As residencies go, 00s punk band 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 lineup 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.

Back in the early to mid-00s, Mclusky’s influence reverberated loudly around the city. Everywhere you turned, it seemed, there were noisy, bass-heavy 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 – a six-fingered second cousin of Les Savy Fav, perhaps? Now once again a going concern, 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 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 Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues’ shortsharpshock intensity – 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 bassist 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”).

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Meanwhile, Falco himself 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 caustic wit towards Eric Clapton, the Pigeon Detectives and “maverick clapping”. Guitar tech Andrew 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. To Hell With Good Intentions closes, and we leave with riffs and obscenities ringing in our ears.
Friday evening finds Falco back at his spiritual home after a 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”. The support act announce themselves in trademark fashion (“I’m John, he’s John and together we are John”) – they performed warm-up duties at those Mclusky gigs here in 2019 and then headlined themselves precisely one year ago.
John Newton, having prepared for action by removing his glasses, pounds his drums with astonishing power, given 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. At their best, that said, when easing up slightly on the heads-down thrashing and sounding like No Age pumped on steroids, a set heavy on material from last year’s excellent Nocturnal Manoeuvres LP receives approval from two metalheads with Pantera backpatches who plunge into the pit.

The ensuing Mclusky show seems even more unhinged than the previous night – perhaps partly due to a tipsy Friday-feeling crowd and the absence of any stagefront security. Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues’ descent into wordless gabbling is paradoxically more articulate than most bands’ entire oeuvres; on Dethink To Survive, Falco screams “DANNY BAKER!” like an apoplectic 606 caller; Collagen Rock is the Pixies in total meltdown; 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”. If, as To Hell With Good Intentions has it, “we’re all going straight to hell,” then we’re doing it with smiles on our faces.
Mcluskey + Jarcrew, Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff, Thurs 8 + Fri 9 Sept
words BEN WOOLHEAD photos DAVID GRIFFITHS