Review: The Wildhearts, The Cardiacs, Deckard – London Astoria, 08/12/04
It’s not often that I manage to escape from the brilliant nightmare of our child-filled home for a night on the town, so naturally when it happens I like to make sure that it’s sufficiently memorable. And Wildhearts gigs are nothing if not memorable.
We arrived part-way through Deckard’s opening set, but the ex-Baby Chaos boys sounded much like they did when I first saw them almost ten years ago, even playing some tracks from their excellent album, Safe Sex, Designer Drugs and the Death of Rock and Roll.
I didn’t really know what to expect from The Cardiacs – would they be skinhead “Oi!” punks? Or maybe more like The Clash, with tunes instead of shouting? As it turned out they were a bit of both, and quite possibly the most bizarrely brilliant band I’ve ever seen.
Taking to the stage to what sounded like an accordion on speed, a bored-looking session drummer (actually Steve Gilchrist, drummer for Graham Coxon) and a guitarist who evidently modelled his stage persona on Yahoo Serious were joined by what I assume to be the two remaining original members, stylishly attired in suits and ties and East End gangster overcoats. They bowed to the audience, strapped on guitar and bass, then launched into a set that was equal parts punk and pomp, full of songs featuring what had to be the most complex time signatures ever written.
The lead singer, looking a little like Sting on steroids, screeched and shouted out the scattershot lyrics, occasionally taking one hand away from his guitar to hit himself on the head; while on his left, the bald-headed bass player barely moved at all. In between the high-speed punk numbers were bombastic tracks that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Muse album – overall the closest comparison I think I can make would be to Primus, with whom The Cardiacs seem to share a love of ridiculous lyrics, bizarre instrumentation and mind-bending time changes. Brilliant – go and download some of their sampler MP3 tracks now.
And then it was time for the main attraction. I think The Wildhearts are the only band I’ve seen live for the last few years – but it’s definitely worth it. This tour the setlist was picked by the fans voting on their website, so there was some new live material aired. Every track was greeted by a roar of appreciation, and the crowd sang along to every tune, even the theme to ‘Cheers’.
From the old (“Weekend”, “Everlone”) to the new (“Vanilla Radio”, “So Into You”) via the obscure (“Schizophonic”, from the limited issue “Fishing for Luckies” album) and the fan favourites (“Don’t Worry About Me”), every song was tight and perfect. Ginger and CJ’s harmonies were on top form, Random Jon Poole (bass) ran about the stage and made devil horns at the crowd, and Stidi (drums) wore a grin from ear-to-ear throughout the whole set.
All too soon it was over (with no encore, to many fans’ disappointment), and I emerged bruised and weary to make the long trip home. I also picked up an impressive gash in my arm, courtesy of an errant cigarette or fingernail, but war wounds apart it was yet again an excellent night.
Post-script
Sadly, on the other side of the world, tragedy was unfolding at a Damageplan concert when a deranged fan jumped on stage and shot and killed ‘Dimebag’ Darrell Abbott, ex-guitarist and founding member of Grammy-award-winning thrash gods Pantera. Their album, Vulgar Display of Power, was one of the ones I learned to play guitar along to.
RIP.
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