Morecambe Punk Festival

Played Morecambe Punk Festival with Crapsons - and what an operation it was. The organisers ran an unrelenting, take-no-prisoners setup with two stages side by side: the exact millisecond one band struck their final chord, the next band launched straight in. Bang, bang, bang!

Zero soundcheck. Not even a courtesy line check. Proper plug-and-play warfare.

Naturally, this is where things went slightly sideways for me. Because Blackstar were sponsoring the backline, I was plugged into one of their amps - a beast I’d never laid hands on before. With no stage techs in sight and zero time to read an owner's manual, I couldn't figure out how to engage the distortion channel. Result? I played the entire set on a completely clean guitar. It threw me right off my stride and sounded like a polite jazz recital onstage, though judging by the hefty crowd cheering us on - and the surprisingly long queue at the merch stall afterwards - it must have translated alright out front. Either that, or the Morecambe punters are just exceptionally forgiving of accidental indie-pop tones.

Young Charlie and I had set off from Bangor at 10:30am - him skiving off school, me skiving off work -for our maiden voyage to the Lancashire seaside enclave of Morecambe. We found the venue, Alhambra without a hitch, it's magnificent, sprawling old building that feels tailor-made for a weekend punk riot. The festival was originally the brainchild of Lee Wood, who actually booked us for this slot before tragically succumbing to the evil cancer earlier this year. The whole weekend stood as a proper, loud tribute to the man and everything he built.

Coventry’s Grail Guard - now officially international touring artists, no less - kicked off the entire shebang, and I was buzzing to catch them again. Admittedly, nothing quite beats the claustrophobic, spit-and-sawdust chaos of Outpost in Liverpool where I first witnessed their no-nonsense antifascist hardcore bliss, though they still tore the place a new one.

Next up were my old mates (and Spam Javelin touring buddies of yesteryear), Dogsflesh. These lads have been at it for nearly 40 years now, and honestly, today was the best I’ve ever heard them. That semi-metal edge they’ve honed over the decades since their Mad Punx & Psycho Skins days sounded genuinely thunderous in that room.

Then came some proper 1977 punk rock royalty in the form of Menace. We’d been swapping tales of touring woe backstage earlier - they were properly aghast when I regaled them with the saga of Spam Javelin’s infamous 2019 American (non-)tour debacle. Clearly inspired by our collective misery, Menace hit the stage running and didn’t let up for a second.

Once the remaining two-thirds of Crapsons (Markey and Gilbert) arrived, we hauled our mountain of merch and gear up the stairs and squeezed through the thickening crowd to reach the backstage sanctuary. That’s the funny thing about playing festivals: you sort of parachute in, briefly hijack a corner of someone else's weekend, and then vanish into the night while their party rumbles on.

Massive kudos to Caroline and the crew for looking after the bands so well. It’s a rare treat for outfits of our questionable demeanour to be greeted with hot soup, sandwiches, cake, and beer - a genuine touch of class that didn't go unnoticed.

We just about had time to catch The Indestructibles tear through their short, explosive set before it was finally our turn to take the stage, embrace the clean-channel chaos, and unleash our usual nonsense on the masses.

Got to the hotel and it had plywood for windows and a funny smell - so we drove home...

Neil Crud's gig played #260

Sulphur - Demo Tape

Sulphur were a generic punk trio hailing from the Rhyl and Denbigh area, featuring Patrick Senier on vocals and guitar, Chris Homer on drums, and Gaz White on bass (who later went on to play with Floaters Revenge, Fudged, and The Asbos - after relocating to Brighton). Originally starting out as a four-piece with guitarist/vocalist Paul Jones who left in October '98. They drew early comparisons to the UK Subs. They put out a six-track CD titled Aristocracy - which spawned the well-reviewed track Three Dead Words - though their second demo, It’s A Long Way Home, didn't fare quite as well with the local music press.

I recently unearthed a seven-track demo of theirs that isn't listed in their main discography. I suspect it was either a speculative punt sent over for my website or an attempt to land a gig at The Bistro, though whether they were successful on either front remained a mystery, until Pat confirmed; 'We did play the Bistro, once, as a three piece. I would say early 1999. Homespun were there but can't remember if they played. I remember reading a review about us- a line that always stuck with me was arse like a peach, face like an arse'.

Judging by the sound of it, the session was captured live in a rehearsal room. It is exceptionally raw, but it captures their snotty energy well - the short, to-the-point track Shredded is a particular highlight, which, I'm told was written by a huge Oasis fan who hated punk! It’s a real shame I don’t have any proper studio recordings of these tracks, as a cleaner desk mix would have done much more justice to the songwriting. Gaz did mention they had recorded some material back in 1996 or 1997, and Pat corrects this; 'Think this was recorded early 1998 in our bedroom in Llansannan. If memory serves, it was recorded on a Dictaphone wrapped in a sock, hanging from our bunk beds.'

I actually caught Sulphur live twice back in 2001 at The Breeding Ground in Rhyl. Looking back at my archives, they had come in for a fair amount of flak from local camps at the time, but when they hit their stride and got their punk rock right, they were genuinely good (it wasn't me who wrote face like an arse btw!).

Chasm - demo tape

Originating from Rhyl on the North Wales coast in the mid-late 90s, indie pop outfit Chasm featured Curtis Randles (vocals), Simon Boyton (guitar), Jamie Boyton (bass), Matt Davies (guitar), and Andy Barber (drums).

I chanced upon their five-track demo tape after inheriting a massive box of cassettes bequeathed to me following the death of a dear friend - a collection so full of questionable music that I occasionally wondered if it was post-mortem revenge for the time I accidentally knocked his tooth out. My best guess is this tape originally came courtesy of the late Martin Trehearn back when he was promoting gigs at The Bistro. Having sat on my desk for months, it finally piqued my interest simply because Chasm was a local name I wasn't familiar with.

After 30 years, the tape suffers from a bit of speed-wobble, drifting into a sluggish slow-motion here and there. Standard advice for ancient cassettes is to give them a full fast-forward and rewind cycle before hitting play to loosen the spools, but I couldn't be arsed.

It certainly sounds like a rough demo, featuring all the classic homemade quirks and erratic sound levels that jump wildly from track to track. Despite the uneven production, the band meanders through the lighter side of indie-pop, anchored by Curtis Randles’ smooth vocal delivery. A listed cover of The Beatles' Strawberry Fields Forever initially roused my curiosity (at least until I actually heard it), but the short, sweet track High Flying proved to be the standout favourite of the lot.

Following his stint in Chasm, vocalist Curtis Randles went on to carve out a successful DJ career spanning over 25 years. Known for his versatility, he held sought-after residencies for high-profile venues and promotional brands including Kanya in Ibiza, Garlands, and Godskitchen, and later hosted the Back To The Beach podcast.

Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci – The Blue Trees (2000) - archive album

I thought I'd revisit my least visited GZM album and see why that is so...
Released on this day in 2000 on Mantra Recordings, 'The Blue Trees' is an 8-track, 23-minute mini-album that catches Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci at a distinct crossroads.

Although plenty in the music press are falling over themselves to praise its pastoral, acoustic charm -Drowned In Sound threw around the inevitable Nick Drake comparisons and hailed it as cosy "seasonal escapism," while Hot Press reckoned the band were on a one-group mission to put folk music back on the popular map. Even Hot Press, though, admitted that while the genius was in the delicate details, Gorky’s could have done with stepping back to look at the bigger picture.

And honestly? That hits the nail squarely on the head. Listening back, 'The Blue Trees' feels noticeably polite - chiefly because it sadly lacks drums across almost the entire running time. Without that rhythmic backbone, much of the record drifts by in a pleasant, acoustic haze rather than grabbing you by the scruff of the neck. The one glorious exception is their cover of Honeybus’s Fresher Than The Sweetness In Water - the only track here that kicks into gear with proper percussion and bursts with the vibrant, eccentric energy of "old" Gorky’s.

You can’t help feeling the songs are aching for the presence of departed co-founder John Lawrence, who walked away in May 1999 just before 'Spanish Dance Troupe' came out. The official press release cited "pursuing his own musical direction," which was polite industry-speak for the fact that Gorky’s simply weren't weird enough for him anymore. Lawrence was always the ointment in the oyster - the guy pulling their melodic instincts toward Captain Beefheart, acid-fried psychedelia, and glorious noise - before retreating to Snowdonia to unleash his far weirder Infinity Chimps project.

Without him in the room, 'The Blue Trees' leans heavily into Euros Childs and Richard James’s gentler, pastoral folk leanings. It’s undeniably pretty, and a tidy enough stopgap before 2001’s 'How I Long to Feel That Summer In My Heart', but you’re (or at least, I was) left wishing someone had handed them a pair of drumsticks and told them to turn the amps back up.

Two Tonne Machete: Hold Up My Crown – EP review

Faintest Idea / Jet8 in Prague

Slept horribly in fits and starts, surrounded by a chorus of competitive snorers at the hostel (optimistically named Dream1 Hostel), although Declan told me I was by far the best snorer in this 8-bed dorm, and I have to be the loudest in the world... Ever!

Today’s plan: get out of Prague before coming back. We hopped on the slow train bound for Kutná Hora - or "Cunty Whora," as we affectionately dubbed it. Except, in classic fashion, we boarded the wrong train. Neither the ticket agent nor the station board felt compelled to explain the Czech system in a way a human could decipher. After what seemed like days, we ended up in Kolín, re-evaluated our lives, and eventually made it to Cunty.

A short walk led us to the Sedlec Ossuary. A place where a crazed 18th Century priest dug up the graves of 10,000 people and adorned the place with their skeletons, to celebrate their lives.

I came here back in 2017 while touring Europe with Spam Javelin; back then, there was no entrance fee and you were free to photograph the dead to your heart's content. Today, commercialism forbids such sacrilege! You must pay! And then, naturally, buy a tea towel! Still, I wanted Dec to experience the macabre glory of thousands of human bones tastefully arranged into chandeliers and decor.

After refuelling on goulash and beer, we caught the faster R9 train back to Prague. We checked into a new hostel - a bargain £10 a night, right off the main square. Took the metro and found a pub showing Liverpool vs. Man City. Considering City have spent the last eight years breaking the rules, the whole match felt like a farce - and Liverpool losing 3–0 certainly didn't do anything for our morale.

With our spirits thoroughly crushed by the football, we sought a dopamine hit at Klub 007 - a legendary punk basement hideout tucked away in the outlying district of Strahov. JET8 were on stage doing what I'm told they do best, tearing through an energetic set that effortlessly blended upbeat ska grooves with heavy hardcore resolve and hoarse gang-vocals. They’re the kind of band where it doesn't matter if you know every track; their energy instantly pulls you in and you're hooked.

We got chatting with the very entertaining Sami on their merch desk, where I picked up JET8’s 2015 CD Music Industry Sucks. As much as I yearned to grab their latest LP, Break The Silence, on vinyl, carting a 12" record around Europe in a rucksack was completely out of the question.

Then Faintest Idea came on and absolutely blew the roof off. Armed with a fierce brass section and politically charged, full-throttle momentum, they put on a gloriously relentless clinic in DIY ska punk - a massive wall-of-sound assault that left zero room to breathe. I own their excellent 2023 album The Road To Sedition (on TNS Records), and during the set I hadn't the faintest idea if I’d actually seen them live before. Subsequent research indicates I was indeed present when they played at Rebellion Festival in 2018 - maybe there in body, if not entirely in alcoholic mind. Either way, it was a proper, glorious assault that we didn't want to end.

We got a £4 taxi back to our new hostel for another snore-off. Faintest Idea were heading back to Norwich, completing their 3000 mile - four date European tour.

Read about the Spam Javelin 2017 tour here

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Reading: 'Question 7' by Richard Flanagan - not entirely sure what it's about, but was compelling enough to do in 4 days. Also started Ian Glasper's Subhumans biography 'Silence Is No Reaction' on Earth Island books.

Watching: Silo on Apple TV - S3 E3 so far, a great dystopian series.

Writing: Two Tonne Machete new EP review for Louder Than War.

Coming Up: Crapsons and Spam Javelin gigs in Oxford and Colwyn Bay.

Headsticks / Spam Javelin / Monty - Late Lounge, Rhyl

Played an absolute belter of a gig with Headsticks at the Late Lounge in Rhyl. I honestly haven’t seen the venue this rammed since Bright Young People packed it out on a wild New Year’s Eve way back when the world wasn't so right wing.

It went a long way toward making up for the bitter disappointment of the Discharge gig getting pulled a fortnight prior. To be fair, the writing was on the wall for that one long before anyone had even mixed the mortar. Let’s face it - if Discharge played literally anywhere other than Rhyl, it would sell out in twenty minutes flat. The promoters were operating on a level of pure, unadulterated over ambition believing they could pack out the 500-capacity Queen’s Market Hall in town.*

Incidentally, they’ve since renamed the Queen's Arena the Mike Peters Arena - a genuinely class touch from the town to honour the great man. (I’m also reliably informed the council is currently considering more tributes to local heroes with a Paul Hammond Speed Bump being planned soon).

I’d previously caught Headsticks at Vicki & Degsy’s wedding a month or so back over at Mike’s cool-as-fuck spot, The Red in Dyserth. I thoroughly enjoyed their set... well, I presume I did, given that I woke up the following morning face down and fully clothed in Andy Fatman’s spare bed with a brain-melting, throbbing hangover (and hopefully, that was the only throbbing head involved in the transaction).

So supporting Headsticks this time around was a proper opportunity to soberly appreciate their performance - after all, I’ve spent the best part of the last 12 months lauding their album 'Best Thing On TV' like a man possessed.

The evening kicked off with local anti-hero Monty and his acoustic guitar. Dressed in his finest battered attire and radiating an unstoppable positive energy, he spent thirty minutes pouring sheer scorn on the cunts who actively work to make our lives difficult. Naturally, he won over any remaining doubters within about two verses.

Spam Javelin were up next. For reasons known only to whatever chaos governs our lives, the three of us all travelled completely separately to Rhyl. Who the fuck do we think we are? The Rolling Stones getting chauffeured in from separate hotels?

Despite the rockstar logistics, the set was an absolute blast. My trusty Marshall combo, having been mercilessly slave-driven for over a decade, decided to quietly pass away during rehearsals the night before (I play in two bands, so I can’t entirely blame it for staging an industrial strike). Loyalty only extends so far when it comes to my own pleasure zones, so I broke out the contingency plan: my Fender Stage 1600 solid-state beast - an amp capable of stripping paint and causing permanent hearing loss if you accidentally nudge the volume knob past 2.

We had a right laugh, shifted a proper mountain of t-shirts and vinyl, and I even managed to completely fuck up Nazi Line Dancers Fuck Off (again!), despite having played it live something like 120 times at this point. That song genuinely does my head in, but it’s essentially our Sex On Fire - the ultimate crowd-pleaser that every newcomer insists on bringing up over a post-show pint.

You can tell Headsticks are right at the very top of their game. They carry an air of effortless, professional confidence on stage with absolutely zero of the insufferable arrogance you usually get from bands with that level of stature. They’ve built a fiercely loyal, borderline fanatical following who bloody well know how to throw a party. It’s top-drawer musicianship delivered through outstanding songwriting. It compelled me to pick up a copy of their 'C.O.W.' album on the spot, and listening back, every track jumped out from the night before (Miles And Miles genuinely deserves whatever the musical equivalent of a Nobel Prize or an Oscar is - it’s that fucking good!).

What a night. It’s about bloody time the good people of Rhyl and the surrounding areas came out to play en masse!

*Discharge did play in Rhyl, back in 1981, at The Gallery in the Marina Hotel - it ended in a riot (read about it here)