Music > Live Reviews

The Levellers

The Nick Rayns LCR, UEA

10/12/16

Well, to be honest, it’s all a bit of a blur. I’ll try best I can to piece it together, but, if you don’t fancy sticking around for the long haul, just know that The Levellers were superb, and that the whole evening was a total gas. So, that said, here’s how it panned out. Probably...

As Lester Bangs or someone similar probably once said, ‘Choose your plus-one well.’ My plus-one for this evening was a man far wiser in the ways of folk punk than I, whom also happens to be a terrible influence. I introduce him here because a lot of the vagueness that the remainder of this review is subject to is his fault. Anyway, we watched first support Gaz Brookfield from the bar, and were pretty impressed. He’s got a winning presence, an assured deftness with the guitar, and an infectious energy that elevated his set. I couldn’t tell from where I was standing whether the friends he had by the end were there all along or whether he’d made them that night, but either way, he seemed pretty damn chuffed with the way things had gone. And well he might.

More beer. By then I was a little too fuggy to make a great deal of sense of main support Ferocious Dog, who had played the Owl Sanctuary a couple of weeks earlier and were, by all accounts, excellent. I remember a Mohican and a shiny drum kit, though. Thankfully, my faithful companion was on hand to assure me that they were very good and throw some positive comparisons my way. I heard him say Flogging Molly, The Clash, and The Pogues, but the rest were drowned out by Gallic fiddle-thumping. ‘What about The Dropkick Murphys?’ I said, naively. ‘Nah, not really,’ says he. ‘Too Irish. And there’s no “the”’.  Anyway, Ferocious Dog went down a storm. I’m pretty sure Ferocious Dog went down a storm.

I’m not sure why, but we were stage left and couldn’t see when the short film preceding The Levellers kicked in. From what I could gather, this brief prelude was intended to remind us of all the shitty things that have happened in the 25 years since Levelling the Land was released. Because things are fucking rosy now, right? But like I said, I couldn’t really see past the stage-left stacks, and even if I could have, it would have been pretty blurry anyway. The rising excitement was palpable, though, and here were we, stuck behind speaker cabs and a burly gentleman with a pink head that rose from his yellow security jersey like a curious blancmange.

And then, with a flourish, my plus-one was off. I didn’t hear him say ‘fuck this, I’m going in,’ but I can only assume that’s pretty much how it went down. I followed, wearing a face that was intended to convey ‘I’m sorry, I really wouldn’t normally push through like this, but I’m with the lovable yet strident rogue in front of me, and if I don’t follow him, we’ll get separated and he might get into trouble.’ I thought it was going pretty well until someone with no chin said ‘oh for FUCK’S sake,’ and glared at me like I’d taken a shit on his new conservatory roof.

This brings me on to something that has become a real bugbear of mine, and now seems as good a time as any to share it with you: if you are at a gig, and you are standing anywhere other than against the rear wall of the venue, you are standing in front of someone. Not only that, but at some point in the evening you moved to be in front of that person. That’s how it works. So, if someone moves in front of you, don’t be a prick about it, especially if they’re doing it as politely as is possible in the circumstances. It’s a rock ’n’ roll gig, not your insufferable child’s nativity play, and if being lightly jostled is going to spoil your evening, maybe only go to seated concerts. Or, better still, stay at home you miserable twat.

So, there we were, suddenly in the throng, when the Levellers smashed into the joyous One Way behind a confetti-cannon blast that filled the air with little white rizlas. I was wearing a long scarf and carrying a beer, which was now full of soggy tissue, so I figured the best strategy to avoid losing or being strangled by said scarf would be to stuff its extremities down my pants. Which I did. And that, Your Honour, is how I came to be pissed-dancing to The Levellers while fishing papier-mâché from my San Miguel as my crotch bulged with wool. I was having a great time.

Earlier that afternoon I’d revisited The Levellers’ classic Levelling the Land, knowing that they’d be performing it whole. Two things struck me: one, it’s really REALLY good, and two, it’s as relevant as ever, almost depressingly so, in fact. Here we are, 25 years later all grown-up in this grim beast that is 2016, and songs like Another Man’s Cause and One Way could’ve been written yesterday.

Not that that seemed to bother anyone, least of all The Levellers, who attacked every song with the passion, energy, and commitment of a band 25-years younger. The sound was enormous, the crowd in excellent voice, and the songs vital and wonderfully played. It was a triumphant and joyous set.

Once the Land had been well and truly Levelled, we retreated to a safe distance and watched the second half of the set from the relative comfort of the side-lines. I really don’t remember too much apart from people dancing, like, everywhere, and having an uncomfortable pressure on my bladder, which turned out to be beer and a scarf. Two things struck me at this point: Levellers fans are an incredibly cool and friendly bunch, and no-one bothers filming their gigs on their phone, which is testament to how involving a Levellers performance is.

And that’s pretty much all I remember. Plus-one and I, grinning from ear to ear and sweaty, stumbled home, soundly Levelled. The hangover was a fucking shocker, though.