Upon arrival at the Ballroom, it was clear
that this was not your average Thursday night
gig. The venue was filled to back bar with denim
jacket-clad diehard Turbojugends (is that the
correct collective noun?) wearing sailor hats
and drinking a quantity of Red Stripe I’d
only previously witnessed during an evening in
Oxford that culminated with myself, a bleary-eyed
fresher throwing up in my best friend’s
parents air bed. That may be a rather unrelated
story so I’ll leave it there, but I do find
it necessary to state that his old folks weren’t
actually sleeping on it at the time.
Anyway, back to Camden, and opening for Norway’s
largest non-hand cream related export was DJ Daniel
P. Carter. Considerable care must be taken here
not to confuse this bearded vinyl-spinner with
the fly-half Daniel Carter of the New Zealand
All Blacks, you know, the all-time highest points
scorer in International Rugby Union? Anyway, I’m
sure that 99% of you won’t have too much
of a problem avoiding this comparison, however
I must say I battled internally to suppress the
overwhelming urge to vocally express my disappointment
that he hadn’t opened his set with a one
man performance of the Haka. I did the maths you
see, and one mild mannered guy in his office suit,
fresh from a day of staring at spreadsheets would
find it difficult to Chuck Norris his way through
a crowd of hundreds of Death Punk fans who had
taken exception to the fact a skinny little chap
had heckled a perfectly decent support act by
yelling sports-related insults in his direction.
Here we are, into the third paragraph and I’ve
made nothing more than a passing reference to
the music. So let’s press on – the
first half of Carter’s DJ set contained
plenty of punk and metal anthems which were generally
appreciated by the excitable crowd, however the
one noticeable theme was that the songs actually
mixed about as well as Chris Brown at Germaine
Greer’s Christmas party. I’m not sure
quite why this was, as Carter is clearly an accomplished
DJ so it was no surprise that he eventually displayed
his skills by pulling it around in the second
half and had the tunes interlocking nicely towards
the end: a particular favourite being The Clash
into AC/DC into Jay Z (yup, Jay Zed) and by now
the venue was full of beer-swillers all but ready
to start riots when he duly closed the set to
well deserved cheers and applause.
The lights were dimmed, the decks were cleared
and the drinks refilled, paving the way for the
Bam Margera-championed Turbonegro to enter the
fold, continuing their well received European
tour. And as you’d expect from a band enthusiastically
supported by a man who’s accustomed to goading
his friends into inserting toy vehicles into their
anuses, they didn’t do it half-arsed. There
were all the usual stage costumes, notably guitarist
Rune in the customary sailor hat, and recent addition
lead vocalist Tony Sylvester in a leather waistcoat
and matching leather hat, looking not dissimilar
to how you’d expect Fred Durst to dress
at a Fifty Shades of Grey themed orgy. Remember,
these are the guys who began life as a band called
‘Nazipenis’. Subtlety with this lot
is seldom forthcoming. A breakneck rendition of
All My Friends are Dead early in the set sent
the Turbojugends (still not sure of that collective
noun), and Gimme Some was another highlight, churning
guitars and ripping, thudding bass commonplace
throughout. The atmosphere was an electric and
eclectic mix of violence, hedonism and sexuality;
beers were thrown with as much intensity as Tommy
Akerhodt’s drumsticks while the musicianship
was outstanding and the band displayed the kind
of stage chemistry you’d expect from a group
that have entertained audiences for around twenty
years - even if they do employ the same kind of
revolving door policy towards bandmates that Jordan
usually reserves for her boyfriends.
Sylvester took time out of the set following Wasted
Again to address the baying crowd with possibly
the most sublime anti-conservative statement I’ve
ever had the pleasure of witnessing:
“You know what’s wrong with the UK?
You can’t double your confectionary with
drug use any more...I used to smoke my heroin
off the foil of a Kit Kat, but they fucking stopped
using foil, and I blame Thatcher for that.”
I think I vaguely remember reading that quote
in a copy of Labour’s 1992 election manifesto,
although I can’t be certain.
Elsewhere in the set, Locked Down was played with
venom and repetition, drawing fist pumps shout-a-longs,
all of which was made more enjoyable from my point
of view, by the fact that Tony Sylvester had recently
re-emerged from left of stage dressed in 18th
Century King’s attire, complete with velvet
gown and silver crown. I like to imagine that
backstage at their gigs, the band demand a dressing-up
box filled with various dramatic attire, like
the ones we used to have at primary school, where
all the costumes are permanently creased and the
fireman’s outfit still smells of the chubby
kid who had worn it the week before after eating
too much cheese. Thinking about it rationally,
I’d imagine that if such a box were to exist
on the road with Turbonegro, it’d smell
of recycled Jim Beam and used Durex.
The encore came to finally close the evening off,
and the now visibly blowing frontman rattled through
Are You Ready (for some Darkness) while the crowd
aggressively ran into each other, sending sailors
hats skyrocketing into orbit. The show was a fantastic
spectacle, the crowd were lively but good natured,
and the bands antics, besides nudging towards
the tasteless and vulgar, were as tongue in cheek
as they ever have been. Turbonegro never have
been for the easily offended, but push past the
posturing, shock tactics and schitck, and what
you’re left with is a well oiled live band
that provides a great evening’s entertainment.
I’ll leave you with my favourite lyrics
from the timeless (and now considered classic)
I Got Erection, played to round the evening off
in style: “When I set a house on fire -
ERECTION/ Once a liver, now she’s a dier
– ERECTION/When I dig hole in the ground
– ERECTION/ When I hear that deathpunk sound
– ERECTION!”
Personally, I couldn’t envisage a series
of scenarios less likely to evoke physical arousal,
besides perhaps filling out an E1-11 form while
listening to Chris De Burgh, but whatever lights
your candle, lads.
Turbonegro 4/5
Review By Jack Turner
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