“Hey Damien… Don’t fuck it up.” Words of encouragement from Andrew Falkous of the rock band Future of the Left. We’re minutes away from sharing a stage for the first time as mclusky*. It’s winter, it’s wet, we’re in Le-Pub, a music venue in Newport, Wales. A music venue in Newport which is in need of £50k of soundproofing to fend off noise complaints from cretins who’ve purchased abodes next to a music venue in Newport, Wales. Initially, FOTL were asked to play the show to help raise some of the required funds, but for reasons I can’t recall and won’t pretend to care about, Falco suggested mclusky as an alternative.
Re-ee-wind a few months earlier. It’s midday, I’m at work in a call centre. My phone buzzes. I pick it up. A message from Falco – “We’re going to do a fundraiser for Le Pub as mclusky. Would you be up for singing Jon’s parts?” I stand up from my chair, arms aloft, fists clenched. “Yes!” I shout, to the alarm of my colleagues. “What’s happened? Did you get a sign-up?” one of them asks. I immediately message my friends Andy S and Dev, both of whom were managing the Golden Lion pub the night I walked in there after moving to Bristol from North Wales. As I sat down at the bar to order some drinks, mclusky came through the speakers. I couldn’t believe it. Back home, I was one of maybe four people I knew who’d heard of them. I’d moved to Bristol explicitly to start a band that sounded like mclusky, and on my second night out, I was in a bar that was playing their songs. I tell Andy and Dev that I can’t believe this was happening – I can’t remember exactly the conversation, but Dev almost certainly said they were “a sick band.” Over the course of months, years, and a trillion murdered brain cells, we three developed a friendship in lock-ins spent listening to and professing our love for the band. On the day Falco messaged me, when I told them I’d been asked to sing Jon’s parts, they were as excited and confused as I was, and of course, demanded by right that they were granted space on the guest list.
That’s the thing with mclusky – not many people had heard of them; most people still haven’t. But for many of the folks who had, they were important. They were a band that felt like they were yours, like it and the songs belonged to you. It was almost as if being a fan was a personality trait. So much so that when you met someone who loved them as well, a kinship was born – they were in on it too. They knew that this was a band that didn’t get the flowers it deserved while active, and actively swimming against the tide of nu-metal/emo bands that were front and centre of the alternative music scene in the early ’00s. That this was probably the best band that no one had ever heard of – who Steve Albini had once declared “the only band in Britain worth listening to.” A band that should have been massive but called it a day after “an album of posh demos” and two seminal records that sound as fresh and as urgent now as they did 20-odd years ago. To know mclusky was to wear a badge of weirdo authenticity, and to my mind, I wore it harder than anyone else.
“I remember standing there in silence as the explosion of wit, personality, and energy washed over me. I’d never heard anything like it”
2002 – the small fishing village of Saundersfoot in West Wales. I arrived there the year prior, a despondent and heartbroken teenager. In North Wales just before the move, I’d joined a band called Homespun which I loved, with two of the members – siblings, Terry and Tony – becoming my lifelong surrogate older brothers. I’d recently lost my virginity to someone who had very generously agreed to be my girlfriend. I was young. I was happy. I had a solid core of mates. I was excited about what the future might hold. But my parents decided that we were moving to the other side of the country, and despite my best efforts to find any solution that would allow me to stay put, the writing was on the wall.
It’s no exaggeration to say I barely left my room, let alone the house, for the first six months. All I did was play guitar, sulk, cry, attend to matters that teenage boys attend to, and ruminate on how and when I could get back up north to rejoin the band. See, by now, and for some years, I knew that I wanted to be a musician and nothing else. I had once been deemed an intellectually “gifted child,” with boarding school and a potential move to the year above me posited as appropriate environments for my cognitive prowess. This, however, was short-lived. I picked up a guitar and quickly went from top sets in almost everything to classes comprised of kids with undiagnosed trauma, ADHD, and supporters of Arsenal Football Club. I didn’t care, though. I was going to be a musician – excuse me, a rockstar, a world-renowned rockstar with critical acclaim and a body count to rival the Spanish flu. Because of this, in West Wales, escaping my current plight was all I could think about. That, and all the sex I wasn’t having.
It’s weird, because I knew from the off that Saundersfoot, beautiful and wholesome as it was, could not give me what I wanted from life. But in the next town over, in Dales, the only music shop for literally tens of miles, I would hear mclusky for the first time, and my life—intangibly, and years later tangibly—would be changed forever. Like 9/11 or Jacko dying, I know where I was and exactly what I was doing the first time I heard Do Dallas. I had come to buy some guitar strings and look through records I had no intention of buying. I vividly remember hearing ‘Lightsaber…’ come on the speakers as I was sifting through some records. I remember standing there in silence as the explosion of wit, personality, and energy washed over me. I’d never heard anything like it—the fucking bass, man! Never had I heard lyrics delivered in such an obvious and intentionally mocking fashion. It felt as if I was listening to a weirdo giving it back to cool kids and bullies after years of torment. I remember thinking, “Why are they shouting Danny Baker?”, “What is this? Who is this?” It sounds crazy, but I felt like a part of me was in those songs—I recognised myself in the disdain, in the weirdness, in the “fuck you—this is who I am,” and admittedly, to the embarrassment of my current self, in the “I know I’m smarter than all of you cunts.”
When the album finished, I asked the shop owner what I’d just been subjected to. He told me it was a band from Cardiff called mclusky. I didn’t have the money to buy it there and then, so I left with my guitar strings and a need to pick up a copy as soon as I could afford one. When I did eventually buy the album, it was rarely not playing. It changed my approach to songwriting—it made me realise that in the terrible nu-metal songs about my inner teenage anguish I’d been writing, there wasn’t enough—or any—of who I was. It would be a lie to say it completely changed my music taste at that point, Bizkit gotta keep Limpin’ and all that, but it absolutely was integral in shaping the music I would go on to create.
In the two years that followed, I saw the band play live four times. The first time was at Cardiff Student Union supporting Idlewild—I recall not being able to place Falco’s accent, suspecting that he was Irish, and I remember thinking what a bunch of curious-looking fellows they were—Falco with his Elvis-esque mutton-chops, Jon lanky, five-stone piss-wet, flailing like an electrocuted rabbit, Harding sat behind the kit looking like a clean-cut Mormon, who would be replaced by, Jack smashing fuck out of the drums while gurning like he’d consumed a buffet of pingers. The collars matched the cuffs, it seemed. The second time I saw them was at Compass Point Festival in Cardiff, at which I would speak to both Falco and Jon for the first time. There is a video of Jarcrew’s set from that day on YouTube (another incredibly underrated band—the singer, Kelson, would go on to form FOTL with Falco and Jack). In this video, as the camera pans to the crowd, in the background you can see a young overweight man dressed like a twat, sporting bleached blond hair. To my shame, that is me. The third time I saw them was at the Barfly in Cardiff—the band refused to play the song ‘Joy…’ unless they were provided with three shots of whiskey from the bar—a shrewd move that paid off, and one that I would later steal. The Barfly show was a day or two before they played the Reading Festival, which was the last time I saw them—and one of their last ever shows. That set is also on YouTube. At the end of the video, you can hear Falco say, “This one’s for Chloe and her fella”—that is also me. The fella, not Chloe.
Related: mclusky – the world is still here and so are we | Album Review
They were an incredible live band—the sets would start with ‘Lightsaber…’ straight into ‘Collagen Rock’—a combo I regarded as perfect back then, but as attempted murder now that I have to perform them. ‘…MSG…’ and ‘That Man…’ carried a different energy live, and You Should Be Ashamed, Seamus was evil in audial form—this and ‘Collagen Rock’ are my two favourite mclusky songs. As a band they were singular and brilliant. The chat in between songs was ridiculous and hilarious in equal measures. I remember a monologue from Falco about the Freddy Krueger Ferris wheel situated at the back of the Compass Point site—all of it nonsense, but completely captivating. It was followed by them finishing a song with Falco speaking the words, “Chickens. Chickens. Chickens. Cunt,” down the microphone for no apparent reason at all. It was magic, it was bonkers, it was seminal. Those shows cemented the feeling of this being my band, my favourite band. I was in. Forever. But nowt lasts forever. For reasons I’m still not 100% privy to, they split up.
It was around this time that, on one of the rare occasions in my life, I followed through on something I said I was going to do. I moved back to North Wales to rejoin Homespun. In the time I’d been away, they’d worked with a producer called Ronnie Stone, who had been involved with the Pixies, Mansun, The Christians, and a load of others bands. He was now mentoring Terry, the singer/guitarist and main songwriter. In our teens, we made energetic punk music, influenced mostly by Green Day, NOFX, and Pennywise. Under Ronnie’s guidance, the sound had become more indie-tinged. This was the era of Franz Ferdinand, of The Fratellis, of The Libertines, of trilbys and waistcoats, of affected regional accents, of songs about ‘fings what I can see in my shit town’—this is what was popular, and this is what we needed to sound like if we were going to get anywhere.
So, we threw ourselves into it. Wrote less abrasive songs, dressed up like The Hives, barely played any shows, and somehow ended up on a label based in New York. I thought we’d made it—you’ll be surprised to learn that we hadn’t. In clichéd fashion, we were promised the world: US tours, support slots with massive bands, parties with Kiefer Sutherland (who was surprisingly and legitimately affiliated with the label). “We can’t do much for you in the UK from the States, but once we get you over here we can work our magic.” The challenge was getting there. They weren’t going to pay for our visas, and neither were we. Slowly but surely, the excitement dissipated. We released an album, played three shows, and decided that it was time to knock it on the head.
I was gutted. I was jaded. I had developed a robust dislike and distrust of the music industry. I considered the possibility that after all this time, music perhaps wasn’t for me. During the slow demise of the band, I’d visited a friend in Bristol. On one of our nights out, she bumped into her friend Jeff—a towering hulk of a man who excitedly explained to us that he had been to see three bands already that day and was en route to see a fourth. Little did I know that he was the legendary and universally loved Big Jeff. And little did he know that it was that encounter, and his enthusiasm for music, which convinced me that I had to move to Bristol to start a band.
mclusky played ArcTanGent (a festival just outside of Bristol) a few weeks after Jeff accidentally set himself on fire, requiring a lengthy stay in hospital.
Just before we started ‘Chases’, with zero intention of following through on what I was about to say, I walked over to Falco to tell him deadpan that I was going to change the words to “don’t go fucking in the barn because Big Jeff’s on fire.” In an attempt to cheer Jeff up during a hospital visit, I told him about this. As expected, it did the trick, he suitably pissed himself laughing. On stage, however—Falco did not. Knowing how aghast and apoplectic this would leave the audience, he instead looked at me with the face of a man who was imagining what it might be like to have a mob kick us to death – mission accomplished. This also made Jeff (and me) piss ourselves with laughter. That’s what friends are fooooooor.
“I threw myself fully into the performances. So much so I’d often end up vomiting on stage—which, in time, became the primary reason people came to our shows”
I landed in Bristol in 2010 with hundreds of demoed songs and a sizeable chip on my shoulder. Despite my not being able to sing for shit, TSPSI was a pretty good band from the off—if I do say so myself. At the very least, we had memorable songs, with memorable lyrics. I’d talk shit in between songs like mclusky did—but not as well as mclusky did, of course. But people would laugh when they were meant to (mostly), and I threw myself fully into the performances. So much so I’d often end up vomiting on stage—which, in time, became the primary reason people came to our shows, with disappointment relayed by attendees when we ended a set without me chucking my soul up onto the floor. I’d found happiness in Bristol. It was fun. I was free from the pressures of trying to appeal to a market. The people in the band were fully on board. I’d met Andy and Dev, and hundreds of other musicians and artists. It felt like I was home, like I was becoming who I wanted to be.
We had a song called ‘Say No to Stop Motion’, in which there is a refrain that mentions mclusky by name. Falco’s old housemate, Matt Jarrett, heard us perform this at a festival. Introducing himself after our set had finished, he, his friend Pete, and I got shit-faced together. It was through Matt that I met Falco again, and soon after, we were offered a support slot with Future of the Left in Bristol. It was at that show we played that song, with that lyric, while Falco was stood watching. It was painful. Afterwards, Falco told me he enjoyed our set but didn’t care for that song on account of it sounding like nu-metal. Either way, I’d been given the nod by the person who’d influenced my musical output more than any other. It felt good—like we were carrying the torch appropriately.
In truth—if everything stopped there for TSPSI, I’d have been satisfied. The aim of St. Pierre back then was to play with some of the bands that had inspired us. Over the years, we’ve supported Future of the Left, Dodgy, and Electric Six. We opened the stage that Refused played at 2000 Trees. Same with The Bronx. And Keith Buckley of ETID is rumoured to have run from the press tent to our stage because he liked what he was hearing (good lad). Jokes aside—those bands were the main influences of early St. Pierre. We had ticked a lot of the boxes I’d sought to tick. I didn’t imagine there’d be more to come than that.
“Short of pissing on people—you can do what you like.” Guidance from Andrew Falkous minutes before he and I take to the stage for the first time as mclusky*. In the weeks leading up to the Newport show, we managed to get together to rehearse in Cardiff twice.
Let it be known, I don’t get nervous before shows. Any shows. Not small ones, not big ones, not with St. Pierre, not with mclusky. Childish as it sounds, I’m there for a reason—to prove a point. I deserve to be here. They’ll see. The bigger the room, the better. The closer we get to stage time, the more resolute I am in this mindset. I’m focused, locked in, ready to go. Everyone in that room is having it—two thousand eyes on me? Yes fucking please.
I don’t get nervous for shows. But I was bricking it on that train to Cardiff. Absolutely shitting my pants. Julia picked me up from the station. We chatted on our way to the rehearsal space. I told her I was nervous. She told me I’d be fine. We get to the room and everything is set up, ready to go—except me. I can’t remember what song we did first—I think it was ‘1956 and All That’. I remember doing the scream at the end of the song, with Jack and Julia both saying, “Fuck me,” because it was so loud. Falco saying, “That’s good. What next? We work our way through the songs that I’m singing with relative ease—they sound like the songs, and I’m singing the right words. Then I’m asked if I’d mind if they run a few songs that I don’t sing. I have zero problem with this. Falco changes his guitar and starts the intro to ‘Seamus’, my favourite mclusky song.
My day to day is ruled by sentiment and emotional disregulation, at that moment both are all encompassing. It dawns on me that my favourite band is about to play my favourite song, and I’m the only person in the audience. I think about the times I saw them live and screamed those words so hard that I could barely speak the next day, about hearing Do Dallas in that shop, about the struggles I endured to get here—homelessness, mental illness, being ginger, supporting Tottenham Hotspur, years of feeling trapped by my surroundings, like fulfilment would always be someplace I wasn’t. And now I was having the realisation that every second of it was worthwhile because it led me here. As they played the song, my skin tingled with frisson. I looked down at the floor, fought back the tears I could feel building behind my eyes, and hoped that no one was noticing. I don’t know what it is about that song, but it’s the one that always gets me. It got me back in 2004. It got me in that rehearsal. It got me in Newcastle, the first time I played bass in the band. It got me in LA, in New York, and in Chicago. Fuck, it’s getting me now, typing this out. I guess the long intro affords me time to drink it all in—to scan the room, to look out at the crowd and see myself in the faces of people who love this band like I do, to look at Falco and Jack and be grateful for the experiences they’ve given me, for the art we’ve created together, for the memories we share, for their friendship. It allows me a moment to ask, “What the fuck am I doing here?” To reflect. To acknowledge that I’m happy. That I’m present. That I’m alive.
We smash through the first half of the set in Le-Pub, and I assume my position at the front left of the floor with the punters, ready to jump back on for another song later in the set. It’s rammed. The excitement of the crowd is palpable, the energy in the room is infectious. It doesn’t feel like a celebration—it is a celebration. The band works their way through the next couple of songs. I check the handwritten set list that Falco has given to me and see that there’s one more song before I have to get back on stage. I begin to work myself up—I’m swaying, pacing on the spot, nearly in character, I’m ready to get up there and do ‘Chases’ the justice it deserves. The band finishes and I confidently peacock it to the middle of the stage. With much gusto, I plant myself firmly behind my microphone stand. I look over at Falco. He’s wearing a look of confusion. I don’t know why, and this, in turn, results in my confusion.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“Chases,” I respond.
“But,” he says, pointing to his own handwritten setlist, “it’s Seamus next.”
Now I’m completely baffled. I turn around and jump back down from the stage – I think I might have been blushing. I have no idea what’s happening. People are laughing at the calamity. I’ve made a tit of myself. I check my setlist—my handwritten setlist given to me by Falco himself.
Seamus is missing.
Sabotaged in my first innings!
He starts the song. I look around. I can see Andy S and Dev smiling. I start to well up.
I’m in mclusky.
Chickens. Chickens. Chickens. Cunt.