THE RAMONAS
DEVILISH PRESLEY
Wrecklass Necklass
Old Wharf, Birmingham, England
8th October 2011
Seemed a longer walk from the city centre than I recall after the 25 min train ride. And was
devastated to see my base camp watering hole, the Yard Of Ale in New St., is now sadly
no more and has turned into a fucking Chinese restaurant fer fux sake! Hmmm the omens
seemed to be heading for one of those nights. However I dusted myself down, give the
beggar in New St. a filthy look and proceeded to make my way towards Digbeth and the
flamboyant Devilish Presley, who gave us the highly recommended Flesh Ride CD in 2008
(see review). I been meaning to catch them again, after missing them on numerous occasions since my guest list psychobilly
jaunt at the Irish Centre in 2007, which left me with a battery drained camera and a pissed up coach ride to Shrewsbury for
my sins. But lets not forget the all girl Ramones tribute, which seemed a bonus novel experience to behold indeed and some
other reprobates whose names escape me?
As I got within decibel distance of the truly gruesome and grotty 'Old Wharf' pub and our venue for tonight. An establishment which is situated in a dark
backstreet. You can't help thinking, this could be the perfect Dickensian punk hovel if it utilised the front bar, which is forever closed? And also if the
management didn't have that twinker attitude of "give us yer money and take yer chances" lottery on the solitary choice of Red Stripe for us lager drinkers,
(no draught lager is always a bad sign in a boozer). A grinning Decadent Dave (tonight’s bingo caller) and a portly Wardy, otherwise known as 'Punk Alive'
collective greeted me on the door. They certainly do their level best to bring a variety of punk bands to Birmingham, and the paltry fiver entrance fee was the
only monetary relief of the night. As you enter the dank surroundings. That god awful pillar in the centre of the room looms in front of you, totally blocking the
stage view. Especially if your unlucky enough to find yourself behind it. And really makes this venue on a crowded night a fucking torturous experience. But
"hey ho lets go" if your a punk in 21st century Birmingham looking for some action on a Saturday night, should I really complain?...yeah why not!
The appallingly named Wrecklass Necklass who were pouring through the last dregs of their set, look like they just stepped out the early 70's. Especially
with the Robert Plant hair and prog rock attire. I was wondering if they had gotten the wrong venue? But from the last yelps of their set I did manage to hear
a rather rowdy version of the Clash's 'White Riot'. Before they somewhat grumpily dismantled their gear and had it parked on kerb right in front of my new
drinking spot, before you could say "Lemmy a fiver". Luckily I'd ordered 2 Red Stripes once I sussed the abominable service was in for the night. £2.50 a can
depending on who served you (as it later went up to £2.80) seemed short change for an evening of DIY punk rock. I was encouraged to hit the off licence by
one resourceful punk outside, which was only a 5 min walk back to Digbeth high st., and across the death defying duel carriageway. It did seem a very
tempting option for a few seconds. But the grey Midlands drizzle which was now persistent enough to down even the young solitary mohican's fantail, put paid
to that idea. Amongst the pools of piss outside that some punters had left behind as a sort of clue that it wasn't safe or advisable to use the cramped rat
infested latrines inside I heard feedback from the stage.
London's Devilish Presley hit the stage unannounced, until singer/guitarist Johnny
Navarro made it evidently clear inbetween each number who they were. Which meant it
was time for me to brave the sardine can. Scanning the crowd from my cramped
vantage point I checked it's made up of Goffs, punks and all sorts of weird 'n' wacky
looking geeks. The Deborah Harry lookalike in the black number certainly stood out.
These Londoner's seem to have acquired a large (in more ways than one) loyal
following. They know all the words to the new material, which I was not familiar with at
all. I presume its off their latest album 'The Dark Triad'? I must be a few albums behind
the current set. It looks like they returned to the reliable 2 piece line-up, after the living
breathing drummer quit, or was he pushed? You'd never have guessed, coz the
durable drum machine doesn't put a foot wrong and certainly don't put you off this
bands real live draw. Bassist, the skull attired Jacqui Vixen with her distinctive black 'n'
white fringe and ultra gritty Aussie rock vocal, grabs your attention. She's backed by
Johnny's chugging heavy guitar riffs. Miss Vixen takes up most of lead vocal. Last time I
caught them it was the other way round. Devilish Presley have gigged their rock 'n'
roll arses off for the past decade and they are now a very proficient outfit indeed. In
some respects maybe a little too professional. I found the T-Rex shirted Johnny baiting
the crowd to cheer after almost every number a little bit too showbizzy. I mean fucking
hell its nice to see a band you like, but it takes more than a few prompts to trigger
putting my fist in the air. Maybe if they'd plunged into their back catalogue and let rip
some of 'Flesh Ride' I too might've been punching the air. Instead of wanting to punch
out some cunt who was knocking my camera all over the shop. But hey its not the 70's
anymore. Johnny's nasal vocals doesn't play so much of a part of their set these days
which is a pity as they're a great foil to the lean 'n' mean Jacqui Vixen. They finish off
with 'Black Leather Jesus' the only number I recognized and leave the stage to chears.
Not entirely sure if all the vibrant applause was relief that the set was over and we
could all go outside for some fresh air and space? Or coz of the bands full on
performance in tight conditions. I'd opt for the latter!!!
By now the rain was starting to set in outside, so it was a grim reminder that this venue
when heaving, really does need some alternative space you can chill out to. Coz life on
the street is a very dismal affair in the pissing rain. God only knows how many Vice
Squad will attract the following night? Which I was sorely tempted
to attend, but for the cramped surroundings.
Headliners the Ramonas are the first Ramones tribute band I'd
ever seen. If your gonna do a tribute of the blitzkrieg legends you
may as well do it with some originality. And what better way than
four leather clad girls. I know of a US all girl tribute by the same
name, who look a lot more glamorous in pristine leather and
Californian tans. But I suspect they don't play with half as much
enthusiasm as their pale UK counterparts. And lose points straight
away, coz the Ramones weren't by any means sexy in that fake
cosmetic way. They were cretins who ate refried beans sitting in
Queens, fer crying out loud! But we shouldn't forget the ultra catchy
Donnas who began their career as female Ramones soundalikes
to really drive home the concept of girls playing Ramones. And
didn't they show us all, a female vocal can be so alluring on top of a
Ramonic rampage. Meanwhile back to tonight, the Ramonas may
have attracted a lot of testosterone freaks 'n' geeks attention, as
you would imagine. But I was totally astonished to be pushed aside
as I struggled to get some pics by a small gang of dykes who were
hell bent for leather on a spot stage front at the alter of the
Ramonas. So they definitely cover all bases in their curious
devotee stakes. Before they took the stage as their black Ramonas
backdrop was unfurled. I wasn't quite sure if Joey, whoops Cloey,
would fit into this scenario intact. Especially without some kinda
silicone face mask. In my warped minds eye, the poor girl must be
one god awful ugly muvva fucker stick insect, to pull it off with some
genuine intent. But you know what, she's actually a sweet looking Barbara Streisand lookalike with an auburn main of hair. And once she donned those over
sized shades she slid into the gawky front man role almost without a hitch. Even her vocals do a good take on the Hyman burrr. Which was an all round neat
suprise! Apart from the sartorial no no of those god forsaken cut off jeans the band seem eager to wear. Not forgetting the dayglo footwear which does little
to enhance the dark New Yoik impact of Joey's soiled sneakers. Now if she'd have gotten a tight ripped up pair of jeans like Jacqui Vixen and some grotty
stinky sneakers we truly would have had a carbona copy. Musically however, the Ramonas were spot on, even after a shaky start with a lot of tune ups.
They seem to have the sound and delivery down to a tee in this shower stall, reproducing the rock cartoon, high-powered blitzkrieg to perfection with hardly
a gap between songs. They machine gun out the classics to the crowd who lapped it all up. Cloey even produced a plastic baseball bat to punctuate the
beats and beat the brats. They are led by band founder the truly uncanny Rohnny Ramona on guitar. She looked scarily like her tribute, even down to the
morose look in her face as she down stroked her fingers to the bone on those power chord classics. Don't laugh but Pee Pee Ramona was the cutest and
her bass playing was energetic enough for Dee Dee to not turn in his grave. But was only let down by her screechy "1-2-3-4's" and high pitched back up
vocals. The hard working Margy Ramona on drums does in fact keep the steam heat rolling with gusto and pure hard work. I so wanted to stay to the very
end for my all time fave 'Teenage Lobotomy' and was anticipating the "gabba gaba hey" chants and placard waving Cloey. But the thought of another queue
up at the tiny bar only to be fleeced with even more luke warm Red Stripe (the management were now bringing in from probably the same off licence
mentioned earlier), was more than this pinhead could handle. So I swallowed my pride and left to the strains of 'Sheena Is A Punk Rocker' as the heavens
were chucking it down and I needed to find an alley for a leak. Howling at the moon Birmingham style.
PETER DON’T CARE
DEVILISH PRESLEY
Wrecklass Necklass
Old Wharf, Birmingham, England
8th October 2011
Seemed a longer walk from the city centre than I recall after the 25 min train ride. And was
devastated to see my base camp watering hole, the Yard Of Ale in New St., is now sadly
no more and has turned into a fucking Chinese restaurant fer fux sake! Hmmm the omens
seemed to be heading for one of those nights. However I dusted myself down, give the
beggar in New St. a filthy look and proceeded to make my way towards Digbeth and the
flamboyant Devilish Presley, who gave us the highly recommended Flesh Ride CD in 2008
(see review). I been meaning to catch them again, after missing them on numerous occasions since my guest list psychobilly
jaunt at the Irish Centre in 2007, which left me with a battery drained camera and a pissed up coach ride to Shrewsbury for
my sins. But lets not forget the all girl Ramones tribute, which seemed a bonus novel experience to behold indeed and some
other reprobates whose names escape me?
As I got within decibel distance of the truly gruesome and grotty 'Old Wharf' pub and our venue for tonight. An establishment which is situated in a dark
backstreet. You can't help thinking, this could be the perfect Dickensian punk hovel if it utilised the front bar, which is forever closed? And also if the
management didn't have that twinker attitude of "give us yer money and take yer chances" lottery on the solitary choice of Red Stripe for us lager drinkers,
(no draught lager is always a bad sign in a boozer). A grinning Decadent Dave (tonight’s bingo caller) and a portly Wardy, otherwise known as 'Punk Alive'
collective greeted me on the door. They certainly do their level best to bring a variety of punk bands to Birmingham, and the paltry fiver entrance fee was the
only monetary relief of the night. As you enter the dank surroundings. That god awful pillar in the centre of the room looms in front of you, totally blocking the
stage view. Especially if your unlucky enough to find yourself behind it. And really makes this venue on a crowded night a fucking torturous experience. But
"hey ho lets go" if your a punk in 21st century Birmingham looking for some action on a Saturday night, should I really complain?...yeah why not!
The appallingly named Wrecklass Necklass who were pouring through the last dregs of their set, look like they just stepped out the early 70's. Especially
with the Robert Plant hair and prog rock attire. I was wondering if they had gotten the wrong venue? But from the last yelps of their set I did manage to hear
a rather rowdy version of the Clash's 'White Riot'. Before they somewhat grumpily dismantled their gear and had it parked on kerb right in front of my new
drinking spot, before you could say "Lemmy a fiver". Luckily I'd ordered 2 Red Stripes once I sussed the abominable service was in for the night. £2.50 a can
depending on who served you (as it later went up to £2.80) seemed short change for an evening of DIY punk rock. I was encouraged to hit the off licence by
one resourceful punk outside, which was only a 5 min walk back to Digbeth high st., and across the death defying duel carriageway. It did seem a very
tempting option for a few seconds. But the grey Midlands drizzle which was now persistent enough to down even the young solitary mohican's fantail, put paid
to that idea. Amongst the pools of piss outside that some punters had left behind as a sort of clue that it wasn't safe or advisable to use the cramped rat
infested latrines inside I heard feedback from the stage.
London's Devilish Presley hit the stage unannounced, until singer/guitarist Johnny
Navarro made it evidently clear inbetween each number who they were. Which meant it
was time for me to brave the sardine can. Scanning the crowd from my cramped
vantage point I checked it's made up of Goffs, punks and all sorts of weird 'n' wacky
looking geeks. The Deborah Harry lookalike in the black number certainly stood out.
These Londoner's seem to have acquired a large (in more ways than one) loyal
following. They know all the words to the new material, which I was not familiar with at
all. I presume its off their latest album 'The Dark Triad'? I must be a few albums behind
the current set. It looks like they returned to the reliable 2 piece line-up, after the living
breathing drummer quit, or was he pushed? You'd never have guessed, coz the
durable drum machine doesn't put a foot wrong and certainly don't put you off this
bands real live draw. Bassist, the skull attired Jacqui Vixen with her distinctive black 'n'
white fringe and ultra gritty Aussie rock vocal, grabs your attention. She's backed by
Johnny's chugging heavy guitar riffs. Miss Vixen takes up most of lead vocal. Last time I
caught them it was the other way round. Devilish Presley have gigged their rock 'n'
roll arses off for the past decade and they are now a very proficient outfit indeed. In
some respects maybe a little too professional. I found the T-Rex shirted Johnny baiting
the crowd to cheer after almost every number a little bit too showbizzy. I mean fucking
hell its nice to see a band you like, but it takes more than a few prompts to trigger
putting my fist in the air. Maybe if they'd plunged into their back catalogue and let rip
some of 'Flesh Ride' I too might've been punching the air. Instead of wanting to punch
out some cunt who was knocking my camera all over the shop. But hey its not the 70's
anymore. Johnny's nasal vocals doesn't play so much of a part of their set these days
which is a pity as they're a great foil to the lean 'n' mean Jacqui Vixen. They finish off
with 'Black Leather Jesus' the only number I recognized and leave the stage to chears.
Not entirely sure if all the vibrant applause was relief that the set was over and we
could all go outside for some fresh air and space? Or coz of the bands full on
performance in tight conditions. I'd opt for the latter!!!
By now the rain was starting to set in outside, so it was a grim reminder that this venue
when heaving, really does need some alternative space you can chill out to. Coz life on
the street is a very dismal affair in the pissing rain. God only knows how many Vice
Squad will attract the following night? Which I was sorely tempted
to attend, but for the cramped surroundings.
Headliners the Ramonas are the first Ramones tribute band I'd
ever seen. If your gonna do a tribute of the blitzkrieg legends you
may as well do it with some originality. And what better way than
four leather clad girls. I know of a US all girl tribute by the same
name, who look a lot more glamorous in pristine leather and
Californian tans. But I suspect they don't play with half as much
enthusiasm as their pale UK counterparts. And lose points straight
away, coz the Ramones weren't by any means sexy in that fake
cosmetic way. They were cretins who ate refried beans sitting in
Queens, fer crying out loud! But we shouldn't forget the ultra catchy
Donnas who began their career as female Ramones soundalikes
to really drive home the concept of girls playing Ramones. And
didn't they show us all, a female vocal can be so alluring on top of a
Ramonic rampage. Meanwhile back to tonight, the Ramonas may
have attracted a lot of testosterone freaks 'n' geeks attention, as
you would imagine. But I was totally astonished to be pushed aside
as I struggled to get some pics by a small gang of dykes who were
hell bent for leather on a spot stage front at the alter of the
Ramonas. So they definitely cover all bases in their curious
devotee stakes. Before they took the stage as their black Ramonas
backdrop was unfurled. I wasn't quite sure if Joey, whoops Cloey,
would fit into this scenario intact. Especially without some kinda
silicone face mask. In my warped minds eye, the poor girl must be
one god awful ugly muvva fucker stick insect, to pull it off with some
genuine intent. But you know what, she's actually a sweet looking Barbara Streisand lookalike with an auburn main of hair. And once she donned those over
sized shades she slid into the gawky front man role almost without a hitch. Even her vocals do a good take on the Hyman burrr. Which was an all round neat
suprise! Apart from the sartorial no no of those god forsaken cut off jeans the band seem eager to wear. Not forgetting the dayglo footwear which does little
to enhance the dark New Yoik impact of Joey's soiled sneakers. Now if she'd have gotten a tight ripped up pair of jeans like Jacqui Vixen and some grotty
stinky sneakers we truly would have had a carbona copy. Musically however, the Ramonas were spot on, even after a shaky start with a lot of tune ups.
They seem to have the sound and delivery down to a tee in this shower stall, reproducing the rock cartoon, high-powered blitzkrieg to perfection with hardly
a gap between songs. They machine gun out the classics to the crowd who lapped it all up. Cloey even produced a plastic baseball bat to punctuate the
beats and beat the brats. They are led by band founder the truly uncanny Rohnny Ramona on guitar. She looked scarily like her tribute, even down to the
morose look in her face as she down stroked her fingers to the bone on those power chord classics. Don't laugh but Pee Pee Ramona was the cutest and
her bass playing was energetic enough for Dee Dee to not turn in his grave. But was only let down by her screechy "1-2-3-4's" and high pitched back up
vocals. The hard working Margy Ramona on drums does in fact keep the steam heat rolling with gusto and pure hard work. I so wanted to stay to the very
end for my all time fave 'Teenage Lobotomy' and was anticipating the "gabba gaba hey" chants and placard waving Cloey. But the thought of another queue
up at the tiny bar only to be fleeced with even more luke warm Red Stripe (the management were now bringing in from probably the same off licence
mentioned earlier), was more than this pinhead could handle. So I swallowed my pride and left to the strains of 'Sheena Is A Punk Rocker' as the heavens
were chucking it down and I needed to find an alley for a leak. Howling at the moon Birmingham style.
PETER DON’T CARE
