Spam Javelin

I nearly sabotaged my own night before it even started.

It began, as many questionable evenings do, with a pre-gig rushed curry and the dangerous confidence that comes from saying “just one more pint before soundcheck.” We discussed the lack of young bands locally and how the area needs an injection, or a spurt of youths with guitars and bad attitudes; of whom tonight will be sadly lacking. Anyway, by the time I rolled up (late) to The Skerries, I was already fighting for survival — spiritually, physically, and gastrointestinally.

I took up my usual post at the side of the stage — the observation deck for ageing gig-goers — just in time for Decibel (pic below) to stomp onto the stage, their first foray into Bangor, and the furthest West they have played.

Decibel do not look like prodigies. They look like men who’ve paid council tax for decades and know the price of decent earplugs. A gritty post-punk unit hovering proudly near the Gang Of Four (sorry, Three) mark.

Then they started playing and the room tightened instantly. The guitar had grit, the rhythm section locked in like a heavy industrial door, and the whole thing pulsed with the confidence of musicians who’ve spent years perfecting their craft rather than revising for GCSEs. No gimmicks, no nonsense — just lean, muscular post-punk that grabbed the room by the collar and shook it awake. I nodded approvingly into my pint of water (yes! water). Musical solidarity had never sounded so good.
(Decibel on Bandcamp)

Now, full disclosure: my sub-hardcore band Spam Javelin also played. And we were magnificent. A blinder. A thunderous, sweat-soaked triumph. But reviewing your own gig feels morally wrong, like writing your own Wikipedia page or laughing at your own jokes in a quiet room. So we’ll glide past that moment of glory and move on before my ego demands a solo.
(Spam Javelin on Bandcamp)

Then came White Ether (main pic), strutting down from Caernarfon like a gang of washed out art-school troublemakers armed with pedals and intent. Steve’s guitar wailed and swooped in glorious wah-wah drenched waves, like someone had discovered a pedal and decided to dedicate their life to it. The bass danced between jazz-funk swagger and post-punk urgency, the drums obeyed the laws of simple yet precise rhythm, and John’s vocals sailed across the top.

A colourful ensemble began sort of dancing down the front, not coordinated dancing, not polite nodding — but that gloriously awkward gig shuffle. Limbs everywhere. Smiles. Confusion. Commitment.

Every song flirted with the idea of becoming a straight-up anthem, making us lean in. Some are familiar favourites others are new. By song six, the internal council inside my head — the crusty tribunal of punks and bar-leaning philosophers — reconvened.

The decision was swift.

Unanimous verdict: YES.

White Ether need to bottle this guitar driven charm and release it into the world as an album. Immediately. Before someone sensible talks them out of it.

I raised my watery glass to the stage, to the curry, to the misfits dancing without shame, and to another night at The Skerries that reminded me why I keep doing this.
(White Ether on Bandcamp)