The Tramshed was packed to the rafters for two prime punky cuts of Saturday evening entertainment. DerryÔÇÖs very own Undertones are touring to celebrate the forty-fifth anniversary of the Teenage Kicks EP, which kicked off Terri HooleyÔÇÖs Good Vibrations record label, graced John PeelÔÇÖs show twice in a row, and gave the London boys a run for their money. In fact, it was a neat inversion of a November 1978 Cardiff University gig some of the audience attended, supported by rather than supporting the Rezillos. An oddball Scottish beast that fused classic beat-pop with punkÔÇÖs breakneck pace, the stage antics of original members Fay Fife and Eugene Reynolds were still endearingly madcap. decked out in sun visors and leather, interpretatively dancing and howling down microphones, their big hit Top of the Pops was still full of vigour and performed thrillingly faster than the original single.
The Undertones today consist of the entire original band beside singer Fergal Sharkey swapped with radio presenter Paul McLoone, though stand far enough back and youÔÇÖll be unlikely to recognise the difference. He is a confident and passionate heir to the mantle; though jokingly comparing his voice to that of Tom Jones, he was adept at both the world- weariness of Wednesday Week and the rampage rage of Get Over You. The band plays like old-school friends, with ample cheeky regional humour (ÔÇ£I didnÔÇÖt know the Welsh could sing!ÔÇØ). I was doubly impressed they played the beforementioned EP the whole way through, which most likely spoke of their pride in a record we can still feel the reverberations of on the radio today. When it came to the songs, there was little nonsense, just pin-point accurate recreations of those little shots of Irish teenage life during the Troubles.
Perhaps they were best this evening during their funnier songs of young-person frustration, slightly quaint but endearing when performed by men with far more experience gained since, and a deservedly comfortable place as an inspiration to the groups of today. I was reminded of The Bug Club and Wet Leg, for example, in the punky wordplay silliness within My Perfect Cousin. It spoke volumes about how happily replayable and cherished their
singles are that a huge cheer arose over a b-side about chocolate: guitarist John O’Neill revealed, ÔÇ£DonÔÇÖt tell anybody, but for this night only, weÔÇÖre going to playÔǪ Mars BarsÔÇØ! Each time a classic single was aired during the evening, it felt like a real event.
If anyone else had promised five songs for their encore – “before weÔÇÖre on the bus back to Derry” – you’d be looking longingly at your watch, but the songs are still so concisely packaged and played at impressive punk-rock speed that the night of around thirty songs just whizzed by, which is more than likely why Teenage Kicks was played for a deserved second time to close the evening. This time, it was the last chance saloon for the braver audience members to pogo, yell, and flail their adulthood away.
Words by Billy Edwards
