it, played hard, and even enjoyed it—though the main-stage band had overrun their slot, meaning half the potential crowd didn’t even know we existed. Then, as if things weren’t irritating enough, I later found out the drunk drummer from Vitriolic Response had been wandering around telling people we were sexist homophobes. A bold accusation from someone whose band name sounds like a medical condition. What a fucking wanker.
Sunday was a different story entirely. I took my two-year-old along and we soaked up the vibe properly—lentil curry, sunshine, wandering about, the whole deal. Emissaries of Syn tore through a blistering set at 1pm, despite the suburban local Nazis complaining about the noise from inside their beige living rooms. I picked up a pile of vinyl, books and zines, then went home and updated my very, very anal Bands Seen List—which now sits at a mighty 2031. My ears ring constantly and, being in a hardcore band, I’ve fully accepted that I’m fucked.
Music-wise, I’d been listening to an advance stream of the debut St Pierre Snake Invasion album. Proper good stuff. The only downside is modern technology itself—no CD, no vinyl, just a link. Everything’s a bloody link.
Tuesday was a proper high point. Took my daughter Marni to Manchester Academy to witness the phenomenon that is Future Islands. They were fucking ace. Saw them last year, before they blew up, when you could still feel like you were in on the secret. Not quite the same intimacy this time—no one shouting “C’mon Gwaenysgor! Let's make some fucking noise!”—but still small enough to make eye contact with the band. Support came from Du Blonde (solid) and Dope Body, who were disjointedly brilliant. I even haggled two albums off them for a tenner each, proving I can still barter like a dad at a car boot sale.
Thursday (10th) brought another Spam Javelin show, this time at The Skerries in Bangor. Good crowd, good energy. Addicted To Fish were their usual amiable selves. Bad Excuses didn’t show up—possibly because I’d mentioned the number of covers they play and their bassist got a bit feisty about it. Probably for the best; could’ve been an “interesting” evening. Daf Jones opened on acoustic, but I was so wrecked I slept in my car instead. That’s rock'n'roll life for you—sometimes you miss the opener because unconsciousness wins.
And then today (Saturday) hit hard. Bryn Merrick—ex-The Damned—passed away from cancer. Proper gut punch. He was always the friendly face during that mid-’80s Damned era. Once, after a gig, he even let me autograph his arm. A sweet, solid bloke. Another good one gone.
