Mclusky do Cardiff - twice

MCLUSKY / JARCREW, 8TH SEPTEMBER 2022, CARDIFF CLWB IFOR BACH

MCLUSKY / JOHN, 9TH SEPTEMBER 2022, CARDIFF CLWB IFOR BACH

As residencies go, Mclusky's two-night stand at Cardiff's Clwb Ifor Bach is hardly Prince's three-week sojourn at the O2 Arena in 2007 or Kate Bush's 22-date Before The Dawn run at Hammersmith Apollo seven years later. But its significance lies in the fact that it sees the band - reformed and reinvigorated, with an infusion of fresh blood - back where it all began. As Andrew "Falco" Falkous observes in the run-up to the first show, the view from the stage of Clwb's upstairs room was pretty much the only one he knew prior to 2003. That's probably as close as he'll ever get to misty-eyed nostalgia.

To ensure it's just like old times, though, Mclusky have invited some Cardiff contemporaries and compadres to open up. Jarcrew don't play very often, so this represents a rare opportunity to see them in action. Kelson Mathias notes that this is actually the first date of their tour, with the second and final one in Newport next month: "We're middle aged and lazy. Minimal travel!" Later, demonstrating the twisted sense of humour that meant he slotted straight into the early line-up of Falco's post-Mclusky project Future Of The Left, he urges the audience to take a step closer to the stage: "We've all tested negative ... but not for herpes!" Somewhat alarmingly, Mathias is now a dentist. As Falco commented when Mathias made a guest appearance with Mclusky in this very room three years ago, "If you let this mad cunt near your mouth, then you're a braver man or woman than me."

Back in the early to mid-00s, Mclusky's influence reverberated loudly around the city. Everywhere you turned, it seemed, there were bass-heavy noise-punk bands whose hooks packed a punch and who refused to take themselves too seriously. Jarcrew were very much a case in point, their particular brand of punk making them too weird and warped for classification other than, perhaps, as a six-fingered cousin of Les Savy Fav. But enough of the past tense - Jarcrew are once again a going concern, and there are new songs to savour tonight and thus the tantalising prospect of a return to the studio.

By contrast, Mclusky are relying solely on their back catalogue - but when that back catalogue includes the Steve Albini-produced Mclusky Do Dallas, a record whose reputation rightly continues to grow two decades after its release, no one's complaining. The ambling, sardonic self-loathing of 'Fuck This Band' gives way to the shortsharpshock intensity of 'Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues' - imagine your skull is a walnut and the song is a wrecking ball - and we're off.

Drummer Jack Egglestone is a gurning blur behind his kit (Falco: "He doesn't know how good he is. If he did, he wouldn't be here - he'd be off playing with anyone ... The Lighthouse Family."). Snake-hipped bassists Damien Sayell - on long-term loan from The St Pierre Snake Invasion - asks a barefooted chap at the front "When's the last train back to the Shire?" and limbers up between songs with a shoulder-shrugging move he christens "the Del Boy" (Falco: "You look like you're getting ready to steal some Doritos from a child"). Meanwhile, Falco himself - Kelly Jones possessed by the demon spirit of Henry Rollins, wearing a black T-shirt presumably out of respect for our departed monarch - is cast in the unlikely role of peacemaker early doors, intervening to calm an overzealous bouncer agitated by the liveliness of the moshpit, but otherwise dishes out trademark wit so caustic it could clean a student's oven, savaging everything from Eric Clapton and The Pigeon Detectives to "maverick clapping".

Guitar tech Andrew "Bernie" Plain joins for one song, taking them up to what Falco claims is the maximum acceptable number of shorts-wearing members for the music to remain good (two); a punter interrupts proceedings by wandering onstage to take a photo of the crowd; we all enjoy a good old-fashioned singalong to the line "Our old singer is a sex criminal" ('She Will Only Bring You Happiness'); and before you know it, an hour of musical violence and lyrical absurdity has passed.

"We've got two songs left", Falco announces. "'Freebird'!" a voice cries immediately. "We've got one song left, and you can blame that guy. Find him and skin him. Actually, don't do that. I forgot we're in Cardiff - very suggestible crowd." 'To Hell With Good Intentions' follows, and we leave with riffs and obscenities ringing in our ears. I'm sure it's what Her Maj would have wanted.

24 hours later - after a (semi-ironically) noise-interrupted night's sleep at Cardiff Queen Street Travelodge and a bizarre encounter with "some old blugger" at Roath Park Lake claiming that selling ice cream in the wake of the Queen's death "wasn't patriotic" - and Falco's back at his spiritual home.

Tonight's support act announce themselves in trademark fashion ("I'm John, he's John and together we are John") but in reality need no introduction, having performed warm-up duties at those Mclusky gigs here in 2019 and then headlined themselves a year ago to the very day.

John Newton prepares for action by removing his glasses, like E from Eels performing a Clark Kent move or Louis Theroux bracing himself to fend off an aggressor after an overly intrusive interview question. The power with which he pounds his drums is astonishing given that he's also on vocal duties. Johnny Healey, meanwhile, looks ceilingwards as though summoning the wrathful gods of guitar to rain vengeance down upon our skulls. These two bulls would not only wreck the china but raze the shop - though they're actually at their best when they ease up slightly on the head-down thrashing, making mild concessions to melody and sounding like No Age pumped on steroids.

A set heavy on material from last year's excellent Nocturnal Manoeuvres LP - which showcased greater range and dynamism than before, without sacrificing much in the way of force - receives the seal of approval from a pair of metalheads with Pantera backpatches who plunge eagerly into the pit. Newton also lets us into a bit of a secret, revealing that Mclusky are "lovely people, even if you're scared of Falco. He's like a Ferrero Rocher - soft on the inside. Don't try to give him a hug, though."

The ensuing Mclusky show seems even more unhinged than the previous night - perhaps partly due to a crowd high on Friday feeling (and craft beer) and the absence of any security at the front of the stage. 'Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues' descent into wordless gabbling is paradoxically more articulate than most bands' entire oeuvres; on 'Dethink To Rethink', Falco screams "DANNY BAKER!" like an apoplectic caller to 606 apparently actively trying to burst a blood vessel; 'Collagen Rock' is the Pixies in total meltdown; the opening lines to anti-inveterate bullshitter anthem 'Gareth Brown Says' ("All your friends are cunts / Your mother is a ballpoint-pen thief") remain as brilliant as ever (even if Falco admits to being bored by the rest of the song); and 'Alan Is A Cowboy Killer' stakes a serious claim to being the finest five minutes of live music I'll experience all year.

A fan provides uninvited guest vocals before a calamitous stage dive; Jack is temporarily rechristened Susan; Damien battles throat cramp to propose a tribute act called Red Hot Caerphilly Peppers and to claim that, like Prince Andrew, he doesn't sweat; and Falco observes "I think I've gone down a belt size up here". His default setting may be a manner and tone so acerbic it could melt through steel, but he can't disguise the fact that he's having a blast.

If, as closer 'To Hell With Good Intentions' has it, "we're all going straight to hell", then we're doing it with smiles on our faces.

(An edited version of this review has been published on the Buzz website.)