The Ramonas @ The Owl Sanctuary
A quasi-religious experience
I normally stay well away from tribute acts. Far too often the sound is nothing like the original artist, or the sound is passable but the look is hopelessly unlike the tributee. However, on a personal recommendation, and seizing the opportunity to make my first visit to the phoenix-like reincarnation of our beloved Owl Sanctuary in Timber Hill, I am tempted out on a Sunday night to experience The Ramonas, an all-girl homage to the New York kings of punk, The Ramones.
Opening the show is Wymondham's own homage to early '70's British rock, Desert Sleds who, after thanking us for giving up The Antiques Roadshow to come and see them, proceed to delight and impress in equal amounts. Playing their own material, and fronted by the amiably laid-back yet assuredly rock'n'roll Thomas Everett, they bring the venue to life, singing of the Whiskey Demon and the cider-drinking Quiet Type. Ian Mack's mastery of the Flying V brings the memories flooding back, making these guys a must see at a venue near you.
The Ramonas waste no time in getting stuck into their set, which consists of back-to-back performances in their entireties of two of the best-known Ramones albums – 1977's Rocket to Russia, and the following year's Road to Ruin. That's twenty six songs delivered at breakneck speed, punctuated only by rapid-fire screams of '1,2,3,4...' from bass player Margy Ramona. Vocalist Cloey Ramona looks and moves closest to the real thing, complete with Dee Dee hair, leather jacket and shades, but this is more about a passionate devotion to the music – every song a blistering two-minute re-creation of perfect power-pop punk. There's even time at the end for an encore that simply had to finish with the massed 'Gabba Gabba Hey's' of Pinhead.
Not so much a tribute as a quasi-religious experience for those of us of a certain age.
And, incidentally, the new Owl is looking good, reassuring in its familiar colour scheme. (Loving what you've done already with the new place, Dan, even if the bands now have to hump their gear down a flight of stairs at the end of each evening). The Owl is dead. Long live The Owl!
