Trio of London bands who made capital out of live performances

The Rolling Stones tour has rolled on to New Zealand and it’s time for my light-hearted list of “10 other acts I’d rather see’ to stagger on to numbers three, four and five. All the bands I have seen and would love a repeat. That may happen but is likely to remain in the ‘highly unlikely’ category. They are all London lads. In no particular order, step forward The Who, the Sex Pistols and Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine. Chronologically, The Who are peers of the Stones. We all know their history so there’s no need for me to go into all that. But whereas Jagger and his mates were so cocksure about everything, Pete Townshend’s lyrics betrayed lingering uncertainty despite his status as a rock legend. I was always appreciative but became semi-fanatical with Who’s Next in 1971. And I didn’t need to wear a parka or drive a scooter to equate with Pete’s lyrics telling the tale of a mixed-up, maxed-out teenager on Quadrophenia in 1973. I was 17 at the time. It still makes total sense even now. Play it loud. I didn’t manage to see The Who live until 1976. Keith Moon was still with us. It was everything I thought it would be at one of those gigs that everyone at later stages seemed to have said they were at. Put simply, it was Charlton Athletic FC, The Valley, May 1976. Listen to this line-up and drool: The Outlaws, Little Feat (cool musos from over the Atlantic), Streetwalkers, the Sensational Alex Harvey Band (yes, them…) and finally the ‘Oo. What a day. Me and my old Brum Uni mate Steve Barnes made it there. Where’s Steve now? Llandudno, I’m told. Roger Chapman in Streetwalkers had been a hero from Family days. I even got to shake the good man’s hand decades later when he played a manic set at the 100 Club on Oxford Street in London. Charlton was a great day. And The Who topped it off with a rousing display. After that, I saw ‘em in various guises – Newcastle City Hall in 1981, playing Quadrophenia in its entirety at Earls Court in the mid-90s then in little ol’ Adelaide only a few years ago. Being a Who devotee is a little like following a football team. My great Geordie mate Sime Malia has seen ‘em dozens of times. And Charlie Whebell, from Telegraph days, is a member of The Who fan club, who are offered tickets to the annual Christmas shows that the band play on home environs in downtown Shepherd Bush. Lucky sods. The Who were proper London lads unlike the Stones, who were suburban types. But Jagger was the one who got the lasses. Townshend was aware of the rivalry all down the years. In his recent autobiography Who I Am, Pete makes the bizarre admission of Jagger being the only bloke he ever fancied. He used another ‘’f’ word to describe the attraction. Calm down, Pete… Next in line come some other London geezers, the Sex Pistols. It’s hard to take in just what an impact these scruffy rascals from Finsbury Park had on not just the music scene in the UK but the whole social landscape. They turned outlooks upside down and inside out and the Establishment viewed them, a mere rock band, as a greater threat than Satan, the Soviet Bloc and your favourite serial killer combined. In 1977, they couldn’t even play gigs. They had to go on the road incognito as S.P.O.T.S – Sex Pistols on Tour. No wonder I never saw ‘em til Finsbury Park 1996. Home ground for them – and me. I was living there then, in a shoebox on the buzzing streets around Stroud Green Road. Me and my mucker Shaun Gill were engaged in an argument with a Burnley fan as John Lydon and co hit the stage that summer afternoon. “We’re fat, we’re 40, and we’re back!’ he snarled. Cue the world’s biggest ever pogo as the fields of Finsbury Park went mad due to “Bodies’ being blasted out. I saw Lydon many times as his alter-ego as front man with Public Image Ltd. He never disappointed. And he always had something to say. He once returned to London from his Los Angeles exile to receive some posh music award. At the press conference, a journalist tried to trip John up by querying his street cred. “When was the last time you walked round Finsbury Park, John?” he was asked. Quick as a flash John returned serve. “You don’t walk round Finsbury Park, you run. That is one mean muthafucker of a hellhole.” I think he meant it was quite a lively spot. My ol’ Telegraph mate, Stewie Jackson concurred with Lydon. “I dunno how you live there, Dave,” he once told me. “Every time I go there something bad happens – even if it’s only when I change buses.” Andy “Beamo” Turner loved the Finsbury Park aura on visits for Rovers games in London. Particularly when “Pond Life” were playing in the back room of the World’s End. That pub could have been twinned with the long-gone and greatly lamented Vulcan from its heyday in downtown Blackburn. Next up comes Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine. Basically two lads from south of the Thames, Jim “Jim Bob” Morrison and Les “Fruitbat” Carter, who told tales about life as it was via frenetic tunes, drum machine beats and lyrics loaded with more dry asides than the Gobi desert and more puns than a weekend’s worth of headlines in The Sun. And a healthy helping of positive cynicism. Only Carter could make being delayed on the London Underground sound totally cool -“Stuck in a tunnel on the Hammersmith and City Line… OH YEAH!’ The first time I saw the lads was at the Big Day Out in Sydney in 1993. Major disappointment. Too much sunshine. Overdose of blue sky. Sometimes Australia can seem like the land of the bland. Carter didn’t fit in. Fast forward a few years to a packed sweatpit on Charing Cross Road. This was more like it. Carter were where they belonged. Bodies going overboard in the sardine-crammed madness as the cheeky chaps were all smiles and quips on stage. My dancing days are being me – no more Lodestar Shuffles for me. So I quietly took things in, miming every word leaning against the back wall with an overpriced can of warm, supposedly West Indian lager in my hand. I saw Jim Bob and Fruitbat numerous times around the capital. They never failed to make me happy and glowing inside. Sometimes, I even tapped my foot. And guess what – CUSM are having a last reunion gig on November 22 at Brixton Academy. A great standing, sloping venue, made for such events. Jeez, I wish I was there. Anyone got a time machine? Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine in Brixton or the Rolling Stones in Auckland on the same night? No contest… Next time I’ll rush through my final five Stones alternatives as a farewell abode to Mick and the lads.