Neil Crud on Louder Than War Radio 25.04.2022 – Mwstard in session

 

Mwstard are a tribalistic prepostpunk band from West Wales – they have 4 archive session tracks on tonight’s show.

Sadly no longer an active unit, they have left a legacy of a superb album ‘Cloc’ which you’ll find among other gems on their bandcamp page.

The session was recorded on this day in 2018 and originally broadcast on my TudnoFM show… The four songs eventually became part of the Resolution EP. 

 

FULL SHOW PLAYLIST
Alffa – Babi Mam
John – Šibensko Powerhouse
AxeRash – Ostrich Man
Oorya – Chips
Mwstard – Scandal Broth (*session)
Get Greens – Bongwater
Ponderosa Glee Boys – Waiting For The Sun
Bruise Control – Sabotage
Fuzz Lightyear – Berlin, 1885
Goldblade – Black Elvis
DFA – Strangely Attractive
Elfyn Presli – Jackboots Magi Thatcher
Mwstard – Resolution (*session)
Sad State Of Society – Frack You
Cow – When the Darkness Gets You Down
Awkward Geisha – No Fucking
Career Suicide – Cut and Run
The Red Bastards – The Eternal Hole
Warlockhunt – Sacred Skin
Dub War – Mental
Dense – Erased
Mwstard – Shadowmoss (*session)
BOMBARDEMENT – Rends L’Argent
The High Rip – You Still Believe
Intense Degree – Skate Bored
Salt The Snail – All Hell
The Pulsebeats – Burn The Guy
Pink Room – All Breaks No Gas
Valleum – Let’s Wrestle
Mwstard – Ondividual (*session)
Adam Walton – Emily Said (on Account of the Days)
Six Score – Meatdustry
Cosmo Jones Beat Machine – Dr Butt’s Dispensary
High Vis – Talk For Hours
DOA & Jello Biafra – Attack Of The Peacekeepers

Bruise Control / Fuzz Lightyear @ Big Hands, Manchester

 

Big Hands is such a great venue - it has cool staff and a cool vibe. Drinking our way there from the centre of town it turned out the first band weren't on until 10pm. So this meant two hours of supping and chilling out to the best playlist I've never heard... The tunes were perfect for the mood; all dirty, sleazy and all from the garage of life.

Fuzz Lightyear had played a festival earlier today and waded into Big Hands a little flustered, but were ready to rock and roll by the promised 10pm. I'm still pondering as to whether the name Fuzz Lightyear is pure genius or totally ridiculous - probably both. This doesn't detract from the fact they deliver an audacious sound straight outta Leeds. It's noisegaze, post-hardcore, garage-fuzz, call it what you want, I thought it was simply neat. Psychedelic intricate guitars are built around Ben Parry's distinct vocals and the band pull no punches. The recent expansive addition of Alex Calder on guitar / synth brings a hint of the direction they're heading and the destination is exciting. Their volatile debut EP 'Fuzz II' brought a welcome grunge strewn barrage of noise, but there is more to come out the Fuzz locker.

Bruise Control are on home turf and the cruise control is set to max. The pedal is rammed against the metal and there's RedX in the tank. The turbo-goths have necked a fistful of pills from their Nan's medicine cabinet, washed them down with cans of Monster and they're gonna get GTA on your ass.
Fronted by the cartoon character that is Jimbob Taylor, who must live in a tin shack, surrounded by chickens on the side of a dusty highway, Bruise Control rocked my world. They trashed through their repertoire, kicking, screaming, spitting and shagging. Your head is forced down the toilet and is repeatedly flushed as they laugh at your misery.
This is cowpunk hardcore nonsense for deadbeats - YOU are a deadbeat - catch Bruise Control on tour with Sniff in May.
I have just ticked a box I didn't have to tick.

This Town Is Big Enough For All Of Us - Sparks in MCR

Twice in a week I've been to a gig and been among the youngest in the audience...

Someone couldn't go and I ended up with a ticket and hotel room and watching Sparks at the magnificent Albert Hall in Manchester. Plus the added bonus of being chaperoned along the M56.

Sparks are not a band I've paid much attention to since being scared to death as a schoolkid watching Top Of The Pops. The image on Ron Mael's staring eyes and inscrutable countenance as he sat rigid at his keyboards would leave 'us kids' terrified. His Adolf Hitler 'tache and flick had you both laughing and being scared at the same time. His younger brother, Russell would be prancing about the stage as they mimed Beat The Clock.

Fast forward 40 years and little has changed... Ron and Russell are now 76 and 73 years old. Ron has warmed slightly, ditched the Hitler 'tache for a pencil version, and shows signs of being almost human. Russell is still prancing and pirouetting (tho they didn't play Beat The Clock).

Apart from the obvious song, I think I barely recognised another old hit and something off the new album 'A Steady Drip Drip' that's been receiving airplay lately. That's no reason to not enjoy the show... I loved every second and every element about it; from the secret bar tucked away at the back of the balcony, to the extended ovations from a rapturous audience, to the choice of songs from a back catalogue that spans half a century.

That's right... Sparks began at the start of the 70s as Half Nelson, and delving into that era, it's evident they were out on a limb musically, and have kind of stuck to it and let trends find them rather than the other way.

One funny anecdote, I always assumed they were German band...!!! Ha...!

Radio Gaga

 

Just finished compiling my first Louder Than War radio show for 2022. It’ll be my fifth show for the station and the feedback has been very positive. Anyone who puts together a regular radio show will tell you how time-consuming and how much effort goes into doing so. Sure, I could rock up at 10pm on a Monday night and play two hours of random stuff off my hard drive, and probably get away with it. But that’s not really how it’s done…

No, I get sent loads of stuff – and it’s both a joy and an endurance test to trawl through it. I’m looking forward to airing forthcoming releases from Oorya and Tits Up on Monday, plus there are sessions to organise. I don’t have a studio where a band can broadcast live, so they have to be pre-recorded. Howl In The Typewriter recorded their recent session and sent it over, and Kieron Dyson has even invited me to his house to record his – which will air this Monday (3rd Jan). Looking further ahead, there should be sessions from Oorya, Rhys Trimble (Lolfa Binc) and Why Bother?

Why indeed bother… Because I loves it I do.

And speaking of love, music, and memories — my mind’s been wandering back to venues of the past, the ones that burned bright and then, sometimes quite literally, burned out. One in particular was The Dome in Caernarfon. Before it was a nightclub, it was a grand old super-cinema called The Majestic, opening in the early 20th century and seating more than a thousand people. In its day it was a plush palace of flickering light, but like so many single-screen cinemas, it couldn’t compete with changing habits. The Majestic closed in 1984, and after a short spell of limbo it was reborn as a nightclub.

In its final incarnation as The Dome, it became a familiar late-night haunt for a generation — a place of big nights out, questionable dance moves, and the sort of sweat-and-smoke atmosphere you just don’t get anymore. But its story ended suddenly. In 1994, a fire ripped through the building, leaving nothing but memories and rubble. It wasn’t just the loss of a club — it was the loss of a landmark, a piece of Caernarfon’s social and cultural DNA.

Places like The Dome stick in the mind because they’re tied up with youth, music, and the feeling that anything could happen after dark. They might be gone physically, but the stories keep them alive — in conversations, and in facebook posts, as Bangor's goth-industrialists Skinflick lay claim to burning it down after playing there, possibly the only time it was used as a venue?

See you Monday, 10pm, on Louder Than War Radio. Listen here.

GIG REVIEW – Spilt, The Lotts, Crawlers, Harks @ Arts Club Loft, Liverpool

It’s staggering to think that it’s been almost 18 months since we actually endured a live band. Not seeing live music had become the norm in an abnormal world. Tentatively we edged across the tentative Welsh border into Covid-free England, where the shackle-free natives run wild and maskless.

On Seel Street sits The Arts Club Loft, and times have changed – the doormen used to say ‘If your name’s not down you’re not coming in.’ Now the tact is, ‘If you can’t prove you’ve been double jabbed then you’re not coming in.’

This is a conundrum, as the majority of freaks who’d be here would be of late teen early twenties. They’ve probably had only one jab towards the Depopulation by Forced Vaccination programme our trusted government has rolled out. Despite the Infected being turned away, the venue was still brimming.

Harks are sliding into a maelstrom of blissfully sonic feedback as we enter the atmosphere. They were previously called Sallow Pillow, which is a rubbish name. Facebook says they’re aggy neo-psychedelia from Liverpool, and I won’t argue with that. Their gnarly sound with distortedly spaced out vocals typifies this burgeoning mutant garage scene that is springing up in the area. There’s no old-guard here, governed by their set-ways, just loads of kids armed with FX pedals, psychedelics, spunk and no rules.

Crawlers are offset to the rest of the bill with a more traditional approach and sound to their output. Also from Liverpool and fronted by Holly Minto, they exerted confidence and a performance that warrants the attention and waves they’re making on the circuit. I saw a trumpet being lifted and thought, ‘Here we go…’ but it actually worked really well. Check out the new single Breathe.

The Lotts are a Warrington ensemble I’ve seen and raved about before. Their whirlpool of louder than loud noise sucks you into a world of bright lights, happy daze and life affirmation. Make sure you seek and never destroy their output, check the new single I’ll Get Round To It. There’s nothing not to like about these people and I’d like to buy them and make them my house band.

Spilt are a law unto themselves. They exist in the wormhole of a crack-pipe where Bong Crosby dreams of a white line Christmas. They are not of this earth, they are acid babies. Borne unto a world of Lethal Drizzle grooming Suicide Girls, they are tattooed in a mirror universe where ginger people don’t smell of piss and Digestives. These Runcorn rehab rejects are on a mission to soil your soul with rock ‘n’ roll – their own brand of rock ‘n’ ruin. More butthole than surfer, Spilt thicken the plot then take over the asylum. throwing women and children aside to reach their destination… They don’t know where that is, or why they’re heading that way, but they’re gonna have one helluva ride getting there.

Join them on their journey….

Llanberis Bomb Store

 

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Stay tuned.

Red Or Dead - Anarchy Is Liberty

Talk about bad timing (or perhaps bad tidings), Red Or Dead (and myself as link2wales records) put this album out just as the whole world decided to impose martial law on a flu ravaged population. 

It was my 22nd release on link2wales, (a kind of record label that upped the ante every now and then when the mood takes me). Never for profit, I let bands use the link2wales platform so long as they paid for the pressing and I got a few copies to cover my own costs. Most pressings were in batches of 100 and (for gigging bands) they usually sold out pretty quick.

Link2wales Records are proud to announce the release of the second album from Penmachno’s Red Or Dead.
Anarchy Is Liberty is available on CD in a card wallet and features 9 socially active punk-folk songs that you can shake an angry stick at. It follows on from 2018’s well received debut album Trotsky Waltz.

The Ginger Quiff wrote this about the album:

The new album, Anarchy is Liberty, from North Wales’ acoustic punks Red or Dead is a timely comment on the current state of the planet. It proves you don’t have to scream and shout and thrash on loud electric guitars to make a point as 21st Century anarcho punks.

I believe I made this comparison before, but the band fills the ground somewhere between Wigan folk punks The Tansads and the now legendary Levellers, with a host of ideals and influences shared with original anarcho punks, Crass and taking influence from the music of Joe Strummer and The Clash.

Zombieland

Take the first track for example, Zombieland, with Rob’s vocal delivery paying tribute to The Clash’ Magnificent Seven complete. The track is all about the masses walking around with eyes and minds closed and accepting everything we are spoon fed by the media and government. We close our eyes in Zombieland, do what we’re told in Zombieland… A little closer to home in the current climate.

The theme of standing up and being counted continues throughout the album with Take the Streets a call to arms for the “woke” amongst the population (why have we started shortening words that are already short?). The album takes its title from this song and highlights some of the divine harmonies between Rob and Gala.

Gala takes the lead on In the End to great effect accompanied by some sweet acoustic guitar runs and riffing. Greed takes on a more sinister tone with ominous bass and sombre acoustic guitar introducing the lyrical subject matter which I’m sure you can guess at based on the song title.  There is also some sublime acoustic Spanish guitar riffing later in the track.

Fall Down

Talking of Spanish, Calles Del Delor (Streets of Pain) packs a powerful anti-drugs and corruption message. Sweetly strummed mandolin adds an extra texture to one of the album’s highlights, Fall Down. Its harmonious layered chorus documenting the greed influenced dragging down of protagonist in the song. This maudlin track gives way to the driving incessant driving beat of Limited Vision

The penultimate track is their previous single released around the time of the last Royal Wedding. Inspired by the news stories of homeless people being moved on from the streets, lest the world should see that there are homeless people on the streets of the UK. It attacks the Royal Family and its lack of relevance. A mere publicity machine to bring in the tourists.

A Storm is Coming is the last, the most delicate and the most beautiful, almost prescient song on the album. The repeated refrain rises in volume and pitch and adds a choir at the end. The power of the song finally revealed in all its glory. A storm is coming now, it comes for us all …

This album has been on constant rotation. It gets better every time I listen. The harmonies and melodies are exquisite. The songs demonstrate the capacity and impact of cleverly created lyrics proving you don’t have to play loud guitars to show your anger and passion to get a point across.

Riga / Koln / Rome

Sunday, 9th February 2020 — Bangor to Manchester to Riga (via Storm Ciara)

What a windy night – they're naming wind and rainstorms now. This one was Storm Ciara, and she made her presence well known. I just hoped she wouldn't delay our flight. Maybe they should name the storms after carbon burning companies - This week's storm is sponsored by Esso.

Spent the night listening to three tracks off The International Split which got played on BBC Radio Wales last night — what a buzz! Storm Ciara was battering roads and paths, forcing bus services to close and even the swimming pool at Eirias Park shut to accommodate people flooded out of their homes. Serious stuff - storming actually! Armageddon.

Charlie and I headed to Bangor for a bit of a swim before I dropped him off as I had to leave for Latvia at 2PM, so I met up with Tim, Steve, Mic and Carlos, and we drove down to Manchester for our flight to Riga.

Airport security was horrendous. Packed, slow, stressful for some, although why get angry about it? The flight was only slightly delayed despite the weather chaos — small win. Landed and made our way to a swanky hostel at midnight. Tired but buzzing, hit the town briefly, and had one too many beers. The storms might rage, but so do we.

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Monday, 10th February 2020 — Riga, Latvia

Woke up groggy, realised I’d belted out "God Save The Queen", "A Little Respect", and "Daydream Believer" at a karaoke gay bar last night (they all loved Carlos!). Too many beers, but a great time nonetheless. We stayed out way too late and only got to sleep around 5AM. Could’ve got up early, but decided against it. Slept until noon.

Enjoyed an excellent full egg, mushroom and tomato omelettey afternoon breakfast in a clay dish at Street Fries Kitchen (in the Old Town) – the perfect antidote. The bracing Latvian air sobered us up fast.

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St. Peter's Church (Svētā Pētera baznīca), one of the most iconic landmarks in Riga’s Old Town

Tuesday, 11th February 2020 — Riga and Trouble

Wow. That was one hell of a 24 hours. We spent seventeen of them on the beer in Riga, it was one laugh after another that ended... poorly. It WAS big and it WAS grown up.... well, ok... it wasn't... Read on...

The night culminated in graffiti, running from the police, flashing blue lights, and eventually being interrogated at the hostel. Steve phoned me mid-Gestapo museum visit to say the police wanted to see me after they showed him crystal clear footage of the previous night’s antics and my distinctive luminous orange hat. What a disaster. I held my hands up, took the wrap, and got fined €143 by the Latvian police. "Ya fackin' idiot," I muttered to myself (for getting caught). Nice of all the lads to chip in and split the fine... oh...

Flew to Cologne in the evening and made it to the hostel around 10PM. Had a couple of beers out of habit, but my body and mind both realised — that enuff za enuff.

Wednesday 12th – Saturday 15th February 2020 — Cologne to Rome and Back Home

After the chaos in Riga and that much-needed reset in Cologne, things began to mellow… sort of.

Wednesday 12th Feb
A fairly chilled day – did some serious walking through Cologne. Saw a cool record store and bought a badge for no reason other than it looked interesting. Grabbed some food (our eating tendencies between us range from filthy kebabs to lettuce) and got to chatting with a lad from Hull – and shared some funny stories from the road. He told us about a guy called Thierry Jaspart, a Belgian artist best known for his work in street art, conceptual art, and provocative installations. He gained notoriety in the 2000s and 2010s for playful, absurd, and sometimes confrontational pieces—often blending irony, satire, and social commentary. Hence the “FUCK THIERRY JASPART!” posters in Koln that are actually part of his own art practice. It's not vandalism against him—it’s a self-referential stunt. Jaspart has, in the past, plastered cities with these kinds of posters as a tongue-in-cheek way to mock the idea of fame.
There once was a 'Neil Crud Must Die' Facebook page in the pre-PC days. Although, far being self-referential, it was eventually taken down.

Cologne – A Moment to Catch My Breath

Before flying to Rome, we did some serious walking around Cologne (something like 17000 steps) – the towering Kölner Dom casting its long shadow over the city and my own thoughts. It was freezing, but I felt oddly grounded. I stood in front of the cathedral — this dark, jagged monolith of human persistence — in other words; IT'S FUCKING HUGE!!!

Thursday 13th Feb

Took a flight to Rome – the moment we landed, it was clear that something's in the air with all this flu malarkey - we had our temperatures taken as we were leaving the airport. Flu virus or no flu virus, this city is alive. Much warmer, more noise, traffic, ancient chaos. Ate pizza (obviously), wandered the streets, soaked in the atmosphere. Visited the Vatican – utterly surreal, the Pope was out though, so I left him a Spam Javelin sticker on his favourite lantern. It’s hard to believe humans still worship made up shit. The Sistine Chapel, those endless corridors of art – by artists all dead, but still alive, in endless art. Did Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and listened out for echoes of Mussolini's speeches nearby - the gobshite fascist.

Also saw The Book of Mormon in Italian, of all things! Didn’t understand a fucking word but still laughed my tits off, although this was after Steve had taken us to an Irish bar.

Friday 14th Feb
Valentine’s Day in Rome – which somehow felt perfect, as the Famous Five of us love each very much. Spent most of the day in Trastevere, drinking espresso and writing postcards - Ha! If you believe that bollocks then you obviously don't know me!. Reflected on the madness of the last week – the running, the drinking, the fines, the highs, the beautiful chaos of it all. Found peace in a quiet restaurant and raised a glass to servitude. Then went on the piss.

Saturday 15th Feb
Caught an early flight out, and as you can see from the pic below, we were still firing on all 4 and raring to go. Said farewell to Italy. Landed in Manchester, then headed west, eventually rocking back in Colwyn Bay with Charlie. Even squeezed in a swim at Eirias Park. Always weird coming back home, back to mundanity of existence, the contrast to the whirlwind of travelling always makes me feel like I’ve returned from another dimension.

Barcelona, Spain

 Sunday, January 19th, 2020 – Barcelona, Spain

Just wrapped up four incredible nights in Barça with Tracey. It’s been an unforgettable trip – a true mix of sunshine, sweat, street art, beer, and sensory overload. The weather was a dream for January – warm enough for shorts and t-shirts by day. The place we stayed had 88 steps up to the rooftop terrace, and every climb was rewarded with a stunning view and, amusingly, the unmistakable scent of weed from the stoners everywhere; this made my chilled reading of the 400 page American Hardcore: A Tribal History book all the better.

We spent hours getting lost in the Gothic Quarter—a twisted maze of alleyways dripping in history, art, pimps and pushers. Stone arches and crumbling facades next to bold, furious graffiti. One highlight was a haunting, futuristic metal sculpture tucked away in a quiet courtyard near an art gallery—a giant face, welded and pierced with steel rods, staring off into nothing. It looked like thoughts were exploding from its head. There was something so introspective and sci-fi about it—like the mind made visible. I just stood there, feeling both seen and slightly disturbed. A beautiful contrast with the surrounding medieval stones.

Another afternoon, we wandered into a narrow street somewhere between El Raval and the Gothic Quarter, the kind that narrows into a living corridor of peeling walls, balconies tangled in laundry and potted plants. The storefronts were covered in stickers and grime, the kind of urban patina that says you’re somewhere real. People were everywhere—tourists, locals, a street guide mid-sentence, an old guy in a beanie looking skyward like he’s seen it all before. The vibe was alive, chaotic but grounded, like the city was letting you in on a secret and laughing at you at the same time.

We hit some brilliant dive bars too—Nevermind (a grungy, skater hole-in-the-wall, complete with an indoor skate ramp), Manchester Bar, Bollocks, and Psycho. Loud music, cheap drinks, great people, wild energy. The spirit of rebellion everywhere. I swear we did at least 14,000 steps a day, probably more. One trek up to Montjuïc Castle nearly did us in—but the views of the city and the sea made it all worth it. Same with the Sagrada Família. Honestly? It blew me away. It’s not just a building—it’s a living prayer, frozen mid-sentence. Unfinished, but complete in its grandeur.

Still – what a place, what a ride. 

Gig Review: Wonk Unit + Laserchrist at The Star & Garter, Manchester

 

Sometimes a night out just escalates.

Saturday 8th December 2019 was one of those nights — when Wonk Unit and Laserchrist took over The Star & Garter in Manchester, and everything descended (or maybe ascended?) into a sweaty, glorious mayhem. I went with Rich and Garry (always a recipe for something), catching the train from Rhyl, and by the time the night was over we were moshing, drenched in beer, and... maybe a tiny bit tipsy.

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🚂 The Journey

We kicked things off catching the train from Rhyl — excited, fresh from our yoga session and drinking herbal tea, and ready for whatever Manchester could throw at us. The Star & Garter, nestled behind Piccadilly Station, is already a venue that feels like it’s held together with spirit, electrician's tape and sweat — the perfect backdrop for what was to come.

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🔊 Wonk Unit: Punk with a Personal Touch

Wonk Unit don’t just play gigs. They create punk-powered parties that blur the lines between performer and audience — just don't ask to be on the guest list. We somehow ended up chatting to Alex, the band’s charismatic frontman, and when he heard we’d be bailing 20 minutes before the end to catch the last train, he literally rewrote the setlist on the spot to include the songs we came to hear. Absolute legend.

The set was chaotic, funny, loud, and full of heart. Moshing broke out, stage-diving kicked off, and somewhere in the madness, someone dressed as a man-sized pigeon started dancing in the pit. There's apparently video evidence out there... unless the herbal tea was a hallucinogen one (Tesco's finest).

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💥 Laserchrist: Angsty Hardcore Fire

Laserchrist were a perfect support act — pretty well spaced out songs, as in, good spaces within their songs (does that make sense?). Their American-style hardcore sound had a dogged punch with memorable tunes. Definitely worth checking out their ‘DIY-Bother EP’ if you like fast, emotional, raw (almost) hardcore punk. They had the crowd riled up early and set the tone for the night ahead.

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🍻 The Aftermath

Did we get too drunk? Yes. Did someone throw up? Probably. Did we care? Not one bit.
This wasn’t just a gig — it was an experience: part punk show, part social experiment, part drunken odyssey. It had heart, laughter, bruises, beers, and a pigeon. Everything you want from a proper underground show. Somehow, I don't know how, we caught the last train home.
When you wake up the following morning and you can't see properly, you know it's gonna be a pyjama day.

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Would I do it again?
In a heartbeat.
With water next time.

Live Review: Crows at Sound, Liverpool

 Saturday nights in Liverpool rarely disappoint — and this one was no exception.

On November 23rd, 2019, I caught Crows at Sound on Duke Street, and what followed was a thunderous, unforgettable night of post-punk energy and atmosphere.

Supporting them were Lumer, and afterwards, we stayed somewhere completely unexpected — a spiritual night at what’s believed to be a former monk's retreat. Here’s how it all went down.

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🔊 The Gig: Crows at Sound

From the moment Crows hit the stage, the atmosphere in Sound shifted. Dark, intense, visceral and completely magnetic, the band commanded attention with every note. Their set was tight, fierce, and immersive — guitars buzzing with urgency while the rhythm section pulsed beneath. Debut album 'Silver Tongues' emerged earlier this year and is played at us in all it's hypnotic glory.

There’s a certain power in how Crows balance the raw with the refined. It’s noisy but never sloppy, atmospheric but never distant. You’re right there with them in every beat.
In short: they were ace — in a genuinely cool, no-nonsense way.

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🎶 The Support: Lumer

Lumer opened the night with a set that leaned more toward the melodic and post-punk. While not as explosive as Crows, they offered some interesting moments — keyboards (occasionally), unrelenting bass, and a black rebel energy that helped warm up the crowd. They didn’t quite steal the spotlight, but they added something different, particularly enjoyed White Tsar (new single, I think)

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🏨 The Stay: Childwall Abbey

After the gig, we spent the night at Childwall Abbey, a hidden gem in its own leafy suburban right. Rumoured to have been a monk’s retreat, it now offers accommodation — and it was just the right kind of peaceful after the chaos of the show. Old stone walls, quiet halls, and an air of calm that wrapped up the night perfectly.

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⭐ Final Thoughts

Enjoyed the whole thing, nearly split my pint across their merch table! Love the basement venue that is Sound and the crazy beer and food they have upstairs.

If you ever get the chance to see Crows live — especially in a venue like Sound — don’t hesitate. 

🎸 Gig Review: King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard – Victoria Warehouse, Manchester

📅 Date: 03.10.19
📍 Venue: Victoria Warehouse, Manchester
👥 With: Tracey, Alun Beans, Jxhnno Entity
🎶 Support: Stonefield (AUS)

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🎤 A Genre-Hopping Whirlwind or Just a Dizzying Night Out?

Went to see King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard at the Victoria Warehouse with Tracey. In theory, it should’ve been a full-blown psychedelic voyage. In reality? Felt a bit more like I’d stumbled into a party I wasn’t invited to.

Don’t get me wrong — the crowd was buzzing, the visuals were wild, and the band was tight — but something didn’t connect. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was them. Or maybe it was their schizophrenic setlist.

🐍 Where Was My Rattlesnake?

What I wanted was that hypnotic, loop-heavy drive like you get in their track Rattlesnake — trance-inducing psych rock with grit. But instead, the night turned into a sonic smorgasbord. Gizz (ooh matron!) leapt from one genre to the next like they were flicking through Spotify with a broken skip button.

Psychedelic jam? Check. Microtonal madness? Sure. Suddenly some thrash? Why not. Then a jazzy breakdown. It was all technically impressive, but emotionally a bit... disconnected. I felt like an outsider — gatecrashing someone else's inside joke.

🌌 Saving Graces: Stonefield & Good Company

One genuine highlight was catching up with Alun Beans (yes, that crazed Seagull Kinevil guy from the Valleum capitol of the world, Amlwch) and the tattoo gangsta of Trearddur Bay, Jxhnno Entity. We hung out for the support act — a stoner-psyche band from Australia called Stonefield. Tight musicianship, cosmic energy, and a drummer with serious presence. They nailed their set with a confidence that made them feel right at home on that big stage.

In contrast to Gizzard’s genre roulette, Stonefield brought focus, groove, and atmosphere. They stole the show, in my humble, slightly disoriented opinion.

🌀 Final Thoughts

Maybe it wasn’t the gig I wanted, but it was still a night out soaked in sound and soaked in rain — because, Manchester. It’s always good to feel bass in your chest and hear guitars that sound like they’re melting.

Would I see the Wizard Lizard again? Maybe. But next time, I’ll pray to the psych gods for a set that holds its ground instead of sprinting in every direction at once.

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💬 Were you there? Got a different take? Drop your thoughts below.
🎧 More music misadventures to come — stay weird.

Tour Diary: Iceland Is Brutal, America Is Worse

 

📅 August 14–16, 2019

✍️ Spam Javelin on Tour

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Wednesday, August 14 — Iceland: Land of Fire, Ice & Financial Ruin

“Fuck me, Iceland is expensive.”

That’s the quote of the day, folks. £32 — yes, THIRTY-TWO POUNDS — for two soups, a pizza slice, and three drinks in Reykjavik. Welcome to the financial apocalypse with scenic mountains.

The weather? -7°C with a North wind slicing through your soul. It’s too pricey to take any excursions, so we’re stuck kicking around the sanitised airport and watching our funds die slowly, like a Nordic noir episode in real life.

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Thursday, August 15 — SPAM JAVELIN IN THE USA  (Sort Of...)

“Shit a brick.”

We nearly made it into the USA. Instead, we got a free bonus day courtesy of time zones and U.S. Customs and Border Protection.

Apparently, we’re so punk rock that Homeland Security wanted in. We were detained, interrogated, and somehow they knew everything — even what songs we were playing. I didn’t know they had bootlegs of our setlists.

‘YOU LIE TO ME AGAIN AND YOU’RE GOING STRAIGHT TO JAIL!’ Yelled the Homeland Security guard with her hand on the gun holster.

My band, Spam Javelin had a mini-tour booked in and around Minnesota, supporting the mad-cap rapper Coolzey. I had initially met Zach (Coolzey)  when he joined us in the UK on the Noise Annoys Tour (arranged by fellow raptor, Sleep Beggar). Zach and I immediately hit it off, sharing that same wicked sense of humour and a gung-ho attitude. So when Coolzey toured the UK a second time, he stayed at my place, we produced a brilliant video, played some gigs and he appeared live in session on my radio show. We also plotted a mini-tour of the backwoods of Zach’s home State in the USA. Now, for a band to officially go on tour, means forking out something like £560 per member for a working visa to enter the United States. This is an absolute No-No for a Spam Javelin calibre band as we’re not making any money on the tour (losing is more likely) and we’re just being paid enough for fuel, a bit of food and having the luxury of a couch or floor to sleep on. Many bands have toured the States this way; they go without any equipment as it’s all laid on. Coolzey hired a drum kit and a jeep, and we were gonna borrow the guitars and amps of the other acts playing the five gigs with us.

The authorities were waiting for us, this band of three punks, Spam Javelin, a massive threat to America’s national security. Big Brother no longer watches you, you do it for him by updating Facebook. We were pulled out of the queue before passport control at Minneapolis Airport and separated into rooms. At first I tried to blag my way through the questioning, but they knew everything about us, my nickname, Neil Crud, the band name, Spam Javelin, the dates we were playing. They were particularly interested in finding out who Coolzey was, but that information I did not divulge. When the threat of jail came I immediately capitulated, my first and foremost thought was Tracey, our bassist. She would have been sent to a separate jail and I could not bear the thought of her being incarcerated on her own, while drummer Llion and myself got down with the homies. The guard rail-roaded me into confessing as she was eager to get us back on the plane from whence we came as it was the last flight out of Minneapolis-Saint Paul Airport that night. The three of us were photographed, finger-printed and bundled back onto the plane and thrown out of the States and sent to Iceland to sort our own way back home thereafter. Subsequently we now have to apply for working visas if we ever want to go to the USA, even as tourists, and even then, we’re not guaranteed entry. It was a costly exercise, I managed to use my credit card and get us a flight to Copenhagen and then to Manchester, costing a further £1500. I later heard that gritty rock band Orange Goblin suffered the same fate, and they had even booked separate flights into different airports. Fuck Trump’s USA.

Long story short: they didn’t like the answers, or maybe the band name (🤘), and we got put on a plane BACK to Iceland. No gig. No pay. No love.

To Trump's America, from us:

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Friday, August 16 — Viral Weirdness

Slept surprisingly well after all that — still trying to figure out what the hell actually happened in Minneapolis.

Turns out, we went viral.
A PR firm from Nevada offered $5K* for the rights to the whole story. Not bad for getting deported. Half the internet thinks it’s fake news — the other half wants the merch.

Meanwhile, we’re sat here wishing we were playing in Oshkosh tonight.

*oh ok... Phil at Louder Than War said he'd give us some headlines if we sold our souls to him
READ ALL ABOUT IT HERE

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Takeaway of the Week

Bring extra cash.
Maybe avoid countries with Homeland Security.
And always, always keep the camera rolling — because this shit sells.

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Pre-gig Preparations (the storm before the calm)

 

“Sunday Bloody Sunday.”
July 28th. A date that should carry quiet reverence — Dad’s 72nd birthday. But of course, it’s absolutely pissing it down. A classic British summer day: soggy, grey, and thoroughly determined to ruin whatever sentiment tried to survive.

The roads are soaked. “Driving rain” — the kind that turns windscreens into aquariums. Dr Foster’s fucked off to Gloucester — or Glouster, or however the hell you spell that bloody place. Doesn’t matter. No one cares but Google Maps.

Sunday starts at Zip World of all places. A breakfast amid screaming zip-liners and overpriced toast. Thumbing thru Fortnite comics with Charlie and Marni — some fleeting joy in fictional panels. We are soundtracked by Single Mothers’ Our Pleasure, like life’s trying to remind you that even joy has reverb.

I had guests over from China staying at the caravan on Friday. I was told (by my cocksucking curtain twitching neighbours) it all kicked off at 11pm. Full-on scrap. No subtitles. Just shouting and slamming. Wankers!
And on my playlist? The Growlers Chinese Fountain. Irony thick enough to spread on expensive toast.

The caravan — or “Hollies,” as it’s been dubbed — got a “deep clean,” whatever that means, but it's when bleach won’t cut through bad vibes. In between scrubbing and post-fight repairs, I play marbles with Charlie. Desperate nostalgia in the midst of adult chaos.

Maccy’s for tea. A Filet-o-Disappointment wrapped in cardboard and regret.
Then: salvation? redemption? A pint with Llion and Tracey at the Black Cat before tonight’s gig. Maybe music will fix it all — or at least drown it out for a while.

There it is. In the centre of the chaos:
SPAM JAVELIN — a band? a curse? Chester today then the USA - we had joy, we had fun at The Live Rooms in Chester with Soap Girls and Saltwater Injection. The fact that Piss Kitti had pulled out was an advantage as we went on later to a bigger and very responsive crowd. Sold 4 vinyl and 7 CDs.
Saltwater (in my fucking eyes!) were good - a 2 piece ensemble with a slapdash noise set. And the Soapy South African sisters were good fun, but played way too long, but I guess they had to appease the pervs ogling their topless t-shirts.

MONOLOGUE: “The Betws Garmon Notebook”

(Whispering)
They say you shouldn’t write when you're spiraling, but that’s when the truth bleeds through, isn’t it?

(Louder, erratic)
HELP ME. PLEASE HELP ME. No, scratch that. I don’t want help. I want to remember. I want to trap it all before it slips out of my ears. Everything’s slipping, leaking.

Posted 3 vinyls. Eleven CDs. Forty sold. That’s good, right?
FUN DAY, Sunday. I don’t know what that is. Did I make that up? Is that real?

“Violets Leap – Session Sunday.” Yes. That happened.
Or will happen? [It didn't]

I double-booked myself again, didn't I?
… who the hell is KEZ?

(Chuckles bitterly)
KEZ. She's either my busty cleaner or a ghost.

Album of the week. Who’s album? Mine? Fake news. It’s always fake.
The merchant opens. The noise begins. Spam the javelin. Stickers show up in Derby.
God, I’m not sleeping.

(Pause)
Ten hours' sleep—yeah right.
“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani.”
You know what that means?
Even He felt abandoned.

She said she’d take me anywhere… but I stayed right here.
In this room. With this notebook. And these—
(slams a vinyl record down)
—lies.

More crack whores promo—what is that?!
Was that a song pitch or a cry for help?

Sell house. Sell it NOW.
I wrote that in all caps. Again.
That’s the third time.
But I’m still here.
The walls are still up.
And the tape still rolls.

(Leaning in close)
Hit me with your laser.
Laser.
Laser.
Laser.

(Sudden burst of manic laughter, then silence)

You see, the thing is… I’m not crazy.
I’m just holding the whole fucking album in my skull, and the skull is cracking.
But if I don’t write it down—if I don’t put it in the book—it’ll vanish.

And then what?

No show. No rehearsal. No Kez. No crack whores. No album.
Just a punk, mumbling to himself in a crack cave in Betws Garmon, on a tape no one will ever play.

(Quietly, almost reverently)
Please shred responsibly.