UK SUBS: punk punch paradise
Sounds. ?? ? 1979
UK Subs
Marquee
UK SUBS: punk punch paradise
IN THE dressing room the old man is helped off his crutches and lowered into
an armchair gasping for breath. A man white surgical uniform smiles at the three
members of the UK Subs who gaze at the old man anxiously and slowly injects
ten fluid ounces of monkey gland juice into one of his withered veins.
Suddenly the old man's body is twitching and shaking, a vivid blue blurr
of vibrating flesh as, like in some old sci-fi film, the body undergoes an amzing
transformation.
Grey hairs fall out by the busload to be replaced by raven black locks, lax muscles
tighten and teeth grow back and half the wrinkles on his face smooth out
until in place of the dressing-gowned pensioner stands the bondage begarbed
fighting figure of Chas Harper, lead singer of the UK Subs, born again,
ready for action.
"CHARLIE - WHERE ARE YOU?" Out on the dance floorthe fans are getting impatient.
They are young, decked out in last year's punky sadrags, and dedicated to
the point of bigotry as unfortunate Coventry band the Urge discovered,
shamefully bottled off stage in Strummer-recommended style after only two numbers
(hope you do it to the Clash if they're as bad as the last time I saw 'em
next time round, kids).
But their dedication is totally justified 'cos the Subs mean something
to them. Like a bright flame flickering in a dark night, they stand
for high energy rock of the basic, barest, most enjoyable kind. Their
album for anyone who got into punk for the music instead of the pose is
a classic of its kind. And live - which is where they've made their name -
they rarely fail to fulfill their promise. Beyond a shadow of doubt the UK Subs
are the champions of pure punk punch here in Britain today.
A roar the like of those the Valley crowd produce when Charlton manage
to touch the ball goes up as the band flit onstage and explode into a
noise akin to the death cries of a strangled hippo with scorching syph
which is the intro to 'C.I.D.'
Then tumbling over each other come the old Subs favourites to the sheer
enjoyment of the crowd. And you can't help but reflect how many classics
they've created.
Who could resist the supercharged generalisations of 'Killer'
('Copper is the killer/No matter what you say/Put him in a uniform/And he'll put you in a grave')
or the catchy out and out assault of 'Rockers'? Half the set could be listed as examples.
I mean the Subs were always tight but right now they'd make a vestal virgin
seem like a 'London Lady' as they hammer out a sur fire succession of
pogoable nonesense, irresistible singalong metallic mayhem embellished by Charlie's
wounded buffalo hollering.
'Young Criminals' is for Carlin, Angel, Davis and all the other poor sods
who find themselves in scrummy institutions (hi ya Tone, down there in
Western Heights) and it's typical of their style, flat out rock with catchy
chorus and romantic notions: 'Got you where they want you trapped inside a cage/
You're just a victim of the modern age/You fought the system but the system won/
And when you come out make sure you have a gun...'
And 'World Wars' is another crunchy speedfreak pogodrone with those self defining lines:
'Call this existence it's nice to be alive/Gonna make a noise before I die'.
They made a great noise today. Played my favourites, threw in an excellent three newies
which proved they've yet to run out of fresh ideas, and kept getting called back for encores.
They only came back twice. Was that because of Nick's tonsilitis, or, as the grim
face of the man in surgical uniform suggested, because the effect of the monkey gland
injection is becoming less and less long lasting?
Perhaps we'll never know.
GARRY BUSHELL