“We’ve got half an hour,” says Spunk Volcano — as ever, we’ll assume that’s not his real name — “you’ll love us, you’ll hate us, there’ll be no in-between.”
MV will nail its colours firmly to the former mast. Dirt Box Disco are a sensation.
In disguise, presumably so the police don’t find them, the East Midlanders are rude, loud, obnoxious and totally brilliant. “Punk Rock ‘N’ Porno” starts things exactly as it should, which is to say with subtlety nowhere to be found, and “Tragic Roundabout” is about rock’n’roll. They all are, mate. That’s the point. Dirt Box Disco might just be the last punk band left.
“Burning” is the best band in the world. Or the worst. It doesn’t matter. They exist in that glorious space where both can be true at the same time. “Cinderella’s Motörhead Tattoo” underlines the beauty of the whole thing: the simplicity, the stupidity, the absolute genius of it.
“Second Hand Sex Toys” came out on seven-inch vinyl — fnar — and there’s a very real possibility that it is the point of punk perfection. “My Girlfriend’s Best Friend’s Sister” is introduced, after a heckle, with Spunk offering: “This one’s for your girlfriend, cos I’ll fuck her ’n’ all.” Which tells you everything you need to know, really.
“I Don’t Wanna Go Out With You” is as catchy as the STI they’ve most probably got, but even Dirt Box Disco have depth. “My Life Is Shit” comes with an actual serious message under the cartoon chaos.
“Keep smiling,” says Spunk at the end. “Please buy some merch because I’m getting low on drugs.”
MV loves Dirt Box Disco. That is all.
Not for nothing do Messrs Bayley, Danger, Edwards and Hateley come onstage to Apollo 440’s “Stop The Rock”, because that line — “can’t stop the rock” — applies to Wolfsbane as much now as it ever did.
They’ve all had their battles. Drummer Steve Danger is crippled by arthritis. Jase Edwards has to sit down after his myeloma diagnosis. Blaze Bayley has had heart bypass surgery. And Jeff Hateley? Well, he still wears shit sunglasses.
The thing is, none of that stops Wolfsbane. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel even more defiant. “Load Me Down” opens proceedings, and they’re here to celebrate 40 years not by leaning on the debut, as they did last year, but by digging right across the whole story. This is a career-spanning celebration, and there’s a feeling from the very start that these songs still matter to the men playing them.
“Lifestyles Of The Broke And Obscure” makes them feel like a gang again, and “Steel” proves that these four men need to sing these songs. “Spit It Out” is as punk as you like, ragged in all the right places, before “Zombies” comes with Blaze’s instruction: don’t be a zombie. Be here now.
That’s not a bad way to sum up the night, actually. Be here now. Because while there is nostalgia in the room — how could there not be? — this never feels like a museum piece. “Beautiful Lies” is brilliant to hear dusted off, and “Wings” represents the so-called white album, which gets plenty of airing tonight.
“Rock City Nights” was written about this place, and about my home town. All of it is true. Who cares anyway? There’s cowbell, there’s a gang vocal, and suddenly the years melt away. “Loco” has that effect too, while “Seen How It’s Done” — another from the white album, which Jase has apparently “remastered using voodoo” — reaches right back to those days and offers a real change of pace.
Then they give it the big one for their “top ten hit”, “I Like It Hot”, and there’s something glorious about the fact that it still sounds like trouble. “Temple Of Rock” proves they still want the hardcore, and it still sounds amazing. “Smoke And Red Light” is the origin story, if you will, and more than that, it is just a brilliant song.
“Kathy Wilson” remains the sort of thing that, if aliens are real, should probably be sent into space as evidence of what humans are capable of when they are being magnificently daft. “Manhunt” is a magnificent rabble-rouser, and “All Or Nothing” brings a real sense of band and crowd together, joined in the same glorious, loyal racket.
The fan favourites keep coming. “Ezy” is mighty, with one of those choruses that still feels too big for the room, and “Paint The Town Red” is the perfect ending. What an end. What a gig.
Thirty-five years ago, around about now, your humble scribe went along with his best mate to meet Wolfsbane at Tressines Youth Rock Club in Birmingham. We got their autographs, were given a Howling Mad Shitheads badge, and they played a set. We were 15 years old.
Therefore, Wolfsbane were the first concert we ever saw. Before Skid Row in November. Before everything, really.
Tonight, we were there again. The two of us. The four of them. And if it is not all about nostalgia, then it is still about something as special as it gets.
Wolfsbane feel like they belong to all of us.
