The crowd was a seething, swaying, teeming, sweating mass.  Its own distinct animal, a muscular, motiveless law unto itself. A savage beast.  Each contorted whirl and flex of its form spraying forth perspiration and half digested party niblets.  Monosyllabic grunts sprang forth into the smoke infested air.  A figure emerges out of the Dickensian gloom.  Striding forth in a pair of Coco the Clown’s cast-offs.  50 years to the day the Rt Hon Earl de Shervland drew his first gasp of sweet air on the fragrant Isle of Sheppey.  I took a long, slow, cool draw on a fresh Marlboro, took in the vibe, a smile teasing the corners of my mouth.  I surveyed the scene, nodded with self-possession and took a shot of Gasoline.   “Never ceases to amaze me Baby!”  The King’s words echoed in the long cavernous chambers of my mind.  I was the ubermensch – Mr Quintessence!  But what of this crowd?  This carnival of fools?  This gilded occasion and much-anticipated event.

    8.4% glided in – fashionably late and with suitable nonchalance.  Clive Ness made an impassioned declaration to the crowd, who soaked up his sentiment like some crazed sponge!  He stood, like Janus, one face to the Sheppey contingent who’d loyally made the trip, the other eyeing his Welsh camaredos.  8.4% launched into a zippy, crunching set of verve and vitality.  Blitzkrieg Bop, Silly Thing, Sonic Reducer and Teenage Kicks nestled amongst the uncompromising onslaught of their set.  I nodded assuredly as they disarmed themselves of their instruments at the end of the performance.  The crowd juiced up, primed, tenderized.......... You do the math.

    Dusty the DJ kept them on ice, or stoked up, whichever imagery you prefer, with his rocking groove – punk, disco, glam, the full mix.  What came next was hazy.  I was up at the bar, mesmerizing some lady with my knowledge of Truffaut’s “Le Quatre Cent Coup” – when out of the blue the lights dim, a hush descends, was there dry ice teasing its way up my nose?  Did some generously busted dancer flit through my peripheral vision (circa Vegas 58?)  It’s unclear.  Here’s what is clear, an intoxicatingly Eastern flourish weaves a riff on the neck of a Gibson.  Cymbals sound the intro like the prelude to some Viking invasion, the bass rumbles and growls.

Doc Savage have returned!

    Iron Pete Six takes us on a culinary sleigh ride with his tongue in cheek ‘Indian’ classic.  The crowd is going hog wild.  I put the lady, in paroxysms over my Truffaut bullshit, on the back burner and ease my way through the tumult to the middle of the crowd.

Emultschoenn (attired in a decadent velvet number straight out of Oscar Wilde’s drawing room) loosens his vocal chords on Damned Classic “Melody Lee”. Next up it’s the feminist extravaganza “18 Minutes” and the crowd are in the company of old friends.  Friends that delight, enthral, infuriate, confound, but always entertain.  Savage are Music Hall, Burlesque, Vaudeville, Circus, Tin Pan Alley, 100 Club 1977 – they are strolling troubadours, trampling over life’s banalities. The songs are a relentless bombardment.

Spank is back – assaulting his bass – attacking the backing vocals with glee.  Johnny Zero punches out the solid beat, I meet Rock Freebird Windsor (ex Sav bassist) in the throng, “Great to see Johnny again” he says.  “I’m in on that deal”, I reply vaguely.  Ramones fave “Sheena” makes us all think of the sad losses in recent years, tragic waste, struck down in the prime of life.  But this beast called “Krowd” with a capital K is galvanized and growing in strength. Rod Munch (ex Pussycat Scratch/Moktar/Eskimo Joe – currently Arch Stanton) is smiling blessedly through “Johnny Grey” (himself strangely missing). Clive Ness gets a “Happy Birthday” and the crowd joins in.  Then it’s on with the show – El Janitorio writhes and contorts atop a table, or was it a speaker, whilst warbling BBC1 BBC2 etc., this madcap ceremonial display is part of Savage folklore. 

    When the leaves have blown and we all turn to face that last gig in the sky, these are the moments we shall remember.  Iconic. But is that is iconic then 6 is an iconoclast and it’s “Spankin’ My Monkee” next, that moving tribute to bishop beaters everywhere.  There wasn’t a dry eye in the house as once more we entered the world of the “lonely flying fist.”  “Ronnie Biggs” passes in a blur, which suits me as I replenish my supply of rocket fuel.  If bad music is shovelling gravel onto a tin roof, then “Buddy Holly” is spoon-feeding Salma Hayek Brazilian honey.  The Weezer anthem sends the krowd into apocalyptic spasms like some deranged Dionysian romp.  I half expected Nero to turn up astride his white horse, nibbling on goats balls.  Is this to be the zenith of excitation?  Some of the crowd are already getting in on the vocals – like filings to a magnet the microphone draws them closer.  “Dozen Girls” starts up and takes me back to an enthusiastic bout of drunken snow diving from the Twyn Car Park.  Savage finish up with Essex’s “Gonna Make You a Star”, a strange cover choice works like a charm, and “Smash It Up Part 2” – 6 revelling in Sensible’s joyous guitar licks.  Snr Garcia even treats us to a New York nightclub comedian’s rendition of “Place Looks Wonderful From Here” (courtesy of Woody Allen’s “Annie Hall”) – textbook.  Clive Ness savours a flan in the face and the crowd take a breath, almost stated, but would have loved more.  The constraints of time prevent it.  It’s been a while since I savoured the “Savage Sex-Perience”.  They pop out of the blue from time to time like sacred mushrooms.  Savage have their own crazy circadian rhythm, a cosmic loop.  They’ve had more comeback that Sinatra, yet they never really split.  Who knows, but in years to come they may return, when you least expect it.  There you’ll be, settled in your armchair, old and gnarled, feet nestled in slippers, dog at your feet, Keaton’s “Balloonatic” on TV, wife putting the finishing touches to a Navajo blanket.

NEWSFLASH – SAVAGE ARE BACK!

    Time (perhaps) for one last octogenarian pogo in the dwindling mist.  Strummer, Cochran, Ramone and all the glitterati of music beckon you from their rock ‘n’ roll cloud on high.  Slowly you ascend the invisible steps.  Farewell – it’s been a pleasure. 

Joe G. Davis

    Note – the enigmatic lady so enthralled by my discourse on Francois Truffaut was (allegedly) whisked off in a swoon by the charms of a certain Jonathon Algernon Grey.I ate the humble pie with slow resignation.