The cosy confines of this inner-city social club seemed, at first, an odd place for Fucked Up to host their travelling punk rock spectacle. However, it turned out to be the perfect venue. Vocalist Pink Eyes took full advantage of the low stage and the split-level lay-out, bounding into the crowd, going for a wander and standing atop the Brudenell’s red velvet upholstery, spouting between-song rhetoric while holding onto the ceiling.
This was my first taste of the Fucked Up live experience but most of the crowd already knew the drill. As the big man wades through them, screaming into the faces of those looking most ill-at-ease, he’s like the Pied Piper to budding local punkers who, treating him like some super-tame Russian circus bear, excitedly jump on his back and swing around his neck, partly as a ritualistic macho wrestle-dance and partly as a show of blatant PinkEyesMania: ‘‘I touched him!!’’ ‘‘He let me shout into his mike!!’’
Every major city has its local hardcore nutcase; unhinged, worldly-wise characters whose omnipresence at gigs guarantee it being more of an event. Toronto’s resident nutcase is just that bit more entertaining. He’s a scary-looking yet charming fella, playing the attention-grabbing ringleader, turning to a bit of impromptu comedy as the band take yonks to fine-tune their guitars, winning over and recruiting troops to join his creative energy collective.
As their frontman goes for a stompabout, the band plug away onstage without him and they’re a compellingly odd-looking bunch, one guitarist appears to be aged about 12 while the bassist sullenly sways her long dress in time to the fury she’s helping to create. Their thoughtful take on full-on rage rock has the requisite level of Black Flag power, locking into metronomic Krautrock drone-outs on the rare occasion when they slip out of 5th gear pace. The drummer hammers away on his minimal kit like a hydraulic machine at full pelt, ensuring everyone else has to raise the intensity levels of their big, fat familiar chord chains in order to match his power.
The NME may not been made welcome in the D.I.Y punk scene but their recent voyeurism and gushing enthusiasm for all things Fucked Up is understandable. Witnessing one of their shows is an exhilarating blast of total entertainment and their inventive, far-sighted approach to creating punk rock, particular on record, make them a refreshingly exciting band to treasure. And for all the precious scenesters who have all their early 7”s (still available at the gigs, recent converts) and bemoan their growing popularity, surely their name alone will always ensure A-list status on daytime Radio 1 will be as likely as Pink Eyes getting a hair weave and becoming the new face and body of Kellogg’s Special K.
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