Tim Wheeler reckons that 31 years ago, Ash played their “first big show” here, supporting PWEI.
Quite how we’ve reached the point in rock ‘n’ roll where the Downpatrick mob are opening at the Civic Hall again rather than headlining it, Christ knows. But—as my dad always says—we are where we are, and just be grateful that they’re here. Forty minutes, banger after banger.
If you start with “Goldfinger” and move to “Angel Interceptor,” you’re doing something right.
Almost 50 these days (MV is a couple of years older, so knows this from painful experience), yet still somehow the same kids they always were. “Orpheus” rocks a little harder than the rest but still carries that same sweet melody. Rick McMurray anchors it all down, and they pull massive hits out of their back pockets whenever they damn well choose.
That means “Shining Light,” and it means “Kung Fu,” but just as important is the scuzzy brilliance of “Braindead,” where Wheeler makes that Flying V sound glorious in between.
They’ve got a new single coming out, and their take on “Jump in the Line” is a perfect sugar rush—giving bass man Mark Hamilton the chance to scream.
Professional enough—and a wonderful live band—to leave “Girl From Mars” until near the end. But let’s be real here: only one song closes this, and “Burn Baby Burn” is still a proper anthem. “Destructive love is all we have,” after all.
Ash always seemed to fly under the radar, a little like their countrymen Therapy? No matter how good they are—and that’s still the case, despite them being sensational for over 30 years.
To be fair, not many bands would have an act as good as Ash opening for them—but then, there hasn’t been a band in the last 30 years with the confidence of The Darkness.
It’s been 22 years since they saved rock ‘n’ roll (I truly believe this) with Permission to Land, and that means it’s been 22 years since they were meant to play next door—until they got so big, so fast, that they had to move the gig here. Tonight is sold out, too. They endure.
It’s a brave set—given that a lot of it is from an album that ain’t out yet (and unless you have the review copy I have, you ain’t heard it… just sayin’). They open with a single from it: “Rock ‘n’ Roll Party Cowboy.” The line that follows—”I ain’t gonna read no Tolstoy”—kind of sums it up.
They. Do. Not. Care. What. People. Think.
They are, however, mighty. They are majestic. They toss out “Growing on Me” like it’s no big deal—second song in.
Then they follow it with “Get Your Hands Off My Woman,” because they can. And if AC/DC would like their riff back, well, “Mortal Dread” is still a superb piece of fun.
It almost doesn’t matter what they play—though “Motorheart” is a beauty—because they are a magnificent live band. Everything about this gig is basically an arena rock show: the backdrop, the theatrics, all of it.
Another new single, “Marching Through Fire,” sees everyone marching on the necks of Mumford & Sons (you had to be there). But here’s the thing: its chorus—”I’ve fallen in love with rock ‘n’ roll”—captures the vibe.
“Barbarian” (and its dramatic monologue) is heavy, but Manowar never had their tongue in cheek like this.
Like power metal, though, on many levels, this is ludicrous. A garage rocker, “The Battle for Gadget Land” would be, but for one thing: The Darkness know. It’s cool.
They intersperse this with some old ones. “Love Is Only a Feeling” gets arms waving, while “The Longest Kiss” gets people dancing—and you don’t have to look too hard to find Queen in that one (and not just because Rufus Taylor is behind the kit).
Taylor takes lead vocals for “My Only,” an old-school slice of rock ‘n’ roll balladry.
Then one of rock’s greatest frontmen, Justin Hawkins, is back behind the mic for “Japanese Prisoner of Love.”
Singalongs don’t get bigger than “Friday Night”—though no one from the Black Country actually pronounces it “dar-ncing” in real life, like they do here.
A snippet of “Immigrant Song” ushers in “I Believe in a Thing Called Love”—and my God, the damn thing can still carry a crowd. There’s even (surely?) the first-ever mosh pit at a Darkness show.
The encore brings a costume change for Hawkins and an acoustic number from the new record, “Weekend in Rome,” complete with dramatic monologues and roses thrown onstage (at least it’s not gladioli, like the bastard Smiths).
Then comes the final new one: “I Hate Myself.” The best track on the new record. Trust me. I’ve heard it.
And finally when “Love on the Rocks with No Ice” ends things, and Hawkins has been chaired around the venue on the shoulders of a roadie, you can only reflect on what’s always been certain: as preposterous as The Darkness should be, they are just as brilliant.
And they did save rock ‘n’ roll. Still do.
