SKINDRED | LIVE REVIEW
The Neon, Newport, Sat 5 Nov
Nothing holds quite the same tone as a home show for an act that have traversed the music world and remained triumphant. One such act are Skindred, who played a hometown gig at Newport’s Neon venue in front of an audience whose support has never faltered.
Merthyr three-piece Florence Black were first to break the winter ice with rolling imitations of thick southern drawls and big hard rock chords. The cymbals took a severe beating as both guitarist and bassist strode across the stage, plugging note for note and successfully entertaining the crowd.
‘Punk and poetry’ is not only the Hackney quintet’s Facebook genre but has established itself as The King Blues’ band mantra to boot. Opening with Let’s Hang The Landlord, they come off as the neglected lovechild of The Cure and Nine Below Zero – screaming harmonica replaced by a ukulele and a swarm of uplifting melodies, fixed opinions and distinctive cowbell.
“I love my life” was the message sent out in this particular show by frontman Jonny ‘Itch’ Fox. The English five-piece paid homage to Guy Fawkes via a number of their popular songs including The Streets Are Ours and recent single Off With Their Heads – fuel for the animosity and anger necessary to combat political powers. Ending on the uplifting rhythm of Save The World, Get The Girl, The King Blues proved a highlight of the evening for those new to their rap of rage and revelry.
Onto Skindred, and even as fireworks launched through the streets, to say that they were explosive was an understatement. Voices raised high as each musician strode out, but it was Benji Webbe’s appearance that received a wail loud enough to necessitate earplug adjustment, before opener Rat Race, a single from 2007.
Webbe is known both for his ability to incite moshpit chaos and the range of unique outfits sported during shows; here, he restricted himself to an assortment of quirky shades as well as a mid-set swap of the Union Jack hugging his microphone stand for the Welsh dragon, unleashing a patriotic roar. “Saturday night in Newport, fucking hell!” he screamed, before regaling the crowd with his history of visiting the Neon in its previous life as a cinema.
The atmosphere of a show often peaks halfway through a set, but a cluster of classics from Skindred’s musical index – Sound The Siren, Pressure, Nobody – saw feet leave the ground, voices straining to fight the speakers and necks begging for the stiff aftermath. Amusing remixes of House Of Pain’s Jump Around and Justin Beiber’s Sorry, too, kept the crowd from stagnating and losing energy.
After an encore of their gigantic track Warning, followed by the many propellers of the Newport helicopter, Skindred’s swarm of admirers departed, safe in the knowledge that Wales still breeds fire-breathing dragons.
words and photos NATHAN ROACH
