The Digest takes a new turn this month, as I spent the whole time on the road with my hillbilly boys, Crazy Arm, supporting FRANK TURNER throughout the UK and mainland Europe. So more of a tour diary than a gig round-up. I hope you don’t mind.

We kicked off the tour with a warm-up show in Huddersfield (Parish, 14 March) which, in hindsight, was a bad idea as I lost my voice. The next day, I spent the whole time drinking Throat Coat tea (miracle tea, as I call it) as we drove to Newcastle for the first of 21 shows with FT and company. Miraculously (toadaso) my voice found itself just in time to play the Northumbria University main hall. I think we nailed it. This constant battle to maintain my voice continued over the next three weeks, with Throat Coat fighting from one corner, and cider/whisky coshing my larynx from the other. I would, of course, have pushed the alcohol righteously to one side if it had not been for the selfless generosity of one man and his endless supply of Jamesons whisky: CHUCK RAGAN. The legendary Hot Water Music protagonist was the main support to Frank Turner on the UK dates, but in our eyes (and that includes Frank and all the grizzled punks in the crowd each night) the man is a leading light, a true hero and a living embodiment of authenticity. Endless neat whisky aside, Chuck also reigned supreme on the stage. Backed by DIGGER BARNES on double bass and JON GAUNT on fiddle – honest-to-goodness men with punk rock hearts – songs like ‘Glory’ and the heart-wrenching ‘Geraldine’ took on a whole new level of potency as the trio poured every ounce of sweat and soul into their acoustic brew. The fact that I was guesting on banjo and backing vocals by the first show; and that Simon was drumming by the third show; and that our friend Vicky Butterfield was co-singing ‘Geraldine’ by the fourth show (and making me weep for the first time in six years, dammit); and that all of Crazy Arm and crew were singing gang vocals by the sixth show comes as no surprise when you consider how all-embracing Chuck’s brand of folk music is designed to be. We all learned something those ten days and it’ll take more than a week of hangovers to forget it. On our day off, we followed Chuck Ragan over to Swansea to see him play a show with the mighty three-pronged assault of BANGERS, THE ARTERIES and LIVERS & LUNGS. Although the vastness of the Frank shows was something to behold (3000 people in London Roundhouse? How the fuck did we get here?!) it was heartwarming to get back to DIY roots and be part of a show where you could see the bloodshot whites of the fans’ eyes. And what’s more, Bangers played the show of their lives, to the sort of adoring crowd that the band should be enjoying worldwide.

So, alas, we said our teary, bleary goodbyes to Chuck, Jon and Digger, headed home for two days (during which I witnessed STRUNG OUT posit their tech-core wares upon a frivolous White Rabbit crowd) and set our sat-nav for Switzerland. This was the Euro leg of the Frank tour. We had a new driver with his own van too, which spells trouble as far as drunken band revelry goes. And it went. Due to a limited word count I can’t go into much detail so I’ll just keep to the highlights.

Germany. Awesome through and through. The shows in Wiesbaden, Hamburg and Bremen in particular were inspirational. We played in an ex-Nazi stronghold in Hamburg: a foreboding building that, if you were to destroy it, would require enough explosives to wipe out the whole city, according to folklore. We destroyed it that night. Sonically speaking, of course. On our day off, our perfect host, Digger Barnes (a Hamburg native), showed us around the impressive city and took us to the kind of smoky, dim-lit punk rock bar that I thought had died out with glue-sniffing.

Holland. Sweet. Eindhoven, Utrecht and Groningen were great shows not least because we stayed with some amazing and unusual people every night, even if I did nearly get in two fights over the three days. Oops.

Frank Turner was in particularly good form in Groningen. Flanked by a band of competent musicians, he proved that the skinny English troubadour persona can carry over to other countries with ease, not least because you don’t need a degree in sociology to relate to his universal themes and sunny-side-up melodies. Songs like ‘Try This At Home’, ‘The Road’ and the poignant ‘Long Live The Queen’ betray Frank’s punk rock roots and make for one hell of a rousing singalong. He ended each night in Europe with ‘Photosynthesis’, during which we all got up, grabbed instruments (well, guitar and drums) and sang our little drunken hearts out. Onstage bonding sessions are all the rage, chez ‘Arm.

More fun was had in Brussels, Lille (where I played a solo acoustic show because the venue – a barge – was too small for the band’s big sound) and an emotional grande finale in Paris (une ville merveilleuse!) before we headed home to the mellifluous sights and smells of Plymouth. Glad to be back? Only where my cat is concerned. The sooner we’re out on that tarmac again, stuffed into a van with no space to swing a soggy houmous sandwich or a pair of well-soiled boxers, the better. To the east, to the east…

Auf wiedersehen, afscheid, adieu, and see-ya bye. Backbone (john...@yahoo.co.uk)

The next night, in Paris, we played a cellar-stroke-dungeon bar called Le Pixi, which would have been shut down in two hours by Health & Safety if it had been located in any English town (18 Feb). Cool enough though. First up were IDS – young Parisian punkers who clearly needed more practise room liaisons, but were amiable enough hommes.

Over in Belgium, D’Hivers Rock festival hosted an amusing cross-section of Euro bands of all persuasions, some that needed to be seen to be believed (Tournai, 19 Feb). Post-rock, triple-guitar sludgemeisters, GENERAL LEE, were quite impressive but over on the main stage, Gypsy-punk bible-bashers, MALA VITA, were making, somewhat ironically, a godforsaken racket while expounding the dubious virtues of following the Lord. May He smite such raggle-taggle barmy bollocks with his omnipotent hand. Breton Celt-punk freakozoids, LES RAMONEURS DE MENHIRS, were a more palatable affair, although their seldom-heard traditional instruments didn’t sound too pretty when rubbed up against a clonking drum machine and over-distorted guitar. Meanwhile, MORNING RED seemed to think it was still 1995 as they happily paraded their Limp Bizkit-esque nu-metal nonsense.

It snowed on the last day, in La Louviere, for about five hours. Heavily. It was pretty amazing and made for a rather romantic grand finale (La Taverne Du Theatre, Belgium, 20 Feb). Homeboys, BLACK SHEEP were a decent enough skanky punk rock band (with Rancid cover to boot), but it was across the square in another bar that things were really getting hot and heavy, in the shape of southern French trio, EDISON CLAN. We’d met them when we first arrived and had a little chat with them, so decided to pop over before we were due on to watch them play. They were fucking awesome. A grizzly blend of 16 Horsepower-esque drama, goth-americana and twisted blues will win me over every time and these guys were spewing it out by the bucketload. The fact that we found them by accident, playing 100 yards away from us in a small Belgian town, proves that there is, in fact, a God, after all. Really? No, don’t be bloody daft.

Corporate launch show for Sailor Jerry rum in a plush West London bar? Oh, go on then (City Arts & Music Project, 23 Feb). Didn’t turn out too badly actually, although openers, THE PARIS RIOTS, couldn’t have been further removed from their moniker if they ‘d been lying in a Parisian morgue in 1968. Painfully shmindie strumalongs and self-indulgent crooning won’t win a revolution chums. And where’s my fucking guitar stand?

Off to Brixton next for my first ever out-of-town solo show (Windmill, London, 6 March). Suitably shitting myself, my nerves were calmed by a glut of great performances from individuals of all acoustic persuasions. ED ACHE ukele’d his way through a bunch of snotty punk rock songs; Wonk Unit’s ALEX JOHNSON was hilarious, dishing out filthy sex-poetry and chirpy pop-punk ditties while flashing his gold front teeth; and the astonishing JD SMITH took steel slide to battered acoustic guitar, howled like Jack White and stomped his way into our blues-embracing hearts. After I’d sweated enough fluids to keep Eritrea alive for three weeks, the duel talents of KELLY KEMP (lovely, honest country) and SAM RUSSO (Frank Turner-esque story-telling folk) rounded off an evening of acoustics that exceeded my expectations by a country mile. Good work.
Over in Hardcore World, WISDOM IN CHAINS were battling on with a bass player down, despite the fact that they have two guitarists (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 12 March). Why didn’t one of them play bass? Baffling. Maybe they thought we wouldn’t notice. We did. Local newbies, CITADEL, made their debut appearance and were relishing the moment. Rough around the edges and clearly running on adrenalin, they managed to hold their own, despite playing it safe with mid-paced tempos and formulaic structures. Another six months and they should be a far more persuasive proposition.

Aah, THE SKINTS. What can I say that I haven’t said a couple times before? The greatest reggae-punk band since The Clash? Pretty much. Three utterly competent singers, all of whom have mastered their unique style? Mos def. And that drummer. And that bassist. It really doesn’t get any better than this (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 13 March). Milton Keynes ska-metallers, ANTI-VIGILANTE, may aspire to be Random Hand’s little brother but they’re gonna need a lot more spunk and splendour to rise above the hordes of other skmetal upstarts out there. See-ya bye.

Backbone (john...@yahoo.co.uk)

Staying with guitar legends, everyone knows that our Vince Lee has the muso Midas touch, in the sense that whatever he touches turns to solid gold sound. And so it goes with THE WILDCARDS: a marriage made in veritable swing-blues heaven (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 22 Jan). The band are undeniably awesome, underpinning and weaving ‘40s/’50s rhythms around Vince’s gnarly fret acrobatics, but his voice and that guitar are the stuff of modern-goes-vintage rock’n’roll legend, at least to those lucky enough to have experienced it. If you haven’t, where the fuck have you been?

THE ROOFTOP GAMBLER‘s EP launch (out on onec/UPR now) proved that the seductive trio are as perfectly honed as any intelligent indie contender you care to mention (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 29 Jan). Every beat, chord and hookline was imbued with a sense of purpose, without resorting to noisy squall or sentimental indulgence. Brilliant. Also ploughing his own unique furrow, PATRICK JAMES PEARSON’s electric piano hooks and silky vocal frolics were bang on the money, bolstered by foot-operated kick-drum thuds and tambourine that added just enough to punctuate his imaginatively forceful anti-pop vignettes.

You could count the amount of DJs reviewed in this column on Abu Hamza’s right hand but, for some reason or another, we found ourselves frugging gently to the squelching breaks of Radio One’s uber-streetsmart spinnerette, MARY ANNE HOBBS (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 30 Jan). She played some great dub-step and hip-hop that was typically marred by incessant and artless MCs who seemed to have no concept of the word restraint. B-boys will be b-boys.

Everybody and their internal haemorrhoid knows how highly I rate BANGERS (who were typically ace tonight) so I’ll focus instead on Falmouth’s CROCUS (Live Bar, Truro, 4 Feb). It’s not everyday you encounter a raging fireball of sinewy intensity draped in situationist sloganeering, armed with a crypto-hardcore sensibility that makes mincemeat of all those pedestrian thrashers whom kids flock to like hungry yet pathetic ants. So when you do, the only option is to let it flow through you and marvel at the progressive art-brut spectacle. But then, of course, the band will argue that the ‘spectacle’ is everything they are against and that they ‘represent the rejection of fragmentary opposition and the yielding of détournement subversif’. Brains, brawn and belligerence? By the fucking bucketload. See-ya bye.

Backbone (john...@yahoo.co.uk)

Back in November, Oregon punks, BLACK ELK, created a sound that could have moved mountains or scared mammoths due, in no small part, to a guitarist whose job appeared to be to make people cry through deep volume alone (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 17 Nov). The singer, meanwhile, took his cue from The Jesus Lizard, resulting in a band who know that heavy sounds best when tempered with horny. Manchester’s HAMMERS were equally dark and muscular but with more reliance on Fall Of Efrafa-esque slabs of hardcore, as gargantuan vocalist/bassist, Daniel, belched out the mightiest of roars.
Within one year THE SKINTS have gone from being an awesome to an essential band, and it’s patently easy to see why (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 20 Nov). Unlike pretty much every other British reggae-meets-punk band since 1981, the London quartet completely understand what makes roots music sound so vital; they have a magical way with a melody, and their potent, political punk rock undercurrent is genuine and forthright. Hugeness beckons. Ska revivalists, DIRTY REVOLUTION, were a good pairing, taking their cue from Two Tone and splicing it with rough and ready guitar chops. Less convincing were SHARKS – a ludicrously over-studied band of poseurs who seem to be labouring under the woeful misapprehension that they’ve inherited The Clash’s mantle.
The arrival of ex-Fugazi bassist JOE LALLY and his DC entourage of scruffy post-punks may have caused a reverential murmur but, sadly, it was all a bit Emperor’s New Clothes (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 24 Nov). Without the inventive brilliance of Mackaye and Picciotto, the trio’s jazz-clotted meanderings were all too willfully abstruse and a little dull; Lally’s deadpan voice adding very little to the self-indulgent stew. Shame. Meanwhile, somebody had clearly yanked acoustic reggae firebrand, BABAR LUCK’s beard a few times tonight as he was on untypically fierce form. With a maniacal glint in his eye, the likes of ‘Fire Come Rain’ sounded raw and militant.
Ahead of their German dates with Hot Water Music, Worcester’s favourite post-hardcore sons, TRIBUTE TO NOTHING, played a convincing warm-up show on quasi-home turf (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 26 Nov). Despite a few tech glitches, the quartet powered through their tungsten-tough, impassioned rock, kicking up a shitstorm of melodic righteousness. As they zoomed off to catch a plane to Dortmund, Plymouth’s erstwhile rockers, ORCA, were left to bring up the rear with trademark earnestness.
Our weekend Cornish jaunt with BANGERS was great fun, especially the Penzance matinee show (Studio, 6 Dec); although openers, THE DANGERMEN, were a cringeworthy covers band too far. More impressive was electro-soul diva, KAT MARSH, who used her high heel-clad feet as much as her voice, stepping on a dizzying array of pedals to create a one-woman-band that drew from the twin pop peaks of Prince and
Beyonce. Bangers were on amazing form every night – their Dagnasty-meets-Latterman anthems touching the parts that so many of their punk rock peers fail to reach. While the first two Kernow shows (Camborne 4 Dec, Falmouth 5 Dec), also saw local punkster trio, AS WE SINK, make like Propagandhi with some nice harmonic touches amongst the thrasharama.
Somewhere between all that backslapping and smug solipsism you’d think someone from THEM CROOKED VULTURES might have taken the time to pen a decent tune or two (Plymouth Pavilions, 10 Dec). The sprawling ‘Elephants’ came close to prime QOTSA fare but you got the impression that this jam band would struggle to transcend the pub circuit if it wasn’t for all that blind hero-worship. Featuring QOTSA’s Troy Van Leeuwen, SWEETHEAD were another example of a band that allow their personnel pedigree to get in the way of a good tune. Even swaggering, glam-vamp singer, Serrina Sims, couldn’t save them from the slavering jaws of fashion-rock mediocrity.
It’s not every day you see legendary melodic punks, DILLINGER 4, in the UK, less so in the South West. As soon as bassist/vocalist, Patrick Costello – the veritable Jack Black of punk rock – got to work with his onstage shtick, you just knew that greatness was imminent (Exeter Cavern, 11 Dec). Or, perhaps, not. The Minneapolis quartet have made some of the most enjoyable punk rock records of the past 15 years but a patchy sound rendered the energizing likes of ‘Whiskeycokenoice’ less than overwhelming. Before them, London garage-punks, THE SHITTY LIMITS, wasted no time spurting out short, volatile globs of rudimentary yet stylish rock’n’roll. While local Britpunk heroes, ANNALISE, made a welcome yet somewhat poker-faced return to the Cavern floorboards.
We had the pleasure of sharing a stage with CHRIS WOLLARD & THE SHIP THIEVES and DRAG THE RIVER (Croft, Bristol, 15 Dec). Wollard’s Southern country-rock combo harnessed the barnstorming twang of Uncle Tupelo with hints of The Draft. But, over at the other end of the country spectrum, Drag The River’s stark, whisky-soaked, Lucero-esque confessions stole the show – the duo’s weathered harmonies and understated guitars deployed to brilliant, if repetitive, effect. Oh, and happy New Year. See-ya bye.
Backbone (john...@yahoo.co.uk)