(review n pix neil crud)
Fight Back
Ok, these were two seperate gigs on two seperate nights or, if we’re gonna be pedantic, two seperate mornings. The Tache Club in Blackpool has been hosting punk bands since the days of fanzines and cassettes. I think my old band 4Q actually had a gig booked here in 89/90, but something prevented us playing it (probably Cumi and his girl-flu). And what a great venue. Snotty punk disco downstairs with pissed up punks and few bemused chavs wondering what fucking planet they had landed on. One of whom took exception to ourselves when Michael took a group pic of us (below), she actually thought we were taking a pic of her and tried to snatch Mic’s phone off him…
‘Why the fuck would I want a pic of you…?’ is somewhere along the lines of the ensuing conversation…
Blackpool
Staggering from Rebellion after a full days worth of beer and punk rock, one would quite happily trudge back into the B&B, stumble upstairs, waking the other guests as you negotiate the stand off between your key and the lock, and fall onto bed fully clothed for a few hours of unconsciousness. It’s not sleep, it’s unconsciousness – you’ll wake up feeling knackered…
So a good way to combat this is to first stand in that nest of vipers called a kebab shop in Blackpool where every sted-head and slag congregate for a last ditch attempt at getting a fight and shag (in that order). We stand there looking mean and angry; they choose not to chance their luck with these ‘punks.’
RSI2
RSISatisfactorily one meal closer to death you then head for The Tache with a flyer in hand to see RSI (Routine Social Incompetance) – they’re in full swing upstairs (pic above) , it’s £3 on the door, it’s value for money as song after song is smashed out, Be Fucking Happy Or Fuck Off – you can see where they’re coming from. Considering it’s 3am and they’ve already appeared on the Olympia stage today, they’re either artificially stimulated, high on adrenalin or fit as fuck. Curly-Wurlys Used To Be Bigger Than This – they’re a band after my own heart, either that or my hands have grown fucking huge, because corporate chocolate bar companies wouldn’t for one minute think of ripping us off by making their products smaller and the prices higher would they? (The Cunts).
It must be Cadburys Boost and Red Bulls all round as RSI were relentless and tighter than a  gnats butt. I was very drunk but do recall a song I’d Hate To Be You It Must Suck with horror show style parts and executions, and another one called Trigger, The Dancing Postman, or I may have been hallucinating by now…

The seagulls are making as much racket on the rooftops as the bands inside as we find our way back to the B&B as day breaks… Fast forward 22 hours and we’re back at The Tache after another day’s onslaught of Rebellion… This time it’s The Fiend (main pic), and far from being the happy-go-punky of last nights RSI, tonight it’s raw, aggressive, angry and raging. The room is packed out, it’s extreme, it’s an intense closed environment, it’s fucking great! It’s 3.15am FFS! And this is what weekends like this are all about, although one of the over enthusiastic kids who were pogoing like fuck got a bit of the rough treatment when someone smashed him against the stage, the poor kid had the wind knocked out of his sails, and the twat who did it realised it was best he left the building.
Singer Bri Robertson, I used the term, singer loosely, as Angry Fucker is more fitting,  as he stands, he stares, he rants, he spits. He’s angry about the poseurs, the plastic punks who don’t support the bands, ‘They just come here to fucking pose.’
The Fiend are ace, they’re hardcore ’til they die – long live The Fiend…
(Grab an earfull here)