Dave The Punk

As usual, I was right at the front for Gallows — that glorious, chaotic zone where hearing loss and bruises come free with every ticket. Things were wild, as expected, until the final song, when their towering Canadian frontman Wade MacNeil decided to launch himself into the crowd. He made it out fine. Coming back? Less so.

As he was surfed toward the stage, some part of his hefty anatomy collided squarely with my head, and something sharp — a mic stand? A rogue badge? Pure vengeance? — gashed the bridge of my nose. I winced. “Ow,” I thought with British understatement. I felt wetness on my face but assumed it was sweat or beer. Then the lights came up.

The stage looked like a crime scene. A small pool of blood glistened by my feet. I touched my face and came away with a hand that looked like I’d lost a knife fight. Concerned gig-goers stared at me in horror. My son just looked jealous.

I nipped to the toilets and discovered the damage wasn’t bad — just a deep cut, no permanent disfigurement (at least, not beyond the usual).

At the merch stand, I told Lags, the guitarist, what had happened. He looked suitably horrified and handed me some Gallows badges like they were Purple Hearts. Then I bumped into Wade and jokingly said, “Look what you did to my nose.” His reply?
“I thought I could feel bones crushing below me.”

Rock and roll, eh?

Dave The Punk

I saw Anti-Vigilante three times in 2012 — though technically, it took three gigs to see one full set.

First was The Hydrant in Brighton, January. I was buzzing for it, but thanks to a mix-up on stage times, I had to leg it halfway through their set to catch the last train home. Brutal.

Luckily, they were back in Brighton that November, this time at the Cowley Club. I wasn’t taking any chances — I drove. I told frontman Josh Chandler-Morris before the show I was finally going to see their full set. He laughed. I didn’t.

Midway through their set, all hell broke loose. Someone let off a fire extinguisher — and not just a quick spray. It erupted. Thick foam blasted across the room like a DIY foam party gone rogue. It coated the floor, the crowd, and guitarist Sean’s pedalboard, instantly killing the set. You had to wade through it to get to the toilets. Ska-punk meets foam-drenched farce.

Josh made a joke afterwards about me now having “two halves of a set,” so at least we were keeping it mathematically balanced.

I asked where else they were heading. Turned out they had a Hastings date coming up at The Tubman. I told him I’d be there — only an hour’s drive for me.

At the Hastings show, the third time finally went right. Josh even gave me a shout-out mid-set for making the trip and retold the foam saga to the crowd. Ska-punk justice at last.

Dave The Punk