GIG 0005 - Black Flag / Black Flag Roadcrew / Vicious Circle

My soon-to-be step-brother Chris Vandal (same age, same questionable life choices) and I travelled from Denbigh to the legendary Dixieland Showbar on Colwyn Bay Pier to see The Exploited. Punk pilgrimage complete. Or so we thought.

We arrived to be greeted by two bouncers and the crushing news that singer Wattie Buchan had sprained his ankle playing in the snow, so the band wouldn’t be appearing. But good news — we got a free poster. Because nothing heals teenage disappointment like a rectangle of paper.

Since Denbigh had approximately zero punk gigs, we decided we were staying anyway and would extract maximum value from the evening.

First up: Vicious Circle. My main memory is their singer wearing leather trousers and me throwing a full pint of water at them. In my defence, the Punk Rulebook clearly stated you had to throw liquids at bands. It was practically etiquette.

Next came a hastily assembled band made up of Black Flag’s road crew, including Minor Threat’s Ian MacKaye on bass. This was our accidental introduction to American hardcore, which was roughly 200% more aggressive than Colwyn Bay was emotionally prepared for.

Naturally, we responded with violence. Enter Black Flag and from the safety of the back of the pit, we began throwing coins and badges. Chris then removed his Sid Vicious padlock and chain necklace and launched it toward the stage like a medieval siege weapon. Had Henry Rollins not ducked mid-lyric, we might have accidentally assassinated him.

During the chaos, someone’s bullet belt exploded across the floor, gifting the crowd a handy pile of ammunition. An older punk with enormous blond spikes actively encouraged us to keep firing. One bullet eventually hit guitarist Greg Ginn on the head. He stopped mid-song, put down his guitar, picked up a folding chair and launched it into the crowd before storming off. The rest of the band followed. Honestly, fair enough.

Rollins returned to the stage looking even angrier than usual, holding the offending bullet and yelling:
“One of you fuckers threw this and spoiled it for everyone, good fucking night.”
Mic drop. Exit. End of Welsh debut.

After the gig, we mingled innocently with the band and crew and asked, “What happened?” A roadie shrugged and said some kids got over-excited. If only he knew.

Years later, Rollins immortalised the incident in his book Get in the Van and retold it on his spoken-word tours.

Some people get thanked in album liner notes. We nearly got thanked in a police report.

GIG 0004 - The Damned / Anti Nowhere League at Colwyn Bay Pier

Five years before I actually moved to Colwyn Bay, I arrived as a wide-eyed almost-15-year-old about to attend my first proper punk gig without parental supervision. This was serious business. I’d already seen and even met The Jam and The Clash, but those were balcony gigs — observational punk. This was going to be hands-on, down-the-front, getting-elbowed-in-the-kidneys punk. The Damned at Colwyn Bay Pier.

My mates Yosser, Shaun “Cret” Walton and I fought our way to the barrier, planting ourselves within gobbing distance of the support band: Anti-Nowhere League. I even had the tour flyer like some kind of sacred relic. The Damned had their Friday 13th EP coming out, and the League were causing national outrage with their version of Streets of London. It was 20 November 1981, and Colwyn Bay Pier was briefly pretending it was the centre of the musical universe. Motorhead, Siouxsie & The Banshees, Cockney Rejects, Desmond Dekker — all had somehow ended up playing this seaside pier that was held erect by rust and hope.

Being crushed against the barrier watching Anti-Nowhere League’s North Wales debut was, in my teenage brain, a spiritual awakening. Leather, chains, tattoos, biker boots and a very enthusiastic commitment to swearing — it was everything I thought adulthood would be. I decided right there that I would be in a punk band. Punk had been branded onto my heart like a slightly dodgy tattoo you get on holiday.

At the time, I believed every single outrageous story printed in Sounds and NME. Drug orgies. Farmyard animals. On-stage chaos. Backstage chaos. Chaos in the car park. In reality, they were probably perfectly polite blokes who mowed the lawn on Sundays. The fact they’re all still alive strongly suggests fewer livestock were involved than advertised.

I absolutely loved the scandal of them being banned from Top Of The Pops after allegedly fighting the stage manager, and the police seizing their single because of lyrical indecency. But so what! as a teenager, nothing says “great music” like mild moral panic. I remember belting out Streets Of London and a beautifully reworked version of Rock Around The Clock that had undergone what you might call “lyrical enhancement.”

The Damned — my favourite band — were almost overshadowed by all this. I do remember Captain Sensible introducing new bassist Paul Gray by proudly explaining he was better than the previous bassist at sticking carrots up his own arse. It’s strange what the brain chooses to preserve.

After the gig, because it was a pier and therefore an architectural cul-de-sac, we hung around to meet the bands. Dave Vanian cleverly escaped by combing his hair down and strolling past carrying a handbag before anyone clocked it was him. Captain Sensible and Rat Scabies, however, stayed to sign autographs and exchange insults.

The Captain was smoking. I asked for a drag.
“Piss off, have a wank,” he replied warmly.

As the tour bus pulled away, Captain and Rat leaned out of the window, gave the entire crowd the universal wanker gesture and shouted, “Thanks for your money!”

You’re very welcome. Thanks for the night.