The Damned were once called the musical version of the worst bits of 'Tiswas'. And yes, there's some truth to be found there, although I'd gladly argue against the "worst". Anarchic, unpredictable and borderline bewildering, they've played a massive part in the UK music scene, but they're more infamous than recognised as that band with the silly names and Dracula singing, who went all prog. But there's more to them than that.
I've seen The Damned before, supporting Motörhead as their pet punk band. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but whatever it was was totally blown away by the first moment of "hi, we're The Damned, and we sound something like this" followed by a load of gloriously fun noise. So when I heard they were playing a headline show in London, I jumped at the chance to go.
And that is the obligatory prequel to my ramble. It was my first time at Shepherd's Bush Empire, and despite a rather unpleasant toilet, I'll happily place it as a venue I like. The atmosphere is surprisingly unique for an O2 venue (the musical equivalent of a chainstore) being a repurposed theatre complete with all the decor you'd expect, a good stage, and impressively clear sound.
(Roundhouse take note: if I ever return, please fix the air conditioning, and for the love of all that is holy, sort out your sound. It is currently an indistinct splurge. You are being shamed by smaller, less iconic venues.)
Anyway. I was one of the bratty young rocker contingent. The audience was split into the younger lot and the old guard, and it was a distinct yet friendly contrast. The Damned seem to attract the more good-humoured side of punk.
The opening act was Texas Terri Bomb. How do you even begin? I suppose "if Iggy Pop was a woman" would be a reasonable starting point. They're a howling collective of that same garage-punk sound where the music sounds malignant and possibly unhygienic. Like you should go have a tetanus injection after listening, and it's all fronted by the calculatedly unhinged Texas Terri, who has a presence and then some, on and off the stage, in lurid red hair and lipstick and a voice that is almost the epitome of rocker. Some of their onstage antics seemed contrived, but with a band that fun, it is hard to criticise.
Next up was Ed Tudor Pole, who is not so much calculatedly unhinged as genuinely insane, playing a set on an instrument that seemed to be more sellotape than guitar, eyeing the audience in a way that left me unsure as to whether he thought we were a crowd of zombies and if so whether he would suddenly react in a suitable fashion, and singing about meeting his wife at a sweet shop, his nephew getting a fake moustache in a Christmas cracker, and of course the crowd-pleaser 'Who Killed Bambi?', which became a singalong with several inebriated members of the audience. In the spirit of punk, he also gave his colourful opinion on the government before confirming the location of the bar.
The Damned were perhaps more theatrical this time, I suppose being the headliners allows for more flourish. They entered the stage to the sound of 'Nature's Dark Passion', an atmospheric track from their recent album, and this was followed by 'Disco Man', and 'I Just Can't Be Happy Today'.
Unlike many bands who've experimented beyond their roots, The Damned aren't afraid of their back-catalogue, playing songs from all over their 30-year career, which is no mean feat considering their evolution. How many bands could still pull off sharp and searing renditions of 'Neat Neat Neat' and 'New Rose' alongside the gothic 'Shadow Of Love' and their druggy, chart-bothering cover of 'Eloise', and still find time to work in 'Thrill Kill' and 'Song.com'? (Please send answers along with a note of money, £20 preferred but £50 welcome, to etc.)
The Damned, as well as being in possession of a collection of songs and a fanbase many bands would give limbs and otherwise to have, also have a smart way of being able to blend their material, and the setlist flowed, Sensible's stage banter filling the gaps with the familiarity of a mate down the pub. The pacing may have been a little uneven, but for every moment of instrumental showing off and poking at the softer side, there was a rattling freight train of a punk milestone to get us all pogoing and shouting like it's 1976 again. Seeing as I missed it the first time, this is a welcome opportunity.
It might disappoint some to find that Vanian no longer dresses as Dracula, but instead has matured into a suitably ageless frontman, and his voice is still as impressive as ever, ranging from a deep croon to sudden barks, especially the immortal 'Neat Neat Neat', where it is greeted by a good couple of thousand raised fists and raucous voices. As for the rest of the band, Pinch provides a sturdy and talented backbone behind his lightshow of a drumkit, Stu West is able to handle any and all basslines, be they chugging or finger-bending, that come his way with ease, and Monty Oxymoron still causes no end of confusion, intermittently pogoing behind the keyboards while looking like a cross between the prog rock generation and the Victorian era while adding his own contributions to the early punk material as well as driving the more recent melodic tracks.
And Captain Sensible? Oh Captain Sensible, where do we even begin? In possession of a long-suffering roadie who seems to function as a nanny (last time, Sensible refused to leave the stage and was carried off while determinedly singing 'Happy Times', this time the roadie was fussing over a guitar strap and was shooed off with a towel) and a contingent of fans who chanted, conga-style no less, "Sensible's a wanker!" at every opportunity. This is a man who steadfastly refuses to look on the upper side of 23, and the band is all the better for it. He provides the anarchic side of the proceedings in his trademark red beret and sunglasses, goading the crowd and joking with them in the best of bad taste. That said, he is a truly underestimated guitarist able to rattle off some impressive solos and riffs without batting an eyelid.
They held off playing 'Smash It Up' until last, and some might feel like they were on the windup, but what else could you expect, and the waiting only makes it sweeter.
The set was over much too soon. No two ways about it. Jumping around drenched in sweat and covered in eyeliner, I realised that this was the most fun I'd had at a gig in a while. And this is an important thing to remember. For every deep and meaningful sharing of wounds with music, you do need a band who aren't afraid to crack jokes involving Michael Jackson and heavenly llamas. All this with knobs on and a light-up drumkit and we could jump and sing along to 'Love Song' all night long.
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