Stiff Little Fingers
Live @ Bloom 21/11/14

THE REVIEW

Since for me they were the greatest British punk band of all time (even better than the Clash), the one that embodied the characteristics of the genre more than any other, it was absolutely unthinkable for me to miss one of their concerts right at my doorstep.

It's true that after the third album they were never the same, watering down and softening; but live it must be a completely different thing. There are four of us, including the de-veteran extro91, future hall-of-famer of DeBaser. Rappresaglia, a historical band from the Italian hardcore-punk scene, are opening the show, severely condemned by extro91 for their too bland rhythms: to me they seemed, more or less, one of the many Ramones clones, so a “C” grade. Reggae tracks play during the soundcheck for the Stiff, making me think it wouldn't be a bad idea if they did the long Marley cover of “Johnny Was” that enriched their debut album.

They take the stage and kick off with one of their anthems, “Wasted Life,” one of the most overwhelming anti-militarist hymns ever: the pogo is served. The four Northern Irish are in shape, Jack Burns is the genuine and passionate frontman as always, despite approaching sixty; his voice is obviously no longer as raspy as in 1979, but it hasn't lost an ounce of pathos and expressiveness. The band orchestrates their overwhelming and unmistakable mix of punk77, power-pop, reggae/dub: ferocity, melody, and rhythmic versatility in a blend that doesn't lose a bit of immediacy. The first highlight is probably “Doesn’t make it all right”, a classic from the Specials, reinterpreted by the Fingers as only they can: the crowd's sing-along accompanies what remains one of the most euphoric moments of the concert. The band is also keen to offer more recent tracks, some from the latest album: the moment when Burns declares he composed one of these songs after coming out of a long period of depression is striking.

Among the evergreen tracks, of course, come in one after the other, the devastating “Suspect Device”, the nursery rhyme “Roots Radicals…”, the gritty “Nobody’s Hero”, the uncontainable “Tin Soldiers” (another goosebumps moment: “At the age of 17…”). And there’s even room for “Barbed Wire Love”, their witty love-song from the first album, shockingly disrespected by two fans (???) who didn’t know it (!!!) and who were asking for some old song (???!!!). As they say in these cases: stay home, alright.

The band leaves the stage, while I and others shout at the top of our lungs for “Gotta Getaway” and “Alternative Ulster.” The good extro91 instead opts for a more generic and lighthearted torrent of “madonne” (of joy, of course). The encore starts: no “Gotta Getaway,” in its place the cheerful “At the edge.” And finally, of course, “Alternative Ulster.”

Immense joy, delirium. But just a few seconds after the “nothing for us in Belfast…”, tragedy strikes. From a standstill (almost), without pogoing, without being bumped into, my glasses fall off. They fall, I don't know where. I frantically search, helped only by the light of my phone. I catch glimpses of reflections, but they are just plastic cups dropped on the ground. I stand up, and a girl (with glasses) asks me: what did you lose? “The glasses, damn it! The glasses!!!”. The real tragedy is that the last part of “Alternative Ulster,” when it says “They say etc…”, is in my opinion the highest and most intense moment of their entire career. And so I found myself, schizophrenically, singing that part while desperately searching for the glasses. Found, intact, just in time for the final chorus.

The show is over… Fantastic audience (no hipsters, for once!), a mix of young and veterans, only names and logos of 70s/80s bands on shirts, hats, and jackets: UK Subs, New Model Army, Siouxsie etc… Special mention for an Irish hottie of at least 1.85 meters.