Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes

Frank Carter is kind of a legend in the rather niche world of British hardcore. With his trademark ginger bonce, heavily tattooed torso and those fierce blue eyes, he’s not someone you’d forget in a hurry. His reputation precedes him, reports of his infamously wild live shows spreading far and wide. He’s got some Rattlesnakes with him in this, his latest outfit of several (perhaps most famously, Gallows).

Frank appears onstage to adoring whoops and goes straight into a set consisting of songs from his latest album Blossom. He’s an incorrigible frontman, full of bravado and incredulity at the carnage he’s whipping up. The band kind of disappears behind the cult of Frank’s personality, but I would like to give a little mention to the fierce faced bass player who is just incredible, and the drummer, who plays half his set from the main floor after moving the drums down there. Because why not. A large mosh pit starts up from the word go, and folk stagedive not only from the stage but also from a couple of higher points in the room, lobbing themselves onto people’s heads and being carried aloft triumphantly. Frank himself flies through the crowd with abandon, clearly well practiced in this sort of thing. The pit is fully involved. It’s also totally all male. Frank seems to be communing well only with this part of the crowd, and everyone else (60%) feels pretty disconnected from the whole thing. Most people are staying well away from the elated half naked men in the gladiatorial arena, solidly stuck up on the ramp or at the back. Again, it’s not loud enough. I want an onslaught of sound, I want to be destroyed by the noise. I’m not. I tap my toe and push back against the moshers, trying to feel a part of it, but I can’t get there. Where’s the sensual, sweaty, physical crush that I’m always looking for? Where’s that moment when the music penetrates my soul? Nope. Instead of slaying me, Frank gets everyone to sit on the floor while he sings Beautiful Death, a slow, heart-rending ballad about the death of his father-in-law, and there’s silence in the room. It’s a bit like rest time at primary school, with overgrown boys with their tops off who have become over-excited having a time out, panting quietly. I have a weird realisation that he’s been overtly sad at this point every night on the tour when he sings this song, and the track before, Loss. He looks like he might cry. Did he cry yesterday when he sang it? It’s verging on the contrived, and I don’t know if I believe in him or even want to care. This is HARDCORE, isn’t it? I shouldn’t care. Still, he’s the boss, and he knows it. He can make these fans do whatever the fuck he wants. Even run through the fire door outside, round the bar and back into the room during a song, like a punk conga. But you know what? I was there to hear the music and see musicians play, not be ordered about by a guy who’s sad about people he’s lost or watch men jump from high places. I wanted fury. I wanted blood. I wanted to feel frightened, rather like I did at Bad Breeding’s set at Latitude this year, where the threat of what could potentially happen at a gig was so thick with promise. It certainly was a gig of two halves, with one half of the crowd probably claiming afterwards it was the best gig of their life, and the other half muttering “Meh” on their walk home.

Tonight was about the relationship and history those in the pit had with these particular songs and with Frank as a front man. He’s moved on from his furious youth. He wants to do things differently now. And while there are those who still think he’s The Absolute Tits, he’ll be able to do so. But a cliquey show filled with clichés? Not for me.