Words: William Carr, Photos: Richie Yates/Martin Hobson/Dave Lee
What did you get up to on Saturday? If your ears aren’t still ringing and feet aren’t bleeding from the constant toe tapping then you probably didn’t get down to Rockpoint Records to watch this week’s live show.
This was a mistake!
If you had come down you’d have experienced two of the freshest punk acts I’ve seen in a while. If you’ve never been to Rockpoint Records, it’s where Ozzy would go if he went for a day out at the beach and desperately needed to bite the head off a seagull in front of a crowd. Dripping with rock and roll atmosphere, there’s a record store on the top, live bands on the bottom and drinks every where else.
The first band was a tactical nuclear strike. ‘It’s just a sound check. You can all fuck off!’ John, the lead singer The Dry Retch shouted as the eager crowd approached.
Formed in Liverpool in 1999, with their irreverent attitude and self-deprecating, lighthearted lyrics, they’ve been likened to Mudhoney and Cosmic Psychos. These “spiritual bastard sons of The Stooges,” combine consummate playing with savage unrelenting, rebellious energy, which has kept them sounding strong for nearly three decades.
When the guitar pick finally dropped I knew we were witnessing masters of their craft at work.
Landing with the force of a collapsed building, their first number took us by the ears and didn’t let go. They seemed made to play in the tight confines of Rockpoint. Stepping into the audience to play his solo, John stripped away the pretense of a fourth wall. As every song drew another cheer from us, soon we felt less like spectators and more like accomplices in a spectacular, noisy conspiracy.
Punk originated as the young rebelliously fighting against a world of adults who were trying to keep them in their place. As I was serenaded by the quartet, their guitars howling, basses twanging, drums thumping and John screaming a rebel yell, I can’t help but think they’re keeping that spirit of punk alive, warning these youngsters that these older rockers won’t be kept in their lanes by anyone. And I’ll be damned if they’re not pulling it off.
Then there were Human Toys, a garage punk duo that “plays with female archetypes, coupling subversion with irony.” Described as straddling the distinct sounds of the The Ramones and The Avengers, having heard them live I’d second this comparison. As subtle as a brick through a window, they’re like a more vicious version of The Runaways that you wouldn’t introduce to your mother. Think of a more eccentric Sid and Nancy but with a happier ending.
Starting out as a garage punk project, that matched vocals with a theremin, when Poupee Mecanik met guitarist Jon Von, the stage was set. Lightening had been bottled. These two volatile chemicals combined to form Human Toys and since then have stopped pretending the world makes any kind of sense and instead have leaned wholeheartedly into the insanity.
While frighteningly precise in their playing, I was more astounded at the sheer delight in their faces as they tore up the stage. Each chorus exuded an unhinged chaos that beckoned the audience in with every beat
There are gigs where the music politely asks for your attention. Then there are the nights that grab you by the collar, turn your brain inside out and leave you wondering if you’ve been enjoying live music or a magnificent public disturbance.
This was the latter.
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