Pissed Jeans, The 100 Club, London

The last time I saw Pissed Jeans was at the legendary Brudenell in Leeds, not long after they released Honeys. A challenging and ramshackle set acted as a radio signal from the left field of hardcore – an indelible impression of what was going on out on the fringes as they and support band Hookworms took a basic formula, force fed it acid and then sent it packing out into an apocalyptic landscape of paranoia and neurosis. With the band returning to these shores and me now residing in London, it seemed time to revisit the proudly combative weirdness of David Korvette and co in the confines of the 100 Club.

We reach Soho slightly later than intended, stopping to get food on the way at a German-themed bar which was hosting an opening offer of a free beer with every Currywurst bought. It also hosted a big fella in a silver leotard and mohawk, miming and dancing suggestively to various pop hits of the 90s. I usually avoid central London during the evening, so perhaps this is what usually happens? Anyway, it seemed like a positive start to an evening’s oddness and we head through to the venue encouraged. The 100 Club is a relic of old London and one which played a major part in the punk scene of ’77, but has not been left unaffected by both its status and location. Buying a drink at the bar is a sharp reminder that this time I am seeing the band in central London rather than Leeds, and an executive decision is made not to buy more until we head out into night.

Due to timing and the alternate Currywurst universe we briefly entered, we miss the support acts and only have about ten minutes of sipping our overpriced booze before Korvette starts proceedings off with the mangled croon which heralds the rest of the band’s entrance to the stage. A sardine sway occurs as the packed in crowd jostle to either get to the front or at least find a viewpoint as the band launch into a set which is one minute furious, the next dirge-like and the next pure distorted noise. Korvette is undoubtedly the group’s visual anchor, flailing his way across the stage, swooning into the crowd and at one point writing an impromptu ditty about sniffing a sweat-drenched beanie which has somehow come into his possession. Musically, however, he is another (admittedly flamboyant) part in the shambolic Pissed Jeans whole. Underneath every descent into squealing feedback, every driving beat which peters out, every moment which has the crowd scratching their heads, there lies a band who have been on the road for a good few years now and know what the fuck they’re doing.

They seem happiest when they seem to be genuinely getting to the audience – challenging the heavily be-hipstered crowd as far as they can. Nodding heads miss an unexpected change in pace, confused looks are exchanged. By the end, as Korvette utters repeated hoarse and unintelligible yells for a number of minutes, one person in front of me stands with his head in his hand – completely and utterly over it. It might not be an easy listen, sometimes it is musically daring to the point of confrontational, but there is something strangely likeable about Pissed Jeans’ cacophonous stew. You might not enjoy it, but I highly recommend that at some point you experience it.