Christopher Nosnibor
Earlier in the day, my wife had recounted how a friend of hers had attended a show at The Brudenell for the first time earlier in the month. He’d been intimidated by the ‘roughness’ of the area and people setting fireworks off in the direction of people sitting at the tables outside the venue. I defended the venue and surrounding area: it may well be pretty down-market, having largely escaped gentrification and regeneration, I’d never once felt threatened or unsafe, and moreover, found the city centre of York on a Friday or Saturday night a more hostile environment than anywhere in Leeds.
I’d left York at 6pm with a sense of relief: the train station was teeming with large groups of drunk people shouting, and the Station Tap had been incredibly loud: again, I noticed it was single-sex groups who were the loudest and rowdiest. It’s not that I don’t like people, so much as I don’t like people. I particularly find herd mentality difficult to deal with, and crowds generally. Yet gigs, I can manage. In fact, I feel at home watching live music: in my head, the crowds consist of individuals with a commonality, sharing a space. This was certainly the vibe down the front here.
Admittedly, I’d felt awkward and on edge on arrival after witnessing a massive brawl outside The Dry Dock on the way to The Brudenell. On approach, I’d clocked maybe five or six guys leathering the crap out of one another with full fist blows being thrown just outside the doors. As I’d passed, on the other side of the road, five had become fifteen, twenty. Call it a scuffle, a scrap, a skirmish, a ruckus… call me a bad Samaritan for not calling the cops, but it was 6:40 in the evening, and the sound of breaking glass and witnessing a tumult of flailing limbs and people falling backwards over the ropes that line the walkway to the doors, and it was horrible. People were caught in the crossfire. The speed of the escalation, and the scale left me prickling with the realisation that shit can go down unexpectedly, and fast.
Arriving at the Brudenell, via Abu Bakir, where I picked up a couple of whopping and delicious vegetable samosas for a quid, and getting a round of Three Swords – two pints for £6.40 – I felt like I was coming home.
King Creature might not have been my first choice of home listening, but as a live warm-up, they were hard to fault. The Cornish foursome brought forth all the trappings of early 90s metal-edged rock, with heavy hints of the likes of Alice in Chains and slew upon slew of bands now dissipating in the mists of time who collectively forged the sonic backdrop to what you might call the grunge years. Combining melody and hefty riffs, and throwing on some audience participation for good measure, they play hard, and most importantly, they entertain.
King Creature
And Therapy?… Therapy? Are perhaps unexpected survivors of the early 90s ‘alternative’ explosion. Having endured the turbulence of rising from indie success to chart success on a major-label (and breakthrough single ‘Teethgrinder was hardly the most commercial of efforts) to being dropped and tossed into potential oblivion, they’ve continued to produce quality albums and to raw crowds with cracking live shows – although having first caught them touring Troublegum, it’s been 14 years since I last saw them live. They’re a band I’ve always gone back to over time, and the fact I’m here as a paying punter tonight is perhaps an indicator: I’m present as a fan rather than a reviewer, and in the event, I didn’t take a single note. Like those around me, I’m in the moment.
The set features a generous smattering of songs lifted from their attest album, and a fair array from their extensive back-catalogue – which means there are classic from through the years peppered liberally throughout. ‘Die Laughing’ makes an early appearance, as does ‘Turn’, and with ‘Opal Mantra’ crashing in hard and fast in the first half of the set. Feeble as it may be, and even feebler to admit, I found myself shedding a tear of nostalgia, as well as of joy: the band are clearly passionate about mental health and people coming together to take care of one another in these difficult and divisive times, and I was strangely touched when the woman in front of me apologised for knocking me wile dancing. It was, after all, a sold-out show (three months in advance, no less) and one expect occasional contact – and there’s a reason I wear boots with steel toecaps. The vibe was positive, and there was a lot of love and camaraderie in the room, and I make no bones about how so many shared common ground bouncing to a thumping rendition of ‘Trigger Inside.’ We probably all have a hint of knowing how Jeffrey Dahmer felt, too, and we’re all feeling it together, euphorically. Best of all, it’s clear that despite two of the band having dodgy post-kebab guts and Andy warning up front that the show could be performed in the style of GG Allin, they’re still loving what they do, and play with an energy and enthusiasm that’s infectious and impossible to fake.
Therapy?
But two bars into ‘Screamager’, everything ground to a halt: apparently there’d been an altercation at the back; someone was on the floor and paramedics had been called. The mood dropped, fell tense. Yet people remained calm, remained respectful. Strangers chatted. People looked concerned. From the stage the band looked concerned. The details of what actually happened are still emerging, but in many ways, the details are unimportant. The outline is that a disagreement got heated, fists were thrown, someone got hurt. Who the aggressors were, the whys and wherefores of the escalation, are unimportant: there is no justification for violence. Ultimately, someone got hurt, and the actions of a very small minority spoiled what had been a great evening for many. In context, on a personal level, it’s not been easy to process. It’s not that I feel less safe, and my general feelings toward humanity remain fundamentally unchanged: it’s just saddening, and sickening, that a place of safety and enjoyment should be tainted in this way.
Half an hour later, with paramedics and police in attendance, the band called it a night, and fair play. And respect to the band, the venue, and everyone else in attendance for handling the situation so well, and so respectfully.
Overthinking as I do, I’m still cogitating some 24 and then almost 48 hours later – back in my office, with a vodka, the time ticking down towards the alarm tomorrow morning. There’s a bad taste in my mouth that the Russian Standard can’t wash away, and I can’t settle with the sense that the world is getting darker, more divided, spinning into a freefall of chaos chewing at my psyche. Trump, Brexit, anarchy, a descent into a more primitive state… But then the context matters. There are lots of great people out there, and I get to spend time with them often at live music shows. And I remember, ultimately, that it’s wrong to base a judgement of the whole on a very small fraction, and you can’t let the bastards grind you down. It’s precisely the attitude that’s kept Therapy? going for nigh on thirty years, and it’s why when they do reschedule and return, I’ll be down the front once more.
