Gold Blade

At last, Gold Blade get to play in perfect context: a narrow, sweaty box full of pogoing, testifying misfits. Whether it’s rehearsed or 4real, it’s hilarious and inspiring when Brother John thrusts the microphone into one of his disciples’ faces and the soul brother screams "I testify to your soul power of blah, blah, blah, Brother John!"

Gold Blade have always been devoted tongue-in-cheek punks, which is confusing for the most ‘discernible’ underground record buyer. Perhaps predicting, predating and being too principled for plastic punk chic, it’s unlikely they are going to be on the cover of The Face quite yet. Gold Blade have always understood the inherent fallacy of ‘punk’, the way it has immediately and always been anachronistic, and they take the piss out of the humourless American punk purists with their Gospel style evangelism. Gold Blade have never been contrived, quite the opposite, they really do give a fuck about the good things and don’t about the bad.

Musical trend theses aside, the music is fantastic and the performance is powerful. Whether or not I’d be thanked for saying so, the songs fuse Steve Jones’ guitar playing to Joe Strummer’s delivery whilst sounding completely fresh and original. Although there is no overt comparison, John Robb is possibly the only frontman since John Lydon/Johnny Rotten to actually care about his audience, and perhaps the only Mancunian frontman to do so ever.

Gold Blade were guests of The Festival of Briton this evening. The Engaged fanzine, promoting this, owes a lot to Chris Morris (what doesn’t?). It’s also reactionary and so very 1976, but it really does hate all the lifestyle bullshit Manchester is full of at the moment: café bars, loft houses, Coronation Street’s Tracey Shaw and In The City. And Badly Drawn Boy (gasp!) Fair play! Next time Liverpool pisses you off, at least we don’t have to put up with all that crap.