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Lee Fisher enjoys a thrilling ride through hits old and new from Cardiff’s Mclusky
Image by Lee Fisher
There’s an astonishing scene at the beginning of the movie Bronson when the titular ‘hero’ is psyching himself up before the screws burst into his cell to beat the living crap out of him. Bronson/Tom Hardy digs deep into his anger and readies himself for maniacal battle. There’s an astonishing fury in his eyes, a grim determination.
That, my friends, is what Thank’s drummer looks like before every song.
I can’t remember the last time I saw Thank – maybe it was even before The Awfulness – but I certainly don’t recall them going this hard. They’re an odd proposition on paper – essentially noise rock but with electronic flourishes, some almost proggy tempo changes, and Freddy out front coming on like a Yorkshire Mark E Smith, disdainful and acerbic and very very funny. But in the flesh it’s a glorious onslaught – there are bursts of chiptune, drums like jump-up jungle breakbeats, weird bubbling keyboard sounds, sudden bursts of Freddy serenading us while drummer Steve works up a fresh hatred for his own drumkit ready for the next onslaught. The three new songs impress. Damn, the whole thing impresses. Support bands aren’t supposed to be this full-tilt.
Somehow, Mclusky have been around longer this time than first time out, although it took them till this summer to finally release a new (excellent) album. And, obviously, they’re still one of the best to do it. ‘New’ boy Damien Sayell has settled in brilliantly, looking increasingly like a seventies wrestler and goofing about in a way that complements Falkous’ beautifully withering sarcasm between songs. They start with Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues because there’d probably be an uproar if they didn’t and it’s still thrilling, a sub-two minute roar, with Falkous and Sayell both abandoning actual words by the end in favour of a maniacal glossolalia. The set leans heavily on Mclusky Do Dallas because Mclusky Do Dallas is a fucking perfect album, but the new stuff sounds great – especially Unpopular Parts Of A Gig and Way Of The Exploding Dickhead. Somebody needs to do a mixtape of Falkous’ best stage patter, like that famed Fugazi one but with less politics and more antagonism (their most melodic song, She Will Only Bring You Happiness, is preceded by exactly the kind of jokes about Ian Watkins you’d imagine).
Aside from the snark and the goofing and the general levity, you never forget that all three of Mclusky are remarkable musicians: Sayell and drummer Jack Egglestone are a powerhouse rhythm section, Falkous an inventive, abrasive guitarist. Indeed, they’re still thought of as some sort of comedy band in some quarters, Half Man Half Shellac, but this does them a huge disservice. Just listen to closer To Hell With Good Intentions – it fucking rips. I’ve never been to a bad Mclusky show, but this was definitely among the best ones.
