Shred Yr Face 2: The Bronx, F##cked Up & Rolo Tomassi - Garage, Glasgow - 27/2/09 & Academy 2, Birmingham - 6/3/09
4/5
By: Liam Manley
[F**KED UP]
[27th February, Glasgow]
Between the opening blast of 'Son The Father' and the close of their set, there's no escaping F**ked Up's Damian Abraham. Singing from the perilously narrow ledge of the balcony, the centre of the mosh pit, the bar and, at one point, the toilet, we're never more than a few inches away from his semi-sweatpanted arse crack.
We're in no doubt that this is a loveable beast of a bastard they've unleashed, bounding out across the stage, over the barrier and into our hearts; we all swarm towards his hulking figure offering water, hugs and assistance with his mic lead from one end of the venue to the other. Constantly wrapped in embraces, he exclaims, "You all act like you've never seen a fat dude before! I feel loved! I feel like Beth Ditto!". All the while his stage-bound colleagues plough through the majority of Chemistry Of Common Life or older cuts 'Police' and 'Baiting The Public' with magisterial fervour.
During the break, a trip to the merch stand proves F'd Up's mid-set dedication of 'Black Albino Bones' to "anyone who collects records" to be anything but flippant; a plethora of LPs, 12"s, 7"s, CDs, tapes and DVDs awaits us, making the band an obsessive's dream come true. To its left sits a rather bare Bronx table manned by a grumpy, diminutive figure, a box labelled "I Work For Tips" in front of him. Could the lone 7" on offer and barely disguised begging be a harbinger of disappointment to come?
Back in the main room, The Bronx walk onto the stage and into my life for the first time since 2003. The intervening years have seen their bass player swapped for some dude from The Doobie Brothers, while singer Matt Caughthran now wears his face like a Richard Nixon mask. But their L.A. hardcore remains as thick and fleshy as Caughthran's neck, dispensing with early material like a well-oiled bolt gun.
Any anxiety of bathos is entirely dismissed as 'Around The Horn', 'Knifeman' and 'Enemy Mind' prove their latter work lean and visceral, and my ignorance misplaced. Prior to 'Sh*tty Future', Caughthran produces a PR-friendly cardboard cut-out of a camo-clad soldier. "Make way for the US Army!!", he cries, presenting it to the front row, "US Army coming through!". Within seconds the head is ripped clean off, as though devoured by ravenous zombies. The gleefully hectoring chorus over, the song halts for Caughthran to announce: "You don't respect the US Army! You don't respect our Navy! You don't respect our Marines! And for that... YOU GET THE NUCLEAR BOMB!" With a snare crack it kicks in full-throttle; Caughthran, a punk-rock Major T.J. Kong, rides over the mosh pit, now a frantic sea of flesh and sweat-soaked cotton. A closing howl-along of 'Heart Attack American' leaves us to stumble out onto the streets, ears ringing and cheeks contorted in face-aching grins.
[6th March, Birmingham]
[ROLO TOMASSI]
"Good evening, we're Rolo Tomassi", says Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby. "And you ROOOOOCK!!", replies Rock Dude Extra #1 from Cameron Crowe's Singles. You'll do well to ignore that sleeveless throwback and concentrate your attention elsewhere. Most definitely away from this Sunday school prog-screamo act. Intricate and precise, their performance is hollow, save for one thing: the dead air trapped inside the songs.
After nine shows in a row, you could forgive F**ked Up's Damien Abraham a little fatigue. Yet here he is, irrepressible as ever, serenading us from the three foot space between the bar and ceiling. He has to improvise tonight, what with the lack of anything obvious to scale or vault; a three-wall upper room of the main venue - Academy 2 has all the charm of a rain swept jumble sale. With a too-quiet PA and the stage seemingly an afterthought, this is a world away from the superb Glasgow Garage.
All this is of little consequence to Abraham, steaming through the room, F**ked Up's three-pronged guitar attack swirling after him. His throat near worn out, he's happy to pass the mic into the audience, making 'Crusades' and 'Twice Born' more communally anthemic than ever.
[THE BRONX]
Raising a plastic cup to the final night, "The Bronx are a little drunk right now". Not that you need Caughthran to tell you - the evidence is for all to see; gone is the posi-punk rhetoric showcased in Glasgow, eschewed in favour of chaotic hedonism: "let's throw caution to the wind, tonight... and see if we can't destroy our bodies". The change of tact is a relief, immediately salving any fears that Caughthran might switch to auto-spiel.
Despite the blood-alcohol levels, they still blast through 'White Tar', 'Notice Of Eviction' and 'Young Bloods' with urgency and intellect intact. Always verging on Kiss-shaped bombast, in an American Heartbeat the crowd is in fist-pumping rapture to 'White Guilt'. Ignoring the fact that this is a song about a coke-addicted prostitute, it's hard not to get caught up in its swagger. Joined by F**ked Up's Abraham and Jonah Falco for a spirited romp through Black Flag's 'Police Story', the camaraderie between the acts is palpable.
As is the good will of Shred Yr Face 2: The only person witnessed without a smile on their face is near the exit as I leave - The Bronx merch man; arms folded like a bad-tempered genie. But it's too late for his negativity - all the wishes have been granted.
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