AGAINST ME!, Manchester Academy 3, 02/06/10
Tonight, as the sun-kissed gaze of a decidedly delirious Manchester is focused on the latest million dollar cabaret show that Lady Gaga has crapped out of her backside, something rather special is happening on the other side of town. Tucked away in the sweat-drenched shoebox that is the University's Academy 3, a ragtag collective of Floridian folk-punks are reminding 250 of the city's most belligerent music lovers just what this crazy little thing called rock and roll is all about. In ninety all-too-short minutes, armed only with two guitars, one bass, a set of drums and the former keyboardist from The Hold Steady, Tom Gabel and his band of well-bearded merry men provide enough spine-tinglingly visceral thrills to keep the select few spent for months; the audio-visual equivalent of about thirty stunningly ceaseless orgasms, each one more intensely messy than the next... and there's nay a backdrop, costume change or forty-foot monster in sight.
There's no time for dicking around in this set, no place for the usual half-arsed between song banter. Against Me! just roll from one track to the next, pummelling devoted Mancunians over and over and over, playing as if their very lives depend upon it. From the opening bars of a colossal 'High Pressure Low' to the closing arms-around-mates swagger of a beefed-up, euphoric 'Baby, I'm An Anarchist!', this is a show that simply will not stop, that refuses to let up for even the slightest second, that just will not let you catch your breath before launching head-first into the next three minutes of purest punk 'n' roll. The set is a minefield of masterpieces, pluming the depths of the band's considerable back catalogue. We're swept along on a tidal wave of distorted guitars (the raucous 'Pints of Guinness Make You Strong'), invective lyricism (the barbed 'Miami'), anthemic hooks (is there anything more worthy of your vocal chords than 'Sink Florida Sink'?) and comedic backing vocals (check those 'huh!'s in 'Suffocation'), pausing only to take in the obligatory two minute stop-gap before the inevitable encore, but even this is insufficient to allow the battered and bruised hoards any semblance of a respite. Everyone's too busy screaming the band's name at the top of their lungs and trying to stomp a ten metre wide mud hole in the Academy floor to care about little things like dehydration and injury. It's only at the show's perfunctory end that you realise just how much the band's ceaseless work ethic has taken out of you.
For some punters, it's rather a lot more than others; there's one hell of a charged atmosphere in the room this evening, the kind that sends kids flying deliriously stagewards in quick succession, only they're being turned back by an overworked roadie, who is the one person employed to keep the masses in check. This decision results in one poor punk kid being shoved back into nothing and landing head-first on the concrete floor, cracking his head in the process; and for all he is forced to pay a trip to First Aid (and later A&E), he confirms that it's a small price to pay for the privilege of being swept up in what might well be one of the finest rock shows that Academy 3 has ever seen. Hell, when your fans are willing to shed blood for you, you know you've captured something special.
It's a fact that the band clearly acknowledge; Gabel, in particular, seems genuinely blown away. There's a beaming grin etched permanently onto his face throughout; he appears stunned at the warmth of their reception, at the unrelenting devotion that his little band have managed to garner more than 4,000 miles from home. And he pays us back in kind, transforming into the very personification of passion, spitting, snarling, screaming every word, stalking the stage suggestively, making sweet love to his guitar one minute and fucking it senseless the next - a feat that results in it breaking during a particularly rowdy 'White People for Peace'. Three songs in, he's drenched head to foot in his own sweat, but there simply isn't time for recuperation; Gabel just persists, like a marathon runner determined to make it to the finish line. And when he finally does, he delivers a brief acknowledgement, stating that this show alone is reason enough for Against Me!'s existence, offers a curt "thank you" and then disappears into the night, off to sing karaoke at Big Hands and contemplate a city well and truly slayed.
Lady Gaga may have the numbers but tonight, Against Me! bottle lightning, providing all the heart, soul and furious passion needed to demonstrate just what it is that makes punk so fucking thrilling. You can take your 'sell out' accusations (rising steadily in the wake of the last three, better-produced records) and shove 'em firmly where the sun don't shine. This, right here, is all punk rock ever needs to be.
Setlist:
High Pressure Low
Pints of Guinness Make You Strong
New Wave
White Crosses
Don't Lose Touch
I Still Love You Julie
Up the Cuts
Bamboo Bones
Amputations
I Was A Teenage Anarchist
Miami
Sink Florida Sink
Suffocation
Americans Abroad
White People for Peace
Thrash Unreal
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Ocean
Rapid Decompression
Baby, I'm An Anarchist!
