Review: Slaughter and the Dogs, Fleece

Slaughter & the Dogs chose to warm up for their main stage appearance at Rebellion with a raucous set at the Fleece, preceded by an equally rambunctious set from support act The Blue Carpet Band – who’d already played their slot.

The latter band, out of that London, are fronted by Djamel: a be-quiffed streak of lean attitude in skinny jeans and a leather jacket.

Now lead vocalists are a funny breed – they need confidence (bordering on arrogance); they need charisma; they need to move good and they need the pipes too. Some singers have it all, others have some of it, and many just fake it. Djamel had coolly confident charisma by the yard and spent the entire set (a generous 15 songs) bopping, jumping, grooving and shaking his ass.

The stage couldn’t contain the man. There were excursions throughout and he (literally) threw himself in to the performance. The room wasn’t overly full to start but he played it like a sell-out, and his mesmerising performance dragged people in from the heat and away from the bar.

He commented he’d blown his voice at Rebellion, but still delivered credible vocals: rockabilly hiccups and yelps splashed across a powerful, if ragged, performance – somewhere between Gene Vincent and Joe Strummer.

He had an easy demeanour on stage too, with plenty of amusing anecdotes relating to the material’s genesis and the band’s misadventures. Particularly amusing was his description of the horror of arriving at a new paramour’s gaff to discover no Elvis, Gene or Eddie in her collection resulting in the hilariously catchy No Damn Rock ‘n’ Roll.

Of course there were four musicians on stage too, and they provided the foundation for Djamel’s live wire act. Hiras worked up a massive sweat pumping out solid riffs and peeled off more than a few decent solos: lead work that would be as much at home at Download as at Rebellion. David has been taking time off from the day job (Hooligan) to provide second guitar, a fella clearly enjoying himself – pogoing, shadowing the riffs, and taking them forward during the leads.

Nat’s bass was forceful: melodic runs and more riff shadowing to fatten up the sound, and he was locked in tight with Luke’s drums. The latter drove the songs with a relentless beat but managed to decorate them with choice fills, nothing fancy, but just the right embellishment to emphasis a chorus or presage a solo.

The band’s material was mostly decent, but with a couple of tunes that suggest they have more to offer – No Cadillac was a rocking ear worm that barged its way in to your brain, and Mental Case was equally catchy but more aggressive.

Oh, and I Don’t Wanna Go Home was a bit of an epic: a brooding, lengthy tune that contrasted nicely with the short, sharp shockers. It built and built with a mid-song breakdown that saw Djamel back in the crowd for a spot of bar-based crooning before returning to the stage for the tumultuous climax.

A couple of covers got the crowd singing along. Sonic Reducer worked well with the originals but whilst Break on Through was popular, it was much too iconic of a song to sit well with the band’s own material. My Jacket’s Bigger Than Your Jacket followed the Doors number and was a sassy side born from a bizarre encounter with a fan.

Alas it was overshadowed by the familiarity of the Morrison song. That said the crowd were pleased enough with the set that they demanded and got an encore – Genghis Khan – a freight train of a tune powered by a Ramones beat and a classic descending riff.

This was an ideal support – a band determined to seize an opportunity to win over new fans and play like headliners. It was fun, it was enjoyable and the band left it all on the stage. Well, apart from Djamel who left it all elsewhere…

Slaughter & the Dogs last played the Fleece around the release of their most recent recording Vicious. That outing was a swashbuckling display of glam-punk; but this time there was a harder edge to the band, a degree of urgency and a bit more venom. Possibly because the band had (allegedly) shaved their balls ready for Rebellion. (No, me neither).

The set was judiciously chosen and sequenced, the new blending with the old and even a B-side dropped in (The Bitch) and it was pleasing to see the crowd singing along with as much fervour for both. Well, OK, there was a tad more gusto for the old stuff, especially You’re a Bore. But Stranded was well received and Maybe if We Followed the Devil gave the band chance to stretch out.

Bravura vocals and forceful acoustic from Wayne Barrett, along with a stunning lead from guitar man Mick Rossi energised an atypical mid-paced tune.

Rossi was a man on fire all night, never still, a ball of energy: hammering out the riffs, and stinging with switchblade sharp solos; he cranked it up to ten (punk bands don’t go up to eleven).

Rossi managed to throw guitarist shapes throughout the set without coming anywhere near axe hero cliché; the epitome of cool. In fact he gave the impression he could make demonstrating the safe and correct use of a toaster the coolest thing you’ll ever see.

Rossi’s partner in rhyme had the crowd eating out of his hand from the start – his garrulous personality coupled with boisterous bonhomie gave the set a party atmosphere, but not at the expense of the songs.

He has a strong voice and was an engaging presence on stage, he was caught up in the tunes, maracas and tambourine to hand; dancing and pogoing with as much pleasure as his audience.

He even snuck in a crafty Elvis impersonation at the end of Situations coupled with a Tarzan yell for the climax of I’m Mad.

The crowd barely need encouragement from Barrett though, there were sporadic outbreaks of pogoing throughout and no little mayhem, and the worst moment when the man in the “Enjoy Captain Sensible” t-shirt hurtled into a fellow dancer and knocked him headfirst against a Fleece pillar.

There was an awful kerrang-splat of flesh on metal (like Tony Iommi dropping an anvil on a mammoth) and the sympathetic wincing from those who witnessed it nearly drowned out the band. The fella seemed to recover well enough though, even if he did seemed dazed and confused for a minute or two.

The band as a whole are ferociously tight. For all that Barrett & Rossi bring the flamboyance, Mark Reback (drums) and Dan Graziano (bass) provide a rock solid bottom end for the band. The latter was laid back and cool, nowhere near as mobile as Rossi but effortlessly nailing the bass lines and singing along.

Reback propelled the songs with pugilistic intensity, walloping the kit but never pummelling the beat – the smile on his face suggesting a man happy to be sat at the back of a thrilling live act.

The Dogs will always be lauded by the cognoscente for their part in the birth of punk but it’s satisfying that the 21st century incarnation of the band has been released from the straitjacket of genre conventions and can be what they were all along: a punk band with the swagger of the Stones; the glam of the Spiders and the attitude of the Faces.

The boys don’t do encores – they paused the set long enough to announce that fact (the crowd still reeling from a murderously heavy Get it On) and then continued to pause as requests came from the floor. There was no need to phone a friend as it was a simple 50-50 for the song choice. Cranked Up Really High gave all present the last chance to pogo, the last chance to holler along and the last chance to throw their beer in the air like they just don’t care (that it costs the best part of a fiver). And that was it.

This band thoroughly deserves their second coming; the old material sounds vibrant, and the new material is classy, full of piss and vinegar and sitting well with the classics. They can play the material with panache and energy and are clearly enjoying themselves. Rossi mentioned after the show that new material was a possibility and let’s hope that happens…soon, because this band is a terrific night out.

All photos by Shona Cutt