The set goes surprisingly well, and no one throws anything at us, which is nice. It's nice to be on a large stage for once again. It's almost like it was back in the old days. People actually seem to remember us and call out for the songs. I have enough room to run around and pull out Tim's leads for him. Serves him right for standing between me and my amplifier I say. There are no allowances for encores, which is good in a way, as we have played pretty much everything that we do anyway and we have filled our allotted timeslot. It's a funny feeling to walk offstage knowing that for all we know, that's the last anyone will see of us, and that we go from being The Shapes back to five individuals with different places to go to. Of course there's still the little matter of the money, but as soon as we are paid, Tim and Dave wander off into the night.
However, the rest of us stay around because there's more fun to be had. We have backstage passes to the biggest punk rock event in the UK, so it's not as if we're going home any time soon.
After TV Smith does his punk troubadour set, it's the Radio Stars. I can't help but feel partly responsible for dragging them out of retirement to do this, as it was me that gave up their contact details to the Rebellion organizers, but it has to be said they are one of my favorite bands from the old days, so it wasn't entirely selfless of me. Their bass player is one Martin Gordon, late of not only the Radio Stars, but also of Sparks, and played on their one listenable album, Kimono My House. It was his sound on that album that led me into a Rickenbacker bass acquisition habit that I can't possibly afford, and that continues to this day. I can now repay him by having him dragged from Berlin where he lives, to play songs he hasn't had to play in nearly as long as The Shapes. They are still great to watch though, and do all the hits, even though Martin looks like he'd rather be undergoing a root canal than deal with the monitor mix. I know what he's going through, trust me, it wasn't any better for me. Their guitarist, Ian McLeod has apparently finished doing summer season as Richard III, because he now has a proper haircut, whilst their drummer plays barefoot with his trouser legs rolled up. There may have been a flood in their dressing room, or he may be a Freemason, or a combination of both. He wanders off before the last number for some reason, but is persuaded to return, probably because Martin was hiding his socks. It's good to catch up with Martin after their set and drink their beer, ours being all gone at this point. Like us, they are all going their separate ways after one more date, and like The Shapes, it may be another 25 years before we see them again, though we do kick around the idea of doing a few dates together sometime at some point in the future. At this rate, it will probably be to celebrate Andy Ellison's centenary. However, if you decide that you don't really want to wait that long to see them, they have decided that they are available once again for weddings, bar-mitzvahs, corporate events, mobile discos, carpet cleaning etc. You can contact them at
gigs@martingordon.de. If you do, there might even be an outside chance that The Shapes will be supporting them, but Martin was probably only being polite and has probably changed his phone number by now so don't get too excited.
Back to our dressing room to find that 999 are there now. I'm actually quite a fan, so I decide to get them to sign my cover of Nasty Nasty that I brought for exactly this occasion. I walk in on the guitarist having a poo, and apparently this is not a good time to ask for an autograph. Really? How rude. I lend Arturo, their bassist (and part time Lurker) my bass lead, because I'm good like that, and also because he's the size of a small house and could quite easily kill me if he wanted to.
Anyway, after that little interlude, it's off out front to watch them, and a fine job they do of it too. Afterwards I have a nice little chat with Pablo from 999 about jumping out of airplanes, as like me, he's done a bit of that too. Apparently he works for the British Museum these days. It's funny what all us old punks are doing these days in between reliving the glory days. 999, it has to be said, are vastly underrated, and they've consistently been the hardest working band in punk rock.
I can't think of a band that's worked so consistently over the years and still gives it everything they have every time they step out. Go see 'em.
Up next are the UK Subs. Well, it's Charlie Harper and a revolving cast of thousands these days, but despite my utter failure to recognize him, he's got old stalwart Alvin Gibbs there with him this time on bass. He may be in sight of a telegram from the queen, but you wouldn't know it from the energy that he puts into it, and the crowd of course loves him. I have to admit that I didn't have that high of an expectation for the Subs, but they blew everyone away. The two new young guys on drums and guitar had really done their homework, and the Subs are allowed the first return to the stage for an encore, giving me the vital extra minutes I needed to go through their fridge and remove any extra beers.
Penetration is the next act up, and they play like they have never been away. They've always been another cruelly overlooked band, and the treatment they got at the hands of Virgin Records back in the 70's didn't help them any. There's no reason at all that they couldn't have been huge, and tonight's show proves that beyond a doubt. Pauline's voice is still like a weapon, and they are one of the few bands on the bill tonight apart from The Damned to debut new material. It's good to see them back, and let's hope that they get the respect they deserve this time around.
And now on to the part of the evening reserved for those in the punk community with severe and active mental health issues. It's Moped time. I couldn't actually believe that Johnny Moped was, one, alive, and two, able to play. I mean, he was famous for having to be kidnapped by his band before shows or he'd never turn up. On one famous occasion, he was found queuing up outside his own gig waiting to pay to get in. I think that most people would consider themselves ahead of the game at a Moped gig if he actually came within five miles of the venue, let alone entered it. Actually playing would be a bonus. His old right hand man Slimey Toad was up there with him, so if you closed your eyes, you could actually imagine yourself back at the Roxy in 1997. I'm sure if you wanted the full effect of being back at the Roxy in 1977, you could have had someone piss up your leg, and then have wandered outside and asked a complete stranger to punch you in the face in the street afterwards, but there's no need to go that far.