Music > Live Reviews

Trespass

Steamboat Tavern

31/03/25

I don't suppose folk will ever tire of talking about the punk revolution of the late seventies and the seismic effect it had on the music scene. Those of us (just about) old enough to have been around at the time, however, remember a parallel movement, just as seismic in its own way. The seed corn of punk's can-do attitude may have influenced a generation of kids, but there were others that  locked themselves away in their bedrooms and learned to play their chosen instrument. The result was an extraordinary explosion of creativity, largely unheralded at the time, and still generally unacknowledged today. While it's a time most closely associated with the fashion obsessed dressing up of the Blitz Club, scruffy young men (and it was almost exclusively young men) were dressing down, quietly learning their craft before exploiting it very loudly, it what became known as the new wave of British Heavy Metal.

Unwieldy, even as an acronym, NWOBHM inevitably means different things to different people, but to my mind was typified by bands such as Trespass, who played loud, fast, well-constructed songs with a grounded, working-class sensibility underscored by genuine musical talent. They were just one of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of bands ignored (or even mocked) by a musical press obsessed by punk and new romanticism, and ignored by a record buying public with an eye on Top of the Pops and chart success. It is something of a little miracle that while the musical press, Top of the Pops and the charts now languish in relative obscurity, the Steamboat Tavern offered the chance to see Trepass, still extant forty five years later, headline a night of East Anglian talent.

First up were the wittily entitled Male Model, whose musical influences perhaps include the speed and power of NWOBHM , but who seemed to have cast their eyes and ears further than the pub rock of Blighty. Despite heralding from Colchester, they offered up a sound more reminiscent of the Ramones or the Stooges. In a surprisingly danceable setlist - at least for the handful of brave souls at the front - of original material, it was telling that a fine version of I Wanna Be Your Dog was included. While they may not have much in common with the classic NWOBHM sound, their stated manifesto,  to "offer an escape for party-loving souls. No voting advice here" is spookily reminiscent.

Khoshekh's decision to cover Black Sabbath was equally instructive, if you were looking to work out their inspiration, in what was otherwise a set of their own material which displayed an individual talent rooted in Garage and Stoner rock. I'll confess their stately pace took a while to get into after the more immediate charms of Male Model, but once I'd settled in to the mordant rhythms of their ambitious compositions, it became clear just how good they were. A lively moss pit, albeit a very polite one, quickly developed with much bouncing and hugging going on from an obviously loyal fan base - I don't think I've ever seen so many people sporting t-shirts of a support band - who had a fine old time bopping away to a band that the Steamboat could have quite reasonably positioned as a headliner.

There was, however, more to come in what was proving to be a talent packed evening in a gem of a venue that is sadly one of an ever-shrinking number of old-fashioned boozers determinedly putting on great nights out in a friendly, community-based environment. In the nicest possible way,  organiser Ricki Flagg had thrown down the gauntlet to Trespass by showcasing these young Turks, so it was with some trepidation that I waited for a band I'd long since appreciated, but had never seen play live.

Spoiler Alert: I needn't have worried.

In hindsight, those that made a career out of playing a guitar loudly and fast might look like a result of meritocratic natural selection. There's a reason, after all, why Bruce Dickinson moved from Samson to Iron Maiden. However, the reality was so often more akin to a lottery.  There were so many bands around at the time, and so little interest from the music press and industry, that notwithstanding genuine talent, countless groups fell by the wayside. Trespass only existed for a couple of years. They recorded a handful of songs, released  a series of EPs, appeared both on the BBC and the Metal for Muthas compilation series before morphing into a Blue Blud cul de sac. And yet, listening to those songs now - over half their Steamboat set came from that period - it's remarkable how well they stand up to scrutiny.

Since the band reformed ten years ago, Trespass has inevitably undergone various line-up changes, but Mark Sutcliffe - lead vocalist and guitarist, songwriter, and all-round bloke in charge - is still at the helm, bespectacled and perhaps a little greyer but otherwise still striking an imposing figure centre stage. He was flanked by an unusually stoic guitarist and an unusually flamboyant bassist. Joe Fawcett seemed content to remain a step back, only occasionally breaking out a guitar solo (rather sweetly acknowledged by Sutcliffe when he did). Wil Wilmott, by way of contrast, looked to be having a whale of a time, air punching with a foot on the monitor while strumming his bass Lemmy style. Sutcliffe favoured pointing over punching and wasn’t above the odd rock-god stance but it was clear enough this was all in the spirit of self-aware good humour, as Jason Roberts's relentless drumming made sure that showmanship never eclipsed musicianship.

Opening with The Duel, we got to hear favourites Bloody Moon, Bounty Hunter and Bright Lights, but this was far from nostalgic indulgence. Much as I would have liked them to have squeezed in Live it Up and Eight TO Five, they didn't start until ten and - whisper it - there was a new album to promote. Stand out songs from the latest incarnation were Ghost Pilot and Blackthorn, and I’d have like to heard more. But time was short, an despite Footprints and Stick in the Sea the only offerings from later releases, it was still well past eleven by the time the classic Stormchild got an airing. The evening finished on perhaps their best known song - One of These Days - and was a fitting enough close to an exhilarating night, even though a sneaky peek at the setlist revealed the eponymous track from Wolf At the Door had been the intended climax to a night that sadly overran well past our bedtimes.

Talking briefly with Sutcliffe as he packed up, his greatest pleasure seemed less about an adoring audience and more about a shared enthusiasm for live, original music. Nonetheless, when two lads proffering copies of The Works for him to sign - the nearest Trespass came to a best of compilation - he was happy to do so, albeit a little self-consciously. Afterwards, he apologised, with a self-deprecating smile, for being interrupted by "fans". The word was spoken in quote marks, as if such undiluted admiration was somehow absurd. It struck me as indicative of the gracious humility which with he has come to terms with what might have been, but also a sign that he remains gently unaware of how significant his canon of work remains for those who would unapologetically describe themselves as - no quotes - fans.