The Soho Dukes march on in what can only be described as a bizarre conga, then take a bow in silence. It doesn’t last. Frontman Johnny Barracuda has a way of getting you onside, even while “Welcome to the Show” finds him chastising people for being late.
His microphone falls out during “Home Sweet Camden Town”, but mishaps suit them. They’re so London you half expect “The Lambeth Walk”, Pearly Kings and Queens and a detour through the Old Kent Road. Yet this is glam rock, with enough grubby guitar to keep its boots firmly planted.
“Elaine” contains one of my favourite lines of recent years: “We’re so different, her and me. She went to university.” That proudly working-class outlook runs through “Suited and Booted”, surely their anthem, while “Bovver Boys” adds punk jiggery-pokery as Barracuda waves either a bat or a giant sex aid. From here, it’s difficult to tell.
“We respect you so much, Wolverhampton,” he announces, “we’re tuning up.” Then comes the raucous brilliance of “Sunday Magazines”, its harmonies and piano conveying absolute glee. “Holloway” finishes things off before a guitar is thrown to a roadie, who catches it with such aplomb he should have played for my lot on Tuesday, when our keeper threw the ball at a striker’s feet and cost us a point.
Still, the Dukes should probably stick to rock ’n’ roll. They’re gifted at it.
The contrast when The Karma Effect arrive to a medley of Aerosmith songs is striking. The Dukes’ glorious eccentricity gives way to something classy, ambitious and immediately impressive. “All Night Long” establishes that this is a brilliant rock ’n’ roll band.
“Wrong Again” has that Black Crowes groove and swagger, but they’ve got the songs, the talent, the lot. By “Dangerous Love”, you suspect they know it too. There’s confidence here, and every reason for it.
“Waiting on a Miracle” is infectious and brilliant, while “Ride or Die” is introduced by Henry Gottelier as “slow and funky”. Fair enough. There’s plenty of funk in “Doubt She’s Coming Back” too, with Gottelier an energetic presence throughout.
By the time “Steal Your Heart” arrives, though, you can only marvel at that voice. What a singer. Stealing hearts is precisely what they intend to do, and on this evidence they’ll have little trouble.
You know the drill: “We’re the Quireboys and this is rock ’n’ roll.”
For the next 75 minutes, the five make a convincing case for being one of the greatest rock ’n’ roll bands of their vintage. “Jeeze Louise” barely gets going before you remember just how unbelievable this band is.
“Can’t Park Here” boogies, and when Spike sings about drinking double Scotches like they’re going out of style, you suspect he’s done the research. “Misled” turns him into a fire-and-brimstone preacher, giving it the full gospel treatment while Willie Dowling, invariably introduced as “Willie from The Grip”, works the piano.
Thinking about it, “Sweet Mary Ann” might be the reason I love country music. It was perhaps the first proper country song I heard. “Raining Whiskey”, the Frankie Miller song, is more Stones than the Stones, and with chants for Willie and drummer Harry James ringing out, this feels like their crowd and their night.
“You and I”, Spike explains, is the song to make love to your wife to. “The best two minutes of her life.” Romance, Quireboys style.
“Hey You” and “Whippin’ Boy” bring us back to that debut, and the question nags again: has there ever been a better one?
There’s always the feeling it could all fall apart at any second. It probably couldn’t, given the musicians involved – Spike even says, “What are they hanging around with me and Nigel for?” – but he sells the possibility magnificently. “Hey Luke, what are we doing now? Will I know it?” he asks Morley.
“I Think I Got It Wrong Again” follows, complete with Spike’s slightly alarming cross-dressing aside and a march across the stage that dislodges Nigel Mogg’s lead. Amid the laughter, “King of New York” supplies the emotional moment, dedicated to Spike’s much-missed best friend Guy Bailey.
Then “Roses & Rings”, “There She Goes Again” and “7 O’Clock”, with Spike’s harmonica out, deliver a run of songs fit for the Premier League. The encore, inevitably, is “I Don’t Love You Anymore”.
They promise a new album and another tour next year. Wonderful. But I’d be here regardless. Thirty-six years ago, A Bit of What You Fancy opened the door to so much of the music I love. I still consider it one of the greatest debut albums ever made.
Whether you agree hardly matters tonight. To paraphrase Spike, the Quireboys are still keeping rock ’n’ roll alive.
