Saturday 14/12/02 Cock Off, Surge, Kling Klang @ Hannah's Bar, Liverpool

Gathered upstairs in Liverpool's unlikeliest venue, Hannah's Bar, is a group of activists intent on holding back the wave of pop culture that is currently threatening to drown the city in main stream mediocrity and European cash. It's classic David and Goliath territory. While the Capital of Culture bid team spend millions of pounds reminding the rest of the world where the Cavern isn't, a small group of music lovers give Sir Bob Scott the collective finger to a punk soundtrack that is completely devoid of pretension and utterly entertaining for it.
Before the threat of spitting begins however, there is a brief performance from the evening's only international artist. His name is Ton and he's from China. His rendition of two traditional folksongs is topped only by a version of 'If You're Happy and You Know It' sung in his mother tongue. By the end of verse three the audience is both happy and aware of the fact - job done.

And so to Cock Off. There's a definite air of Ashworth about this lot, and as they start to play I push closer to the stage to check for day release wristbands. If there were any they've been chewed off and swallowed in order to facilitate the ragged fret work and amphetamine induced drumming that characterises their set. They begin with a burst of lo-fi, punk-inspired grunge, which lurches scrappily beneath a torrent of Beefheart-with- a-bad-throat vocals. A look of quiet contentment on the faces of the two guitarists (possibly prescription based) belies the intense anti-pop noise that is fuelling the front man's outbursts. In a brief flirtation with theatrics he produces a torch and uses it to illuminate his chin, but my failure to understand even a single lyric means the significance of this act is lost on me. I'm far from devastated by this fact. Realising very quickly that I wasn't going to feel shortchanged by the lack of life-changing musical moments in Cock Off's set, I got on with the business of being entertained. And when you're watching something as demented and heartfelt as this it's really not difficult. Good mean fun.

Surge follow with the kind of youthful arrogance that's as essential to any punk band as the ability to gob from the stage directly into someone's eye. It's clear from the off however, that they are quite capable of achieving much more than your average angry teenager, and their opening tribute to the Ramones is a clear and effective statement of intent. With the first round safely out of the way there's a chance for the frontman to deliver the killer blow, but it doesn't come as easily as he might have wanted. Songs that take on serious subjects, such as sexual abuse, demand a more mature lyrical conviction than is on offer here, despite being performed with the required intensity. At one point the band are in danger of being upstaged by a kid in the front who has decided to publicly pierce his bottom lip with a safety pin, but within seconds they are back in control. Hopefully it won't be long before Surge manage to nail down those final few aspects of their act which are lacking, and when that time comes, hock up a greeny and meet me at the front.

If at any point in the near future you have the opportunity to see Kling Klang play live, for God's sake take it. Don't be one of those poor unfortunates who only saw the posters. Kling Klang are more punk than any of the punky lot that were on tonight and they're not even a punk band. They go against the grain at every turn and yet they are not avant-garde. They take battered synthesizers, put them on ironing boards, and thrill audiences for less than the price of a pint and a bag of chips. Four keyboard players and one funky (not slick) drummer make up the band of musical misfits whose dark, angular chord progressions owe more to the days of prog rock than their current freshness would suggest. Simple repeated bass lines gradually mutate into fully-fledged head-swinging affairs during which keyboards are held aloft and the keys pressed maniacally, never more than one finger at a time. For a while there's a heavily distorted guitar chugging alongside, but within minutes it's back to the floor (literally). The front row steps aside while the band invades their space for a finale in which one member ends up on the deck banging his Hair Bear Bunch hairdo up and down in a frenzy. A rare and fine example of long hair and music enjoying a successful partnership in 2002.

Photo by Sakura Henderson