Blakfish + Gay For Johnny Depp + Outcry Collective @ The Flapper, Birmingham – 16th November 2009
Tonight the Flapper plays host to a raucous threesome – we’re denied the possibility of an awesome foursome due to first band, The James Cleaver Quintet filling their diesel car with petrol – there’s no foreplay, instead its straight down to the hardcore action wth Outcry Collective. Resplendent in their sleaze and swagger the four piece stalk the stage, spewing visceral hardcore over a twisted groove; injecting some much needed venom into the tired Rock ‘n’ Roll blueprint. With their poses, pouts and matching leathers these boys certainly look the part and one would be forgiven for thinking that they’re from Sacramento rather than Surrey.
Indeed vocalist Steve Sitkowski even delivers the between song banter in a semi-convincing American accent – the received pronounciation only sometimes slipping through – as he reels off a series of oblique reference to that tepid trinity of sex, drugs and rock and roll. The only problem is that these things are now so mundane that they no longer provoke hushed whispers much less outcry, and herein lies the Collective’s major fault, for all their bluster and barvado ultimately only serves to detract and distract from a strong sound and collection of songs which are truly awesome in their aggression.
The problem of authenticity is never an issue for Gay for Johnny Depp, as everything about their live set is so theatrical and high-camp that it’s never anything less than absolutely convincing. The New York deviants come on stage to a wall of white noise and dry ice, dressed in balaclavas and dog collars. It’s all goose stepping guitars and inverted American flags as the boys burst into their haphazard thrash. From the off vocalist Marty Leopard dives straight into the audience, sending photographers and bloggers sprawling in all directions as he commences a straight out offensive on the notions of good taste and personal space. His torso brazen with sweat, he steals people’s drinks, starts fight with audience members and gropes any girl in sight, all the while rubbing himself with a frenzied glee.
However, the band are more than just a vulgar gimmick, pick apart the debauched wreckage and you’ll certainly find twisted shards of pop. Songs such as ‘Kill The Cool Kids’ and ‘Fucking Isn’t Cheating’ have the callus hooks of a drunken boxer and if you’re listening closely you can pick out careful harmonising amongst the cathartic screams. The band dedicate their penultimate song to “any fellow Beach Boys fans” and if you close your eyes it is almost possible to picture Gay For Johnny Depp drunk and grooving out to Pet Sounds on the upper east side. Open them again and its back to reality, back to the frantic blur of dischordant power chords and homoerotic angst, and the only thing that’s certain is that these are the most twisted bunch of boys to call themselves fans of Brian Wilson since Charles Manson himself.
The final band, Blakfish, enter to a Robbie Williams track and it’s clear from the off set that they are going to do all they can to entertain you, launching into a barrage of intricate riffs and crude harmonies. It’s a minor miracle that the band can uphold such a level of tightness and technical prowess, whilst mirroring their music’s crazed contortion with scissor kicks and twisted splits, all the while slipping and sliding over the beer-drenched stage. Navel gazing self indulgence this ain’t, for Blakfish’s musical mastery is never cold or alienating – instead you’re met with the overwhelming sense that these are four ordinary guys going wild and having a great time. Indeed even when their music begins to become bludgeoning in its repetition it’s saved by its overwhelming honesty. For this is hardcore for the everyman with songs about shit clubs, living at home and Jeremy Kyle; Blakfish are vocalising everyday frustrations, albeit in screaming hysterics. This obviously resonates with the audience, who respond to the band with a celebratory exuberance, clearly reveling in the rupture they’ve kicked in the mundane routine.
Blakfish and their audience have a very particular – some might say peculiar – rapport, with frontman Sam Manville already infamous for his bilious banter. Tonight however the most merciless lines are saved for his sparring partner Thom Peckett who denounces a persistent heckler as “that little blonde shit there, feel free to spit on her stupid face. and her ginger friend”. The crowd are however for the most part on their side and and there’s not a person who doesn’t join in, including the “little blonde shit” and “her ginger friend”, as the set climaxes in the triumphant sing-a-long of “It could be worse, we could be dead, ….I don’t know how we survived but all I know is we did…..” And I’m mighty glad of it too.
Review – Adam Smith
Photos – Steve Gerrard