Hamburg - World Cup Woes and Travel Anticipation

They say Guinness doesn't travel well. But Tim does

There I was, begrudgingly packing my rucksack with all the energy and enthusiasm that Wales showed in their 0–3 defeat to England in the World Cup. It was a dismal performance, the kind that leaves you sighing at the TV and questioning your life choices — like choosing to care about football in the first place. And seriously, a World Cup in November? In Qatar? Right in the middle of the domestic football season? It felt like the sporting equivalent of allowing money grubbing cunts to mess with your sport, which is exactly what's going here.

Still, I had something better to look forward to — a midweek escape to Hamburg with the boys: Tim, Mic, Carlos, Steve, and me. A much-needed getaway to forget the football and replace the gloom with bratwurst, beers, and bad decisions.

Wednesday, 30th November – Arrival in Hamburg.

We landed in Hamburg late, groggy but buzzing. After navigating the usual airport shuffle, we made our way to the St. Pauli Hotel, our home for the next few days. Nestled in one of Hamburg’s most iconic districts, St. Pauli is the kind of place that wears its heart — and tattoos — on its sleeve. Known for its punk-rock past, rebellious spirit, and wild nightlife, it's a melting pot of music venues, dive bars, eccentric locals, and late-night kebab stalls that feel like they've seen things.

The moment we dropped our bags, we hit the streets in true Welsh fashion — no time for naps, we had a city to conquer.

But there was one thing we hadn’t anticipated: smoke. Thick, curling, ever-present cigarette smoke. In bar after bar, it was like stepping back into the early 2000s. The air was dense, our throats burned, and our eyes watered. None of us smoke, and we’re used to the clean-lunged laws of the UK — so it hit us like a hangover before the first pint.

Still, we powered through, fuelled by German lager (or was it Czech?), laughter, and the kind of chaotic camaraderie only old friends can bring. The night turned into early morning in a haze of neon lights and half-remembered conversations. We laughed too loudly, danced too poorly, and talked nonsense to strangers who were somehow kind enough to tolerate us.

One moment sticks with me, though: being politely (yet firmly) thrown out of a bar at 6am by a weary bartender who just wanted to go home. “Go sleep now,” she demanded, shaking her head with a tired smile. And honestly, she wasn’t wrong.

---

Next up: exploring Hamburg by daylight — assuming we make it out of bed.

La Palma - Days Five & Six – Landslides, Queues and Escape Plans

La Palma → Tenerife → Manchester

The night was long, loud, and wet — not in the fun way. Rain hammered the roof with the sort of aggression usually reserved for angry drummers, and at some point, the power gave up entirely. A blackout in the jungle. Perfect.

We were up before dawn, stumbling around the Treehouse in phone-torchlight, stuffing wet clothes into wet bags, trying not to trip over buckets catching leaks. By 6am, we were on the road — or, at least, trying to be. Halfway to the airport, the road simply… ended. No sign, no warning — just a giant wall of mud and rock where tarmac used to be. A landslide. Proper movie-scene stuff.

A winding detour got us to La Palma Airport (SPC) just in time to find everyone was there. We hadn’t seen this many people since we landed. Clearly, the cancelled flights were starting to catch up with the island.

Announcements echoed through the terminal — all in Spanish, naturally. The only thing we understood was the rising tension. A large queue was forming, and after a few confused conversations and several blank stares, we realised: that was our queue. To find out what the hell was happening with our £11 flight to Madrid.

Three hours later — three hours of fluorescent lights, snaking lines, and low-level existential dread — we finally reached the Ryanair desk, where we were politely but unceremoniously told: flights cancelled. Find your own hotel. Claim it back. Come back on Thursday.

Thursday!?

It was Monday. We were done. Wet, wired, and running out of dry pants.

Room with a ceiling view

Regrouping was essential. We found a last-minute room in Santa Cruz de La Palma — pure luck, as most other travellers were now scrambling for accommodation like musical chairs in a monsoon. Beer was required. We hit the town.

Over drinks and damp tapas menus, I scoured the internet (thank god for 4G) and found a flight still running to Tenerife South the next day — one corner of the Canaries seemingly untouched by Hermine’s wrath. It would mean a transfer on to Manchester, so no Madrid unfortunately. Two tickets: £398 (thank you Mastercard). Not quite the £11 steal we’d booked originally, but it was a way off the island. We’d fight Ryanair for the refund another day. Tonight, we drank.

Tuesday morning. Still raining. Still pitch dark. Our taxi rolled up like something out of Blade Runner: Island Edition, headlights cutting through the mist as we threw bags into the boot.

Back at the airport, the flight was — of course — delayed. Just 30 minutes, though. But with only a narrow window to make our connection in Tenerife South (a big, chaotic, shouty airport), tension was creeping back in.

Fortunately, our pilot had apparently had enough of La Palma. He floored it. Shaved twenty minutes off the flight. Legend.

We landed, legged it through the terminal like wet rats with a mission, and made our Manchester flight with a few minutes to spare.

By 9pm that evening, we were back on home turf. Damp, dishevelled, knackered — but victorious.

---

Final thoughts?

La Palma: raw, surreal, unforgettable. A place that throws beauty, chaos, silence, and storms at you in equal measure. We came for volcanoes and red wine; we got rockslides, floods, cancelled flights, and some of the wildest swimming conditions known to man. And I’d do it again.

Though maybe next time I’ll check the weather first. Or at least turn my phone on.

La Palma - Day Four – Storm? What Storm?

Still raining. Still absolutely lashing it down like someone opened the Atlantic sky and forgot to close it.

We made a second (doomed) attempt to reach Roque de los Muchachos today — determined to see the island from its highest peak before we left. But any hope was quickly dashed. The roads were a mess. Not just puddles and potholes, but full-on rockfalls scattered across the tarmac like nature was playing Jenga with the mountainside. After swerving around one too many boulder-sized “souvenirs,” I called it. Not worth wrecking the Fiat, or ourselves.

Plan B? Embrace the chaos.

So we spent the afternoon hopping between deserted beaches, watching the rough Atlantic ocean crash and rage. It was mesmerising, almost theatrical — the kind of waves you’d normally watch from a documentary voiceover, not from a black-sand shoreline in a rain-soaked t-shirt.

At one point, huddled under an abandoned BBQ hut on a rocky beach with the rain hammering down, we cobbled together lunch: slices of wet rye bread, a tin of something mysterious, and this absolute gem we’d found earlier — Sendi, a mustard-dill sauce (German, I think?) that tastes like someone spiked honey mustard with fresh dill and made it magic. Weirdly perfect on rye. The bread was a bit soggy from the weather, but we were too hungry to care. Possibly one of the best accidental meals I’ve ever had — a soggy, mustardy, storm-lashed triumph.

Somewhere between beaches, we learned the culprit had a name: Storm Hermine. It had officially hit La Palma — a full-blown tropical storm. Locals were being advised to stay indoors. Government announcements. Weather alerts. Civil protection warnings.

And us? Blissfully sauntering around the island like characters in a Wes Anderson film — entirely unaware, thanks to our noble “no-scroll” policy and the complete absence of Wi-Fi at The Treehouse. Digital detox goals achieved, apparently. Though, in hindsight, a little push notification might’ve been handy.

By the time we made it back to the house (via the now river-like volcanic track), it felt like we were starring in a mildly chaotic survival documentary. Rain battered the roof, trees groaned in the wind, and the living room had developed its own charming little waterfall — straight through the ceiling. The bedroom wasn’t faring much better, with water dribbling its way down the walls like a bad art installation. We moved the bed just in time to avoid a full soaking. Getaway cabin in the woods? More like punk-rock ark.

Catching the leaks

Then came the kicker: flights in and out of La Palma? Cancelled.

Oh. Shit.

We're now stranded on a storm-lashed island, huddled in a damp cabin halfway up a volcano, listening to garage punk and hoping the ceiling holds. And honestly? There's something kind of brilliant about it. Uncomfortable, yes. Slightly terrifying, also yes. But unforgettable? Absolutely.

And somewhere — probably buried in a soggy backpack — is Nick Kent’s The Dark Stuff, now less inflight entertainment and more disaster-holiday bedtime reading.

Let’s see what Monday brings. Preferably a dry towel and a clear flight path.

La Palma - Day Three – Rockfalls, Rain & a Punk Pilgrimage Postponed

By the time we emerged from the Treehouse this morning, the sun had all but vanished behind a thick, low-slung ceiling of cloud. Then came the rain — not gentle, poetic drizzle, but a torrential, relentless downpour that left no room for subtlety. Warm, wild, and biblical. Proper lluvia de puta madre.

Our plan had been a pilgrimage of sorts — to hike to Roque de los Muchachos, the highest point on La Palma, and the namesake of a punk band we (Spam Javelin) have shared stages and shouted choruses with more times than I can count. But with visibility reduced to zilch and the mountains swallowed by clouds, the idea of scrambling along cliff edges in soaked boots lost some of its appeal.

Instead, we pointed the Fiat 500 toward Los Tilos, a lush, fern-draped part of the island known for its waterfalls and laurel forests — a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, as it turns out, and technically part of Parque Natural de Las Nieves. The roads, slick with rain and eerily deserted, wound deeper into the forest. We swerved around rockfalls, some still fresh enough to leave clouds of dust in the air. The road to the falls was officially closed, of course — another victim of the storm — but with waterproofs zipped and curiosity piqued, we decided to go on foot.

It felt like entering another world. Thick vegetation, steaming under the rain, footpaths cutting through dripping forest and sheer cliff faces. On the way, we met two drenched girls who — in broken English but clear concern — warned us of falling rocks. We thanked them, and pushed on cautiously, sticking to the far edge of the road and avoiding anything that looked remotely unstable.

About three miles in, we reached a dramatic gorge — dry now, but clearly capable of hosting epic torrents when in full flow. But before we could reach the waterfall proper, our way was blocked by a padlocked gate. Beyond it, the path snaked along the side of a near-vertical cliff. Could we have jumped the gate? Easily. Should we have? Not in a million years. It looked stunning — and genuinely dangerous. We stood there in silence for a moment, soaking it all in. The sound of rain on the leaves, the mist rising off the valley, the sheer scale of the place. Even without reaching the falls, it was breathtaking.

Back at the car, soaked to the skin and still buzzing, we decided to head east to Charco Azul, a natural seawater pool in San Andrés. By the time we arrived, the rain had turned torrential again, and the place was utterly deserted. Shops shuttered, streets empty, waves pounding the seawall like a war drum.

Perfect.

We slipped into the lagoon — just the two of us — protected from the wrath of the Atlantic by high black volcanic walls. Waves smashed against the other side, occasionally surging over the barrier in huge salty bursts, while massive black crabs clung to the rock, seemingly unimpressed by our aquatic enthusiasm. It was exhilarating, slightly mad, and completely unforgettable.

Two soaked Welsh punks swimming alone in a rain-lashed volcanic pool as the Atlantic roared around us.

La Palma doesn’t make things easy — but that’s exactly what makes it worth it.

La Palma - Day Two – Into the Ashes

Our first full day in La Palma, and I realise this trip almost completes my personal tour of the Canary Islands — Lanzarote’s surreal lava fields, Fuerteventura’s endless sand dunes, the pine-forested peaks of Tenerife (twice), and the jungled ravines of La Gomera. Does a layover in Gran Canaria count? Probably not, but it’s on the list all the same.

Today, I set my sights on something a little more haunting: the volcano caves near Todoque. I’d read about the lava tubes formed during past eruptions and thought a journey south would make a good day trip. But what began as idle curiosity turned into something far more intense.

Driving south through the sleepy town of Los Canarios, the road began to twist and drop — and without realising it, we were suddenly in the heart of the destruction zone from the 2021 eruption of Cumbre Vieja.

It hit hard.

A temporary road has been carved directly through solidified lava — a jarring black scar running through what used to be homes, gardens, lives. One moment, you’re passing banana plantations and sleepy whitewashed villages; the next, you’re cruising through an alien world of twisted, frozen rock. The lava didn’t just stop at the edge of town — it devoured it. Entire ground floors of buildings are buried, their upper stories bizarrely poking out like surreal sculptures in a charcoal sea.

We pulled over at one point, near where Todoque used to be. What was once a village is now silence and ash. You can trace the path the lava took from the ridge above — a vast, brutal black ribbon stretching down from the Cumbre Vieja like a wound. It’s breathtaking in scale, yes — but it’s also horrifying. You don’t just see the eruption's impact; you feel it. The weight of it. The stillness after chaos. I forgot to take any photos, was just dumbfounded at the sight around us.

After some quiet reflection, we carried on through to Los Llanos de Aridane, one of La Palma’s livelier towns, where life feels like it’s cautiously returning to something like normal. The drive back was a little more optimistic, passing through the island’s famous tunnels — I believe they're called Túneles de la Cumbre — piercing through the central mountains, linking the wetter east to the drier, sunnier west. It’s a bit like driving from one island to another in the space of five minutes.

But before heading home, we made an impromptu stop at Playa de Tazacorte — a black-sand beach on the island’s west coast. The sea, though moody, was calm enough to tempt us in. We stripped down and dove into the Atlantic, swimming under moody grey skies with jagged cliffs rising all around us. The sand here is volcanic, fine and jet black — strange at first underfoot, but warm and soft once you surrender to it.

Swimming there, with the weight of the morning’s volcanic devastation still lingering in our minds, felt weirdly cathartic. The ocean didn’t care. The island was still breathing.

Back at The Treehouse, the emotional weight of the day gave way to a different kind of haze. We opened another bottle of Teneguía, cranked up some more fuzzed-out punk rock, and got... well, fairly drunk under the stars. It felt necessary — a toast to the resilience of this little island and its people, and maybe a way to process the weird emotional cocktail of awe, grief, and admiration I’d just experienced.

Tomorrow, we hike — and maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally learn how to say una cerveza más without sounding like a total tourist.

La Palma - Day One - Treehouse Unplugged

 

Bleary-eyed but buzzing, Tracey and I rolled into Manchester Airport in the pitch-black hours of the morning, chasing the tail of summer to the Canary Islands. At precisely 5:45am, our flight took off bound for Gran Canaria – officially Aeropuerto de Gran Canaria, though by that point, I was too busy fidgeting with my seatbelt and cracking open Nick Kent’s The Dark Stuff to care. A raw and, at times, electrifying collection of essays — the perfect high-altitude escape. As the plane hummed over the Atlantic, I silently vowed to write more, read more, and scroll a hell of a lot less. Social media, after all, has become a digital landfill: toxic, noisy, and rarely nourishing.

From Gran Canaria, we caught a connecting flight – one of those rickety, charming little propeller planes – to Aeropuerto de La Palma (SPC). As we descended toward the island, it became clear: La Palma is wild, green, and refreshingly unpolished. But there’s a catch – barely anyone here speaks English. And my Spanish? Basura. Complete and utter trash.

Nevertheless, we picked up our hire car — a cute little Fiat 500 that looked more at home on a Milanese boulevard than the rugged volcanic tracks of this tiny island. Still, it handled the heat and hills like a champ. And it was hot. Proper, unrelenting, Sahara-winds-through-your-hair hot. If only I had hair...

Our base for the next five days was “The Treehouse” – not quite in the trees, but tucked away down a brutally long and rocky volcanic track. I found myself deeply grateful that this was a rental and not my poor, battered car back home. The house itself was…romantic, in a minimalist kind of way. Spartan, stripped-back, and blissfully without Wi-Fi – which meant no doomscrolling, no inbox refreshes, no TikTok rabbit holes. Just a solid 4G signal that let us stream some grimy garage punk on Spotify as the sun went down and the red wine flowed.

Speaking of which – the local tipple? We stumbled across a bottle of Teneguía, one of La Palma’s volcanic reds. Rustic, earthy, and just wild enough around the edges to suit the mood. It paired perfectly with a balcony view of the sun dipping behind silhouetted banana palms and distant lava fields.

By nightfall, the stars began to show — and they really show here. La Palma is a designated “Starlight Reserve,” and with no light pollution, the sky turned into something out of an observatory dreamscape.

This place is already working its way into my bones. It's raw and real and beautifully inconvenient. A reminder that sometimes the best kind of luxury is the kind that strips everything away, not adds more.

Tomorrow: volcano trails, black-sand beaches, and hopefully less butchering of the Spanish language.

Hasta 

Euthanasia 4: A Different Kind Of Pandemic (2022, Wild Arena)

This compilation CD was thrust into my sweaty palm in a pub in Blackpool.

It's a relentless 34-track snapshot of the UK underground punk, hardcore, and horror rock scene that delivers a pure, unvarnished dose of DIY noise. Packing in a furious double-dosage from the likes of Pizzatramp, Rash Decision, The Ramonas, Cockwobble, and Sick Pig - alongside appearances from veterans like Disorder, Screaming Dead, and Picture Frame Seduction - it trades polished production values for raw velocity, snarky humour, and political vitriol. Clocking in with tracks that range from 24-second thrash blasts to eerie goth-punk anthems, it functions less as a polite sampler and more as an aggressive, essential document of the DIY circuit taking a sledgehammer to the post-pandemic landscape.

Moscow, Merseyrail and a Midnight March

 

It all started with a summer’s afternoon drive to Abergele to ditch the car, followed by hopping on a train to Liverpool with Declan and Rich. The journey, as ever, was a mix of quaint rural views and general chatter. The Merseyrail stretch as always was an epic endurance test: station after station after station... It felt like we stopped at every brick shed with a platform between Chester and Liverpool.

And let’s not even begin on the Merseyrail guards, who seem to fancy themselves as some sort of rail-bound Gestapo — checking tickets with an officious flair and glaring at anyone who dared sit with their feet on a seat. No toilets on the train either, of course — just in case the trip wasn’t uncomfortable enough.

But we made it. Our destination: The Quarry, a DIY venue tucked into the alternative seams of Liverpool’s underground. We were there for Moscow Death Brigade — the balaclava-wearing, antifascist, techno-punk-rap outfit from Russia. Live, they’re pure intensity: no breaks, no filler, just pounding beats, spitting rhymes, and circle-pit nonsense.

Asfixia Social kicked off with brutal energy, a hybrid blistering punk riffs, swaggering rap verses, ska interludes, metal‑tinged breakdowns, and Brazilian percussion. Yeah they're from São Paulo, Brazil and on their 'Planet Is Alive' tour.

Then came Old Radio, a band that only seem to come out on special occasions, and tonight was just that. Good to see/hear their ska'd punk sound and energy.

But alas, we were slaves to the timetable — the last train out of Lime Street loomed, so we had to leg it. We hit Rhyl at 1:45am and there were no taxis. Seriously. This is Rhyl in peak summer — where were the drunken holidaymakers spilling chips and fighting at the taxi rank? Where were the cabs?

Nowhere.

So, we said goodbye to Rich and then Declan and I did the only thing a men can do when faced with five miles of empty road and no options: we walked. Mild weather, thankfully. And there was some late-night drama in Towyn to keep things interesting — a group of travellers in a full-on brawl with themselves and the police. A roadside festival of fists, blue lights and confusion.

Eventually, Towyn became Belgrano and Belgrano became Pensarn and Abergele loomed into view like a sleepy promised land. Declan peeled off home and I got back behind the wheel for the final stretch — a quiet, questioning one-hour drive to the caravan, spent wondering:

Why the hell didn’t I just drive a bit further and get the train from Rhyl?

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.

Venue Closure - The Vic, Menai Bridge

For forty-three years, The Victoria Hotel in Menai Bridge—affectionately known as The Vic—stood as a reliable cornerstone of our diverse music scene, finally closing its doors under independent ownership on November 21, 2021. Managed by sisters Anne Smeaton, Kate Elias, and Nicky Campbell, the venue was celebrated not just as a local pub, but as a prestigious stop for touring musicians in the jazz, folk, blues, and independent rock genres. It gained a reputation as a "musician’s venue," where world-class players were drawn to the intimate atmosphere of the function room and the genuine hospitality of the family who ran it.

The venue’s musical legacy was vast and varied. It served as a primary hub for the North Wales Jazz society, hosting acclaimed acts like the Tom Thorp Quartet, tenor saxophonist Dean Masser, and local jazz luminary Neil Yates. Its acoustic and roots programming was equally legendary, featuring performances by folk icons such as John Renbourn & Wizz Jones, the award-winning Canadian artist Stephen Fearing, and the high-energy blues duo Hat Fitz and Cara Robinson. On the louder side of the spectrum, The Vic embraced the underground, providing a stage for Bangor-based krautrock pioneers Ectogram, the heavy distortions of The Bent Moustache, and local talent like Jack Sharp.

The sale of the hotel to the national chain Greene King in 2021 marked the end of an era for the town's independent spirit. While the building underwent a multi-million-pound refurbishment and reopened in 2023 as part of the Chef & Brewer Collection, it is the pre-2021 version of The Vic that remains etched in the memory of the community. It was a place where international talent and local fans shared the same floor, and where the "wall of sound" from a touring band often competed with the stunning, quiet views of the Menai Strait just outside the windows.

Here's a video of Welsh Rebel Outpost - a band featuring members of Anhrefn and 4Q playing The Ruts' 'Staring At The Rude Boys' with punk poet Attila The Stockbroker. At The Vic in 2016.

Gaz Tops swims across Wales

Gareth Jones, the presenter widely known as Gaz Top, celebrated his 60th birthday by becoming the first person to swim the entire length of Wales from south to north. This monumental 60km challenge, which took three weeks to complete, was documented for the S4C series Gareth Jones: Nofio Adre. 

Starting on August 17th, the journey began in the Bristol Channel off the coast of Porthcawl, where he was dropped 1km out and had to body-surf back to shore through two-meter waves. Throughout the trek, Jones navigated a diverse range of waterways, including the rivers Teifi and Conwy, and major reservoirs like those in the Elan Valley and Llyn Brenig. His swim across the lakes of Wales was particularly comprehensive, featuring Llyn Padarn, Llyn Mwyngil, Llyn Gwynant, Llyn Mymbyr, Llyn Eigiau, and Llyn Trawsfynydd. 

A highlight of the expedition was his crossing of Llyn Tegid, the largest natural lake in Wales, which held deep personal significance because his father had nearly drowned there decades earlier. He also reached the literal peak of his journey by swimming in Llyn Llyffant, Wales's highest lake. The swim concluded at the Liverpool Arms on Conwy harbour, where he finished the final leg by swimming down the River Conwy.

To support this feat, nutrition and sports science experts from Bangor University monitored his physiological health, advising him to consume a massive 5,000 calories per day to fuel his efforts and combat the energy-sapping effects of cold water. Despite facing significant physical hurdles, including a severe bout of stomach cramps and food poisoning on the second and third days near Llanelli, Jones completed the distance to highlight the natural beauty and environmental challenges of the Welsh landscape.

This video provides a first-hand look at Gareth's preparation and the extreme water temperatures he faced during his cross-Wales swim.

GIG REVIEW – Burning Flag, All Consumed, Maines @ The Live Rooms, Chester

When you’ve been sitting at the proverbial Gig Bus Stop waiting for over a year, waiting impatiently to be taken on a tragical blistery tour, suddenly two turn up… Second outing to witness the phenomenon of live [original] music in as many days…

Tonight they’re in the flesh, alive and spitting and threatening to finish off my one good ear for good… Bring it on…

Long time link2wales reviewer Mark Watson-Jones is today celebrating the fact he has inexplicably made it to 50 years. Considering he keeps his liver in a jar of Absinthe, making it this far is none short of a miracle. Although still serving time for being an emissary of syn Mark’s band took the night off and allowed three great bands to don their guitars and wish him many happy returns.

Maines as ever, (once you’ve coaxed them into appearing) never fail to deliver, and this is the first opportunity to experience their wall of bliss in almost two years. Pulling from their two EPs with songs [well; compositions] like, My Cull Cain, the excellent Malkovich, finishing with Whales, it’s the intricacy of those compositions that leave your mouth agape and your mind mesmerised. The ebb and flow of their sound can be a trickle and it can be a tidal wave. I grabbed a Maines mug too…

All Consumed are a godless bunch from Preston, but don’t hold that against them (their location). More core than grind, their set was toe-tappingly, head-bangingly, back-stabbingly to the point. All Consumed will iterate that there is no world order and their suicidal tendencies will have you clamouring to join this shapeless existence. They blasted through ten, maybe eleven punches to the head in no time at all, and the diverse line-up made for an excellent evening of noise pollution.

The Rage is a contagion that spored in Halifax and has spread through the punk fraternity in the form of Burning Flag. Their eagerly awaited third album in its vinyl form has been subject to the usual delays of world pandemics, Tory Brexits, Suez Canal boating disasters and (worst of all) Record Store Day.

‘Matador’ (and tonight’s gig) brings with it the debut of Holly on screaming vocal duty. She / we have waited eighteen months for this, since her onscreen live appearance when bands took to streaming their material live on Facebook (it was almost a glimpse into a sterile could-be world where we watched our favourite noise merchants from the boring safety of our homes). Like the new album, Burning Flag opened with Thrown Out and bar a couple of tracks ‘Matador’ was unleashed upon our very souls. Toxic by design, they know what they’re doing [play no nonsense punk rock] and they certainly know how to do it… Check their gig schedule, they’re coming in thick n fast…

Burning Flag bandcamp.

[pics 2, 3 and 4 by lorraine peaker]

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….

Various Artists - Keeping it Rhyl

When Keeping It Rhyl – Punk-Plan appeared in the summer of 2021, it looked at first glance like a straightforward local compilation — another DIY record gathering North Wales bands under the Link2Wales banner. But behind the vinyl sleeve lay something far more ambitious: a speculative vision of Rhyl’s cultural future, built from sound, imagination, and community grit.

The compilation was conceived and produced by Jimmy Loizeau and Matt Ward of Goldsmiths, University of London, in collaboration with myself (Neil Crud). Together we built the album as part of a larger speculative design project after I asked: what if Rhyl, a struggling seaside town, built the world’s longest pier — one that housed a University of Music and Media?

From that question grew an imaginary urban plan — “The Punk-Plan” — and the record that gave it shape. Keeping It Rhyl became not just a collection of songs, but a “material manifestation of a possible future”, as one academic description put it. The album captures the sound of a community that’s endured decades of cultural ebb and flow — a sonic map of resilience.

Released digitally and on vinyl through Link2Wales on 14 June 2021, Keeping It Rhyl – Punk-Plan features 12 tracks (13 digitally) from artists connected to Rhyl and the wider North Wales underground. The tracks were “generously donated” by musicians who have long been part of the area’s independent scene — one that Link2Wales has chronicled and championed since 1999.

One news article reads:
Unlike many conceptual art projects, Keeping It Rhyl was released into the wild with the same energy as a punk record — available on Bandcamp, promoted across DIY channels, and embraced by the scene it came from. Reviews have been limited but appreciative. The Link2Wales site itself described it as a “collaborative compilation” uniting music and imagination, while a Reddit post in r/punk introduced it simply and proudly: “Link2Wales Records is proud to be part of the collaborative compilation album Keeping It Rhyl.”

For those who know the town, or who’ve ever felt the tug of a small scene refusing to fade, Keeping It Rhyl – Punk-Plan is more than a compilation. It’s a declaration: that even at the edge of the map, the beat goes on.

KEEPING IT RHYL Punk-Plan

Corona Logic albums

CORONA LOGIC: A LOCKDOWN TRIBUTE TO SUPER FURRY ANIMALS IN AID OF LLAMAU!

These albums were recorded entirely in lockdown by Welsh or Welsh based musicians at home using whatever means were available to them, creating a rich tapestry of sound paying tribute to the genius music of Super Furry Animals.

It’s completely free to stream and download, but we strongly encourage you, if you have the means, to donate to Llamau:

“Our mission is to eradicate homelessness for young people and vulnerable women. For thousands of the most vulnerable people in Wales, homelessness is a frightening reality. End homelessness and change futures”

Please donate here referencing ’SFA’:
www.llamau.org.uk

Pete Fowler, the Super Furries legendary sleeve artist has also created beautiful bespoke artwork for the project combining many elements of his iconic sleeve designs.

We hope you enjoy the music and please do donate if you can!
SFA OK!

Neil Crud on TudnoFM #190 with Luke Gallagher in Session

Luke Gallagher has emerged from a post-apocalyptic Covid Wrexham to release a new album (his third) ‘Aran Road’.It’s about time we had some live music in this dead world… and great to have company in this big empty building.
Funny anecdote - Stuntface guitarist James Flames was a supply teacher at Luke's school - They called him Mr Armstrong.!

Drunken Marksman – Dance To The Apocalypse
SØØN – A Nothing
Cheap Surgery – Live On Me
Fflaps – Malltod (Peel Session 1.8.90)
Luke Gallagher – A Bad Day To Be Me (*live in session)
Urbn DK – Your War
Scotch Funeral – I Am The Oil Spill
Eye Licker – Choking Hazard
Mike West – The Next Life
Laffing Gas – The Gulch
Gulch – E.P.T.S
Luke Gallagher – In The Night (*live in session)
Bratakus – The Half Woman
Wanweird – Head Inside your Head
Tuff Guac – My Kind of Elevator Music
Bleed To The Red – Nitro
Pi$$er – Time
Luke Gallagher – These Things Take Time (*live in session)
Fatalist – Doubt is our Product
Moot – I Want To Be Like Clint Eastwood
Uncle Peanut – Hong Kong Underpants (*session Apr17)
Yr Anhrefn – Y Ffordd Ymlaen
El Borracho – Twozzlebanger
Diskobra – Rémálom
Bombardement – Blood. Cash. Self-Destruction
Dan Amor – I See You (*session)
Jimmy Bullet & Nil By Nose – Whirlpool
Destroy? – Crowd Control
Overload – Ketamine
Endless Swarm – Ecclefechan
Los Blancos – Dilyn Iesu Grist

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.