A wise man once said to me: “Anything free must be good.” That being said, that man was a tramp who then threw up on my shoes. Nevertheless, those words have stuck with me through my life, and when it was announced that Rage Against The Machine would play a free show in London to celebrate getting the Christmas Number One over Simon Cowell’s latest clone off the assembly line, I recalled the words of the tramp and threw my name into the hat, and was lucky enough to get a ticket. Good times. I didn’t however register my partner for a ticket, which meant that she couldn’t go. Good times Bad times.
And so it was off to London’s Finsbury Park for The Rage Factor. A sizeable crowd is gathered, and the preshow entertainment is provided by London’s finest: the sniffer dogs; at the rate they plough through the hazy-eyed sleepwalkers, there won’t be much of a crowd left. It’s a warm day, T-shirts are soon removed and it’s then that I realise I’m about 20 tattoos and as many piercings behind everyone else. Mad props to the guy with the massive AC/DC logo across his back, and girl on crutches with various knee braces who still insists on wearing ridiculously high socks. Despite the tickets saying that gates open at 2, it’s closer to 3 when they do, and there are cries of joy as people sprint to the entrance. There are even some touts lurking about, either completely oblivious to the fact that each ticket has a picture of the recipient’s face on it, or just hoping to find a long lost identical twin, though I do hope that there are no other people in the world who are unlucky enough to look like these fools.
Straight to the bar for a refreshing pint of Gaymers. Sustenance will no doubt be required, so I wisely invest in a philly melt sandwich and a bag of donuts. I observe the crowd whilst I gorge on my supplies. Already the Mohawk count is in double figures and I’ve never seen so many pasty people in all my life. One girl burst into flames as a rogue ray of sunlight shone directly onto an unprotected ankle and I doubt whether so many people will purple hair, dreadlocks and skull T-shirts been in the same place at the same time. I smile as I hear the old ECW theme ‘We Say War’ playing. I resist the urge to piledrive someone through a table.
After what seems like an absolute eternity, Gallows emerge, blasting into a cover of God Save The Queen. It’s a great way to start. The finest T-shirt of the day is worn by one of the guitarists, which simply says Punk Not Crunk. I want one. It has to be said that Frank Carter is an enigmatic frontman. After a particularly brilliant “Leeches,” he tells us to bounce around like we’re at a Justin Bieber concert, and that if we all boo loud enough he’ll hear us over at Wembley, which I’m sure he does by the volume created. Later he says that he feels like Jon Bon Jovi, only a lot cooler and a little shorter. At the end of what is a fucking good set, he dedicates a song to Dennis Hopper, Gary Coleman (I didn’t even know he’d died) and most of all Joe Strummer, an obvious hero, and they close with a cover of I Fought The Law. Great stuff from a band who I would gladly see again (for free, of course).
Next on is Roots Manuva, someone who I’ve heard a great deal about but never actually heard, so it’s a complete let down when I discover that I don’t really like his music. No offence Mr Roots, but it just didn’t do it for me. It’s at this point that I encounter my first Cup Fiend (those annoying kids who stack up all the cups they can to return them for the princely sum of 10p a cup. “Can I have your cup?” he asks not-so-politely. I look into my cup, and I still have half a pint left. “Fuck off mate.” I politely retort. He sneers and goes to climb into a bin for more cups, and I lose a little bit of respect for the human race. I wonder if, in the spirit of the concert, they will donate the money to a good cause, but I settle on the fact that they will spend it on poppers and blue WKD. Taking this opportunity to seek restoration in human faith, I take a wander to see what else is going on. It becomes apparent that people are walking barefoot in their own filth. The male urinals become a Neanderthal staredown, but fortunately the amount of Gaymers coursing through my system makes any stage fright disappear. Gargoyles descend upon Finsbury Park, proclaiming their love for Biffy Clyro and wondering aloud why they don’t have any Fosters on tap at the bar. Savages. I get the urge to spend all my loose change, which amounts to slightly less than a pound. Turns out nothing. Elsewhere, members of the St John’s Ambulance stuff their faces with the contents of shiny goody bags from the comfort of their corpse carrier. I ponder over which illness to feign to get inside. Would an outbreak of smallpox be so unlikely? I debate over whether Slayer sell more T-shirts than records, and try to recall if I know any Slayer songs. Negative. I spy a freak wearing a Rolo Tomassi T-shirt, and have the urge to shout into his ghostly face that they are the worst band walking the planet, but he looks like Gary Oldman in Dracula, and I think better of it.
Just when I am beginning to fear for my own sanity, solace comes in the form of the final support band, Gogol Bordello, whose gypsy rock is a much needed shot in the arm; watching them is about as much fun as you can have without a tab of acid and a carload of circus animals. Lead singer Lionel Hutz has a mighty fine moustache, and does a great job of promoting moustache awareness. Good moustache. It’s just an all out party, with violins and accordions never looking so rock n roll. The band have a fire, an intensity that can’t be replicated, and it’s infectious. There’s a member of the band who looks like Pocahontas if she was the lovechild of Che Guevara, which is no bad thing at all. They are the sure-fire unexpected success of the night, and at the end a drum is thrown into the crowd, and one of the band dives in to get it back. Truly fantastic.
A young man emerges from the mosh pit with claret oozing from his face. The wall to the side of the stage is spattered with his blood. Afterwards, I learn that he came off worse from an accidental moshing incident with a midget redhead. His street cred disappears quicker than the haemoglobin from his nasal passage.
An animated message from Simon Cowell heralds the arrival of the main event, as the cartoon version of the high-trousered one begrudgingly introduces Rage Against The Machine, who launch immediately into Testify. People have climbed the trees around the park to get a better look at the stage, and while uncomfortable with a high chance of death, they easily have the best view. If Zach De La Rocha is a modern day prophet, Tom Morello is the devil’s axeman, both are ludicrously amazing. Bomb Track, People Of The Sun, Know Your Enemy, Bulls On Parade, Township Rebellion, Bullet In Your Head, all are performed with the trademark brilliance that the band are known for. They even throw in a cover of White Riot, dedicated to Strummer as well. It is eight years since he died, but fuck it, everyone loves The Clash, and Rage have kept the flame of protest burning. Guerilla Radio and Sleep Now In The Fire keep the crowd in a frenzy. Zach calls on stage the couple behind the Facebook campaign to get them to Number One, and present them with a cheque which is all the proceeds from their success, which is all being given to Shelter. I couldn’t see exactly how much it was, but there were a few zeros on there, so that’s all good.
Rage leave the stage (that rhymes) so that a video can play detailing their ascent to Crimbo domination, all set to the tune of The Climb by whatever his name was, which brings much mirth to the crowd. It’s furthered by the addition of quotes from the Geordie pubescent and Cowell that deride the Rage effort, topped off with the final sale stats, which get the biggest cheer of the night. Power to the people and all that. Of course, the Rage reappear for a rapturous finale with Killing In The Name Of, that brings the house down and sends all home squealing like little abused piglets. The truth is that Rage are easily one of the best live bands in existence, and it’s a massive tick off the list of things to do before I die. All that’s left now is to have a kickabout at Anfield, travel the world and do unspeakable things to Holly Willoughby, but I'm not sure any of those could come close to the sheer ecstasy of what has been an amazing experience. And it was all for free, which makes it even sweeter.
Posted In Live Reviews, Jun 13 2010.
Words - Paul