Review: Killing Joke, Brixton Academy, 4.11.16

For some time, the legendary Killing Joke have been ageing like a fine wine, albeit one spiked with nerve poison. Defiant in the face of the natural aging process, the band – possibly in reaction to volcano-throated frontman Jaz Coleman’s doomsaying, prophetic lyrics actually being more relevant by the day – have only gotten louder, darker and better as the years have passed.

It is a good fortune and seemingly never-ending winning run only afforded to the truly special and prosperous, with fellow national treasures Iron Maiden being an immediate example – also having a back catalogue so crammed with gems a truly perfect setlist is impossible.

Nevertheless, they give it a bloody good go. From the minute the lumbering, shuddering nightmare of The Hum fills the equally historic Brixton Academy, the ‘Joke give a faultless lesson in how to keep any heel-snapping protégés away. Indeed, when they finally hang it up it’ll be hard to find an act with quite the same weird allure or blazing intensity.

1980s hit and deathless set-staple Love Like Blood follows, throwing back to their historic gothy-pop period and reminding us all of their expeditions into varying genre territories: the enduring, endearing result is, for the uninitiated, a nerve-racking proto-something or other that’s too heavy to be punk, too nuanced to be industrial, and not quite metal either, yet they outwit many of the greatest proponents of these genres by (still) being stubbornly uncategorisable and seamlessly blending them together, without losing sight of what constitutes a tune.

Stringsman ‘Geordie’ Walker, the immovable object against which Jaz Coleman’s unstoppable force collides, provides great textural cathedrals of sound with an utterly unmistakable and sought-after guitar tone, making the noise of thousands from only one pair of hands.

Legendary producer and bassist Youth is almost his complete opposite, stage left: barefoot, in a kimono, and grinning his teeth out, and why not? Most bands never make it past the big 3-0, most never manage to retain or reform their original lineup and sound this fantastic (the tragic passing of longtime bassist Paul Raven having preceded this, however, with the band taking a long hard look at their own mortalities and making the decision).

But Killing Joke are not ‘most bands’, and in a world of absolute fucking anaemic grey-arsed musical tedium they have only become more vital and desperately needed. New Cold War, from last year’s barnstorming Pylon album, ably explores its title’s subject matter like an essay set to music, with Walker supplying chilly atmospherics. They somersault into territories other bands refuse to enter.



Underpinning all of this sits the formidable ‘Big’ Paul Ferguson, a mesmerising sight during the rabbit-hole tumble of Unspeakable and, well, at any given point during the gig. It’s a testament to the man’s dizzying tub-thwacking that he can command your attention even with a pair of fire dancers blowing flames within singeing distance of Youth’s dreads.

The generous running time amounts to nearly twenty songs, and while some stones are left unturned, there’s room for the likes of Eighties, the venerable Turn to Red, underrated dancey banger European Super State, while failsafe early ‘uns like The Wait and Change square off against the furious Dawn of the Hive and I Am the Virus.

A delicious hat-trick of The Death & Resurrection Show, Wardance and a multi-dimensional Pandemonium ensure a winning send-off to a night of energy, dancing, sore necks and smiles all round.

Killing Joke, after thirty-plus years in the game, are still impossibly unique and utterly unsolvable. We shall not see their like again.

It's a strange, strange thing to be reviewing a Guns N' Roses tribute act in the knowledge that while you nod along to eerily detailed renditions of Civil War, You Could Be Mine et. al, the 'core' of the real thing are bulldozing through America on the will-they-won't-they reunion tour.

Before Axl Rose and Slash finally, finally buried the nuclear hatchet, the singular Guns alumni were, of course, in action in their various pursuits. Axl could be seen fronting enormodome shows under the GN'R name, from which drummer Frank Ferrer and stringsman Richard Fortus (10 and 14 years in the job respectively) have graduated to the current 'hybrid' reunion lineup. 

Slash, meanwhile, toured and recorded under his own name and Duff McKagan continued to be the coolest human being alive. But while the Great Trio can indeed be seen sharing a stage again, there's still no sign of a UK tour or even a London show.

Enter Guns 2 Roses.

It's been 14 years (geddit?!) of mirror-imaging the legendary Hollywood rock n' roll ensemble for this lot, and Bilston's Robin 2 - a routinely fantastic place to catch tribute acts - welcomed them back.

For Axl Rose has long been heralded and celebrated as having the most fearsome pipes in rock history, and I'll be damned if my wine-addled ears didn't hear Guns 2 Roses' frontman, who even has Axl's way of glancing at the audience nailed down, wail a long way up and down the holy fuckometer. 

Of equal attention-hogging ability is their Slash. Innumerable Halloween and fancy dress outfits over the years have proved just how easy it is do dress as the man, so ingrained in the rock n' roll consciousness , but G2R's representative actually has the right guitar strap as well. Oh, and he plays guitar really well and whatever.

No, really: he cranks a damn good sound out of a gorgeous Les Paul and Marshall amp - the inseparable rock n' roll marriage - for the duration and supplies, as Slash so memorably did (does?) wonderfully crunchy, warm tones and lets fly with excellently slick guitar licks. 

The evening is over all too quickly, and after a set that leans mostly on Appetite for Destruction material, it's tantalising to think what Guns 2 Roses might be able to do with a bigger room and a longer playtime - Estranged, maybe? 

"Fing is, they're not just one of the best tribute acts oi've seen - they're one of the best gigs oi've seen," blares a punter, and as I slip away during a spirited set-closing Paradise City to dash for the last tram back to Birmingham, I'm inclined to agree.