The Hop, Wakefield
7th September 2012Time slows to the rhythmic breath of a terminally comatose car crash victim. Three beads of sweat shimmer in the stage light and find a forking path down the face of the hot and sweaty man. Aside him, the taut figure of his punk rock brethren reverses his muscular, ripped upper limb in preparation for a colossal chord unleash. God’s own bass drum kicks like an atomic tequila slammer, a shudder – nay, spasm – or aural endorphin ripples through the room, the religious fervour of the crowd heightened to cosmic possibilities. The man atop this plinth of adulation turns, microphone gripped, to his waiting masses. “Nakkas” he says. “Nakkas, Nakkas, Nakkas.”
Rewind five months previous and who would have thought this
bunch of boozers would be headlining at the legendary Hop venue? No me – I’d
never heard of em. Fast forward a month from that and these guys are supporting
The Cribs. Talk about career trajectory! And yet here I am, at their last ever
gig. The light which burneth twice as bright burns half as long. In that case,
these guys are like them shitty bath candles you get in Wilkinsons – two
burnings and we are done! Pretty lazy. Least, I would have said that but I now
see they encapsulate a raw (and rare) true punk spirit. But lets get back to
some proper chronology (fast forward four months, then rewind two hours).
Now, sadly, I missed opening act Protectors due to traffic
issues on the M62 which in my day simply wouldn’t have happened. I’ve written a
strongly worded letter on the matter and expect a reply in the next fourteen
days. I hear second hand that their greatest hits set – for singer Chris is now
retiring from live performance – was a thing of beauty and was really quite
moving. I know a kindred spirit when I hear one, and the fact he has been part
of some of the greatest Wakefield
bands and produced some of its best music ever obviously puts us in close
company. Another thirty years and you’ll be up there with Clive Smith, son! But
the title of legend is truly deserved.
Which fucking tank? That Fucking Tank! I did arrive in time
for this interesting rock n roll band and they nearly blew my bloody ears off!
They certainly know how to rock the house (pub, in this case) and despite their
singer not turning up it is a pumped turn from the groovy tank brothers. Judging by
their aggressive moniker I expect the singer would have been quite
confrontational. I’m glad he wasn’t there to be honest; there’s no need for
that kind of thing. Boys – you are here to entertain. In fact, I’d go as far as
to say – drop the frontman, you don’t need him. That one’s for free fellas.
But the audience are here for one thing only. The return of the fish-boys. Despite encouraging everyone to pretend its 1995, the year punk ‘broke’ you may recall, these guys are so about the present, the today, the now. Perhaps a modern reference would be a useful journalistic tool to help illustrate this point? So, these guys remind me of The Expendables (they don’t, I’ve never seen it) in that they are four legendary, iconic rockers coming out for one last mission. That mission? To rock!
And like a clever film, the end of the review returns to its
opening image. With the energy of men 7/8ths their age, they blast out a slurry
of punk noise, sweat poring out of pours, muscles rippling in the half light.
It’s nice to see some real men rocking out for a change instead of these twee
kids and their humility. Life begins at forty and Retarded Fish prove that
tonight. They remind me when music was fun and about hanging out with your
buddies with a few ales. It’s funny and like a big celebration and I’m sad to
see them leave the stage after only half an hour, though with all the head
bopping I was doing, it was probably for the best. A great night that made me
feel young and hopeful about the world. Retarded Fish are just one of those
bands you wish you were in, you know what I mean?
Photo & Video: Dean Freeman
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