Music > Live Reviews

Peter And The Test Tube Babies

The Adrian Flux Waterfront

17/06/18

The first (and last) time I saw Jello Biafra fronting the Dead Kennedys was some time in the early eighties. It was a mesmeric, captivating performance that remains in the pantheon of greatest gigs ever, not least because it introduced me to the band that supported them. Peter and the Test Babies, a fledging punk outfit promoting their first proper album recorded only a couple of months previously, seemed an incongruous choice as support. Their rough and ready comedic repertoire, however engaging, felt discordant in light of the Dead Kennedys’ superbly crafted, if po-faced,  agitprop, and I was left wondering if they were a last minute local replacement for whoever should have turned up. Further investigation revealed they were actually from Peacehaven - a suburb of Brighton – and that their debut album was as brilliant as they sounded on the night.  Remarkably, despite precious little fame or fortune and an extraordinary thirty five years later, they are still going strong, sounding better than ever.

Support came firstly from the Feckin Ejits – a proper old school Oi band at that, albeit with distinct ska influences, performing songs of empowerment and indignation (and a couple of cheeky covers). Only Ian Coe on drums and frontman Aiden Stirling (imagine a shaven headed Ray Winston shadow boxing) remain from the original eighties line up, but you wouldn’t have guessed it from their committed performance. Stirling wasn’t afraid to show a sterner side to his personality with uncompromising views on Saville and Jackson, though his soft underbelly was also apparent in his appreciation for having an audience to play for.

Jack the Lad followed, and in many ways it was more of the same, with a punk ska & oi sound rooted very much in the late seventies. Presumably nudged up the batting order by their local East Anglian connections, the band was until recently a covers outfit, and it was perhaps telling that a pretty good Stiff Little Fingers cover was the high point of the set. Although it was largely their own material showcased on the night, apart some unusually funky bass playing that did much to drive their sound forward, there was little to truly distinguish a performance that felt like a band still trying to find its feet.

And then finally, in what felt like just a little too long a wait in an oppressively hot and humid venue, we got to see Peter and the Test Tube Babies. There have been some staff changes over the years – Trapper and Ogs on bass and drums have long gone – but the distinctive sound of Derek Greening’s guitar is still present and correct, as, vitally, is the eponymous Peter. Peter Bywaters is a bigger man these days, but the cheeky grin is unmistakable, as is his surprisingly solid vocals.  There’s a lot of shouting going on in “Moped Lads” and “Run like Hell”, but both “The Jinx” and “Never Made It” demonstrate Bywaters can sing when he wants to. Combined with Greening’s soaring guitar riffs, they epitomise just how quirky the band is. The place Peter never made it to is the bog, and typifies both the scatological horrors of their lyrics, and their inability to take themselves seriously. Yet it’s also great music, and with no disrespect intended to the other bands of the evening, immediately revealed them to be a cut above their peers.

The brevity of their songs, combined with the furiosity of their playing, meant the band was able to get through a healthy chunk of their first two, and best two, albums, despite a slim one hour set, with classic tracks such as “Maniac”, “Banned From the Pubs” and “Run Like Hell” sounding tighter and sharper than ever. And there was still time to throw in a few more from new album “That’s Shallot” (named after Peter’s classic sign off at the end of a gig). “My Unlucky Day” and “None of Your Fucking Business” demonstrated that Bywaters was still in fine misanthropic form, although, as ever, it was all delivered with a twinkle in the eye. With a back catalogue that defies good taste and decency – “Up Your Bum”, anyone? – it was only fitting that they encored with “Elvis is Dead” (he looked just like a pregnant nun, since you ask) before closing on the monumental U2 Parody, “September”, a tune that is every bit as good as that which it mocks.

I can’t recall the last gig that zipped along so quickly – it felt like they’d been on stage for twenty minutes – nor one in which I spent its entirety grinning like a loon, and while this was more than a nostalgia fest, it certainly ticked that box for me. With Peter’s fabulous showmanship, the band’s brilliant playing, and their extraordinary catchy tunes, they should have been huge. I’m tempted to bang about how they could have been, if only they had sang about white riots, fascist regimes, and orgasm addiction, instead of littering, cross-dressing and scrounging fags. However, in the spirit of Peter’s unfailing gift for knowing when to stop, let’s just say that’s shallot.