Live Review : Fucked Up + Sacred Paws + Tuka @ Gorilla, Manchester on April 5th 2022

“David Comes to Life” is the greatest album that you have never heard of. It is an art punk masterpiece. It takes the most maligned of musical forms, namely the rock opera, and reclaims it. Gone is the bloated pretention and instead we are presented with an intricate and fascinating narrative stretched across eighteen stunningly minimal and melodic punk rock songs. It is punk in its primal three chords beauty. Stripped of all its nihilism and vulgarity, this is punk as a beautiful minimalistic art form. Short, evocative tracks that capture the power and magnitude of rock ‘n roll.

As you can probably deduce, I adore this record and tonight I finally get to see it performed live in its entirety. The reason that is such an exciting proposition is not just the fact that I love the album so much, but that its creators Fucked Up are one of the finest and ferocious live acts out there. They take performance to a whole new level, with frontperson Damian Abraham a tornado of kinetic energy that is known to spend more time in the crowd (and wandering around venues) than he spends on stage.

So, you find me stage front at Gorilla like some expectant child waiting for Santa to rock up. However, before I get to open my presents, I have two support acts to wade through. Now to be honest Tuka and Sacred Paws are here to make up numbers, as I expect nobody decided to purchase their ticket for tonight based on their involvement. The place is practically deserted for the former and, having made the decision to wander down in just t-shirt, I am blisteringly cold. Tuka try hard, but the gods of opening acts are not on their side. Their unoffensive soft indie borrows liberally from both Siouxsie and the Banshees and Little Dragon but makes little impact on those few who decided not to stay in the pub.

Sacred Paws are a different kettle of fish and seem to be on a mission to get us to dance. It is not my thing, but their songs seem to bypass my taste sensors and head straight down to my feet. There is an undercurrent of Cajun spice to their stuff and there is swinging backline that just feels infectious. I don’t get song names, but the overall feeling is one of sunshine and rum cocktails. This is music infused with a sunny disposition; even yours truly who is a miserable fucker with a love of dark sonic forms, finds himself with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. Creole music reinvented and re-propositioned for 2022. Not my jam in any way or form, but it managed to keep me warm which is all that matters.

The room swells as those who plumped for pre-gig drinks over the support acts wander in. The anticipation builds and then there they are, well some of them. It is immediately obvious that this is a Fucked Up lite with Sandy Miranda and Mike Haliechuk M.I.A (on top of Ben Cook’s departure last year). Sandy’s absence is acknowledged but Mike’s isn’t. However, Fucked Up live is all about Damian and he is on top form from the get-go. He strips off his mask, outdoor coat, and glasses and immediately he transforms from the mild-mannered family man into a demented and tormented Tasmanian devil. He stomps, he screams, he gurns, and he twists his moustache like some evil genius contemplating the many ways that they are going to dismember you. He is a force of pure primal energy, and you just can’t take your eyes off him. During the next seventy minutes he repeatedly wraps his mic lead around his face, sticks empty water bottles on his forehead (ten is apparently the record) and rolls around the floor like he is having convulsions. There is a thin line between performance art and self-flagellation and Damian walks it with ease.

Watching a band perform an album that you probably know better than them, is a bizarre experience. The anticipation of what song is going to come next is replaced with familiarity and expectation. Tonight, is not a completely faithful reproduction of the record, it is rougher around the edges and certainly more frantic (all 18 tracks are done and dusted a good ten minutes quicker than the albums running time). However, that pace and feeling of chaotic uncertainty gives the evening a vibe of anarchistic turbulence. Fucked Up have always been about upsetting the apple cart and even here with that more conformist of acts (namely the album anniversary tour), they are being a disruptive force. “Ok” they are saying “we are going to give you what you want, but we are going to do it on our terms”. As ever defiant and self-governed. 

Aside from the speed and the brittle nature of the delivery, the other big change is allowing Jonah Falco off his drum seat and into the spotlight. He reinvents ‘Truth I Know’ and ‘Life in Paper’ as almost solo (he is just accompanied on keys by super-sub Robin Hatch) punk torch-songs. In his brief intro her likens the approach to Nick Lowe and he is not wrong. It is a masterful turn of events as it breaks up the intensity, allows us to catch a breath and provides clear water between the two strands of the story.

We all know how the album ends (with the narrative and the story looping around and starting again) but it is still a surprise when we get there. They march off stage but almost instantaneously march back on again and we get the title track, which true to the disruptive and unpredictable nature of Fucked Up turned up six years earlier on their debut record. If the run through of “David Comes to Life” the album has been undertaken at breakneck speed, then the encore trumps that by engaging warp and literally steaming through ‘David Comes to Life’ the song. It is two minutes of pure frenzied disorder. Bodies fly, the pit engulfs the whole room, and you cannot help but stare on in wander at the ability of pure unadulterated punk rock to bring us together.

And that’s it. There are fist bumps a plenty, an open invitation from Damian to all of us to meet outside for a chat (which he upholds) and a general feeling of communal emotion. This wasn’t the note perfect rendition that I had been expecting but it was something more fitting and in step with the wonderful contradiction that is Fucked up. It was messy, feverish and utterly perfect. I walk away a very happy man indeed.