London Lyceum

FIRST THE problems. An untried PA hastily assembled at short notice due to the ‘disappearing rig' problems stemming from the previous night of the Damned tour. Therefore no soundcheck.

Black Flag are an LA band, freshly flown in, suffering from culture shock and time disorientation. When they do go on it is as if their legs are still wobbling from the hours spent in the air. Then there's the Lyceum itself to deal with.

A crowd unaccustomed to the band, unaware of the name and with a distrust of anything American and not attired in regulation British bondage. The building's acoustic gremlins are working overtime, ensuring that all lyrics are inaudible (oddly this situation remedies itself immediately the following group, the Anti-Nowhere League, come on).

The set contains sixteen songs crammed into half an hour. It starts with a lazy howl of feedback which gradually grows into a song. Henry Rollins, the shaven headed singer, fresh from dressing room gymnastics and several gallons of vitamin rich orange juice, yells the first in a series of pre song taunts.

The commencer is 'No More'. The Black Flag engine room of Greg's guitar, Chuck's and Robo's drums revs up and starts to around, never quite reaching full power but setting up an earth shattering rumble.

Already Chuck is flinging himself and his low slung bass around the stage, narrowly avoiding Henry's head. At a US gig, Chuck lost two machine heads to the front man's forehead. Greg's neo mop top hairstyle shakes and shivers like it's been wired to the mains.

Moving on, they rip away at 'Damaged II, and 'Revenge', the latter with a neat guitar-based pace variation on the regular fast flow.

These alterations in tempo seem off-putting to the standard UK punter. Some simply stare and can't make up their minds, a few pogo and enjoy whilst many just sit it out on the comfort of the floor to await the Damned. A lot are content to warble anti-American insults.

“I'm not a machine”, screeches Henry. Robo starts an easy tempo-ed drum clout which proceeds to speed to a damaging jolt. This is super charged by the guitar-chord crashing duo. Chuck runs a finger up and down his frets producing deep, deep, whooping sounds of eardrum shaking velocity.

The slow, drawn out work through of 'Damaged I' is akin to an out of tune funeral march. More people park their bums on the carpet but the Black Flag boys grin like demons. “I could've played that song all night,” admits Dez afterwards.

My overall impression is that the band have their real roots more in the Detroit school (Stooges, MC5) of rock and roll rather than the hand blurring constant thrash of the modern three chord stuff. When they depart there is no applause, just shouts.

There's no doubting the intensity but it's only a workman-like performance, with the six-thousand-mile gap taking its toll and preventing any real spark.

Back in the dressing room, the main grouse is with the equipment and not the crowd. Greg: 'I really felt like blasting tonight but the gear just wasn't there. Henry concludes with a quaint U.S. turn of phrase: “Yeah, the whole thing was just cheesy”.