Review: Insane Clown Posse, SWX

On the face of it, an Insane Clown Posse gig should be a terrible thing. A pair of middle-aged, science-denying, potentially evangelist Detroit white boy rappers goofing around in face paint and chucking fizzy pop into the audience doesn’t sound like a whole lot of people’s idea of a good night.

And yet, it was such an incredibly honest, dumb, fun, good time pop show that ensured every single person in the building walked out with a great big smile on their face. Well, except from the girl who go thwacked on the forehead by a bottle of fizzy drink. She was probably in hospital. But I’m sure she’s laughing about it now.

It’s so easy to by cynical about ICP. For years they’ve been the object of constant derision from the snootier end of the rock’n’roll establishment, but have ploughed their own furrow regardless, and have built, in the juggalos, one of the most loyal and unhinged sets of fans in the music world.

Indeed, a quick walk around the room tonight saw dozens of rampant fans daubed with black and white clownface – some more effective than others – and every one of them pumped up for the night of their lives.

But it nearly never happened. A scant few days before the tour, the Academy chain cancelled every show in their venues, doubtless having finally watched some of their live videos and getting a panic on, leaving the boys in the lurch. But quick work saw them bag alternative venues around the nation, so tonight we were crammed into the less fussy SWX for a night of high energy and low entertainment.

The venue wasn’t the only thing that was crammed tonight, as the bill was so hefty that it started before most normal people had left work. Big Hoodoo offered up some cool and laid back horror-flavoured hip hop, while the squeaky voiced Lyte offered unintentional laughs, and Ouija paced about like Paul Danan in ludicrous trousers.

It wasn’t all rap stylings tonight. British metalcore act Death Blooms chugged things up considerably, while the bemasked nu metal veterans Mushroomhead ripped the crowd in two with their drum-fueled horrorcore set. They taught Slipknot everything they know, don’t you know?

But this was just the slightly gnarly mezze to the sweet confection of the main course. ICP bounded onto the stage to the creepiest fairground music, and in their grotty clown suits had the entire venue bouncing and swaying and singing along to every darned word.

The devotion was incredible, and the friendliness even more so. No standing at the back waiting to be impressed here, oh now. Everyone was chatting away and making new friendships and admiring each other’s painted faces – however smeary they got as the night wore on.

And then came the fizzy pop. Gallons and gallons of it. We’re supposed to believe that it was a tincture called Faygo from their hometown of Detroit, but to the untrained eye it looked more like smartprice cola from a cash and carry with the labels torn off. But to quibble would be spoiling the magic.

Bottle after bottle flew into the crowd, followed at one point by rubber chickens, then toilet roll,  then streamers, then even more Faygo. It got to the point where the a sweaty, gloopy cloud steamed up from the audience, and a sticky rainbow began to ooze through the mist.

The songs, of course, were terrible. Old time 90s beats with repetitive – and occasionally borderline dubious lyrics – pumped out of the PA for well over an hour. But we never once got bored as you just couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

By the time they got to the hymn celebrating their 20, most unlikely years in the business at the end of the show, a good 50 hardy juggalos mounted the stage alongside them, and the Faygo fountains began to ooze from every hand. The security looked pretty put out, and I wouldn’t like to imagine what the cleaners are going to think about it all in the morning.

But as everyone spilled out in a damp and tacky mess into the street below, the atmosphere was still chewable. Every single person who attended was grinning from ear to ear, steaming gently, and chanting “fam-i-lee!, fam-i-lee!” at the top of their lungs.

And that’s what they were. A big, dysfunctional family, admittedly covered in goo, but all happy to help each other out of a jam, and chat endlessly about what a good night they had. How many times can you say that after a night out in the city centre?

It just goes to show that if you’re entertaining, and truly care about the people that you’re playing to, it doesn’t matter how terrible you are, as you’ll be the winner every time.

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