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.
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