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 delusion 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. (Though I’m reliably informed the council is currently considering a Paul Hammond Speed Bump just down the road to keep traffic flowing).
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)
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