By Monk
More than a decade ago, Kory Clarke was described on this very site as “one of the last true great rock ‘n’ roll frontmen”. Certainly, the man also nominated as the godfather of acid punk, is one of the most charismatic, dynamic yet confusing and enigmatic personas of his generation. So, which side of his character would he reveal on this, the final night of the most recent European jaunt by the latest incarnation of his “rock and roll is performance art” distillation? Well, there was only one way to find out, wasn’t there, and that was jump aboard the thrill ride with the ultimate space age playboy and his gang…
Returning after an extended hiatus, which has also seen them revamp their line-up with a combination of youth (in terms of a drummer not even out of his teens yet) and experience (in the form of bassist Mark ‘The Hallion’ McCallion). openers Wild Heat immediately have us running those ‘Red Lights’ with their pedal to the floor sleaze-inflected classic rock groove.
There is no let up in their Usain Bolt rivalling pace, as they effortlessly segue one song into the next, dosing us up with their brand of ‘Filthy Love’ as they ‘Hustle’ us with their straight-forward no-nonsense approach to laying down their party-friendly riffage. The heat is definitely wild – most literally, as we’re all sweating buckets already – but these guys aren’t messing around as they blast through their set, delivering ‘banger after ‘banger with inherent consistency. The only negative to their highly efficient set is the closing cover of ‘Crazy Train’: with two full albums under the belts, the beys have more than enough material to fill this sparse 30 minute allocation, so this is a bit of a needless but nevertheless crowd-pleasing sign-off.
Even before he takes the stage, Kory has stamped his mark on the venue, with his hessian artwork pinned to the walls before a crescendo of guitars signals his actual arrival, as he saunters on from the side of the stage, dressed in very un-rock’n’ roll pastel shades of white and biege before draping himself in typically laconic style off his microphone stand.
But, despite this laidback entrance, both Clarke and his multi-national backing band have their ‘Rocket Engines’ firing on all cylinders right from the off, delivering sweat-soaked recreations of that iconic Noo Yawk punk’n’roll sound that both roll back the clock and chime the time as here and now. Proving that rawk ‘n’f’n’ roll is definitely, and defiantly, ‘The Drug’, we don’t need a second invitation to get wasted (sic) on it’s intoxicating attraction. Would we rather be home watching second or third rate Friday night ‘Television’? ‘No No No’ sir, not us – especially when we can be a front row witness to an A list punk ‘n’ roll performance that is as vibrant, vital and viscerally relevant as this…
KC still obviously lives, breathes and relishes r’n’r and is enjoying every second of doing so, wrenching each single ounce of sweat from both his lithe frame and his ‘Rotten Soul’, dripping it onto the stage and then licking it up and spitting it straight back out again. This is punk ‘n’ roll at its most acidic, it’s most raw yet it’s ironically most polished, appealing to both the most basic levels of our primal spirit and the upper ones of our cerebral challenges.
This #SpaceAgePlayboy is defiantly ‘Punk And Belligerent’… and long may he remain so, especially when he can outlast most young pretenders by retaining his unrelenting energy for an action-packed 95-minute masterclass in how to deliver this sort of arrogantly cock-swaggering confident, middle finger raising no fucks given sweat-soaked ROCK and fucking ROLL!
I’ll gladly take a trip #Downtown to #TheWasteland in his company anytime he sends out a grime-encrusted invitation to join him.
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