Gang of Four (Live in London, 2025)
“Are you excited for the gig tomorrow?” Eliza asked me over text; I had no idea what gig she was talking about. Just as I was wondering what I’d signed myself over to, it suddenly came to me. A couple of months ago we’d booked tickets to catch Gang of Four on their farewell tour. The time was nigh.
“Very!” I texted, “See you tomorrow.”
It’s tomorrow now. 24th of June, year of our lord 2025. What really sold us on booking the tickets at the time was how close the venue is to me. The O2 Forum in Kentish Town is a fifteen-minute walk from my flat. Easy.
Eliza sauntered into my flat for dinner, wearing a black/purple floral skirt and a bizarre Jim E. Brown t-shirt, her copious hair tied into a voluminous pony tail. While we supped on pasta salad, I asked her, “Have you activated your ticket yet?”
“I don’t need to. Why, do you need to activate yours?”
“Yeah, I bought mine on Dice.”
“You got yours on Dice?!” she said with a mouthful of surprise and salad. “I got mine on Ticketmaster…”
The heat rising off the pavement had an optical quality to it, snaking upwards like a mirage without a merciful breath of wind anywhere. We followed a procession of Gang of Four t-shirts and grey hair right to our destination. Sandwiched between a church and a pub, the O2 Forum is conveniently placed to serve the needs of the sinful and those about to sin. The architectural three-course-meal of a Victorian pub, an art-deco music venue, and an apostolic church was delectable to the eyes.
This queue wasn’t shy about moving, so we jumped right in. Security staff uniformed in threatening yellows were splitting the line in two at the door.
“Stall tickets to the left and balcony tickets to the right please!” they’d shout over one another, projecting their voices like furious thespians.
“What ticket do you have?” Eliza asked me with a trace of worry in her voice; worry which materialised when we discovered our tickets went their separate ways.
We stared at our maligned tickets then back at each other. Perhaps we’d be able to reunite once inside, we both thought but didn’t want to say. Sure enough, we got separated at the door… While getting frisked, I tried to reason with the steel-faced security guard but my resolve broke under the look of contempt he gave me for wasting his time. The entrance was sectioned off by crowd control barriers in such a way that balcony and stall ticket holders were completely segregated like animals in a factory. They even had separate smoking areas. Like two kittens hosed down and pulled apart, Eliza and I sadly looked at each other from across the room.
“I’ll try and find you!” I mouthed at her.
Sprinting up the stairs and through the palatial hallways, I tried to find some point of infiltration. Flying down the stairs on the other side bought me to another dead-end cattle-pen. Damn. I explained my situation to another member of staff who pawned me off to another member of staff who pawned me off to the ticket desk. The kindly, young lady behind the glass was sympathetic to our predicament but couldn’t allow any free flow between the floors on account of all the tickets being sold out. In light of the crowd crush that happened at the O2 Brixton in December 2022, her hands were tied by regulation. Hopping over the barriers briefly crossed my mind but being tackled and possibly tased by a dozen guards put me in my place.
“No dice. Guess we’ll be seeing the gig from two different perspectives,” I texted her.
It was only while there was hope for a reunion did I feel panicky. Now that the hammer had been brought down, I felt oddly light. Might as well make the most of this, I thought as I walked back up to the balcony. The support act, a band called Heartworms, were in full swing as I grabbed an empty seat upstairs.
Ojo Orme, the frontwoman, commanded the stage like some angel of death; blackness shimmering off her dress, her guitar, and her hair obscuring her face. The rhythm guitarist and drummer (note the absence of a bassist) were spared from her dark wrath. Together they twisted the air with the malicious melody of some unspeakable ritual spiralling out of control.
From my vantage up in the cheap red velvet clouds, I looked down into the crowd, wondering what it was like down there.
Eliza was swaying side to side, hypnotised by the dread queen on stage. She sang threateningly into the mic like it was her enemy she couldn’t live without. They were currently playing “Jacked” from their recent album Glutton for Punishment, Ojo stabbing the gruesome rhythm of the song with solos so bizarre that a guitar ought not to sound like that. Her pedalboard must be wild. The crowd rolled apocalyptically around Eliza like a sea of skulls while she stared with eyes ablaze.
A final, disgusting chord from their guitars hung in the air like tar in zero gravity. With a quick, polite bow, they were off the stage and a portentous darkness lifted from the whole place. Dazzled by the stage lights aimed right at her, Eliza looked around the crowd undulating towards the bar. Fully expecting the median age to be about fifty, she was surprised to spot so many people her age. So many hot people her age.
I was taken aback by how quickly Heartworms’ set had finished. But then again, I’ve – for some reason – been making a habit of either arriving late or leaving gigs early. Illuminated by the stage and the warm glow of an ornate and spindly chandelier, one can appreciate how camp and over-the-top the décor is. While the sound crew were flitting on and off the stage, breaking the wait music apart with disembodied guitar notes and random mic checks, I lost myself in a decorative reverie.
Golden chariots galloped in friezes atop the walls, under a delicately carved sky of panelled wood. The borders around the stage were liberally adorned with terracotta curves, spiralling wreaths, and military insignias. The irony of an anti-establishment band like Gang of Four performing here introduced a glorious sense of reclamation; headquarters overrun by a bunch of punks. The concave ceiling out of which the chandelier sprouted burned like the vermillion evening sun, light pooling and dripping off its curved contours and floral boundaries.
I was pulled out of my lull by the dimming of the lights.
The expectant hush of the crowd was broken by a cheer that rang in Eliza’s ear when the band took to the stage. She wished she had her earplugs.
The drummer, black waist coat over a red t-shirt, sat behind his kit with the air of an engine driver. The vocalist and guitarist were dressed near-identically in a red shirt paired with black trousers; except the guitarist had his tucked in. Most striking of all was the bassist who looked like a punk princess on a night out. Even her bass was covered in all manner of stickers. Only vocalist Jon King and drummer Hugo Burnham remain from the band’s original line-up. Joining them for their final tour on guitar and bass are Ted Leo and Gail Greenwood.
Playing their debut album Entertainment! in order, the band opened with a relatively tame rendition of “Ether” – tame compared to the rest of their set. Something was up with the mic though as Jon sounded muffled compared to the energetic mix.
Things began picking up with “Natural’s Not It”; Gail skipped around the stage as much as her bassline did over Hugo’s crisp drumming, while Jon took to screaming into the mic to offset its weird mixing. Anyone familiar with the album can immediately hear its distinct guitar-work that sounds like teeth dragged against snapping strings. Ted’s blurring hands ripped one chord after another with the rapidity of a machine gun. Andy Gill can rest in peace knowing his inimitable guitar parts are being handled with such reverence. Apparently being 70 years old isn’t enough to stop Jon King from waving the mic stand around, singing into it with almost the exact same voice he recorded the album with. His vocal time travel proves that the voice of rebellion and angst isn’t subject to the strictures of age. Still… someone should turn his mic up.
“Not Great Men” they played twice as fast as the studio recording, with the chugging tempo of a train who’s breaks have gone. This felt like a prelude. While they were screwing around with the amps, someone in the crowd to the left of Eliza screamed, “LOUDER!” Gail smiled then gave him the finger before launching into “Damaged Goods”, their signature song, which they played with earthquake energy for a crowd that was beginning to move for real now. Suddenly Eliza couldn’t see the stage as everyone around her began jumping in time to “goodbye, goodbye, goodbye” closer of the song.
From up here, the crowd was swirling in on itself, threatening to contort into a mosh-pit. What the hell am I doing sat up here with my arms crossed as if I’m studying a theatre production?! I should be down there dancing and being pushed around every which way until I lost all sense of direction.
That’s precisely what was happening to Eliza, who isn’t afraid of engaging in a bit of human pin-ball. While she was being shoved and stepped on, it rained split beer and sweat.
Though the tempo slowed slightly for “Return the Gift”, it lost none of the energy the band were soaring on. Jon’s lanky frame danced around the stage that was giving David Byrne in his prime.
“Guns Before Butter” set a new record for how much faster than the studio recording they could play a song. Jon stamped his feet and mic stand along to the meteor-shower drumming while Ted and Gail oscillated back and forth around the stage as if it would give up underneath them.
Ted’s crazed guitar chords were multiplying, managing to fit in twice the amount of strumming than was needed on “I Found That Essence Rare”.
By the time they belted out the closing bars of “Contract”, Jon’s maroon shirt was glued to his body with sweat. It was indeed quite hot in here, and all these bodies weren’t helping.
In between each verse of “At Home He’s a Tourist”, was a weird interplay between the percussive melodies of bass/drum and straight-up noise from Ted’s guitar. It sounded like the malfunctioning of some terrible machine we could never understand.
Jon pulled out a melodica, a tiny keyboard with a mouthpiece that you blow into while manipulating the keys, to play the lazy opening of “5.45”. Immediately after which he throws the strange instrument across the stage and begins ranting into the mic.
“Love Like Anthrax”, the final track on the album represented an earnest descent into madness during the gig. Pouring sweat and probably going loopy from heatstroke, Ted smothered his guitar into the amp, producing an overwhelming amount of feedback that caused the air molecules to undergo unspeakable chemical reactions. Hugo’s metronomic drumming and Gail’s simple bassline was all that kept the affair from turning into a complete madness. Actually… even that didn’t work because Jon then began beating his tambourine into tortured strings of Ted’s guitar which screamed out in orgiastic panic. After one final electric screech that sounded like the guitar had been stuffed into a woodchipper, everyone but Hugo cleared off the stage.
Supporting himself on some crutches, he limped from the drumkit to the front of the stage where he delivered a respectful tribute to the dearly departed members of the band; guitarist Andy Gill and bassist Dave Allen (who died this year on my birthday if that means anything at all…).
“The rhythm section took a fucking beating there didn’t it,” he said with a straight face, “Ok, see you in 10 minutes…” and then limped off stage.
Eliza immediately flew towards the bar and got herself a cider.
Wanting to stretch my legs a bit, I, meanwhile, went outside for some fresh air – as fresh as air one can get in a smoking area… As I walked back up to the balcony, I heard loud, spaced-out banging slipping through the doors. They’re back on! I couldn’t believe my eyes, however, when I spotted the source of the noise.
Neither could Eliza as she stood, mouth ajar, forgetting all about the drink in her hand. Her curiosity had been sparked during the intermission when a microwave oven had been wheeled on stage and a mic aimed at it, leaving the crowd to ponder this unexpected addition. When the band came back on - Jon and Ted in crisp, new shirts – that baseball bat Jon was carrying could only be meant for one thing. Still, when he landed that first blow on the microwave, raising a cloud of plastic splinters, it completely caught her by surprise.
As Jon was bringing the bat down with deliberate timing, Hugo whacked out a rolling beat; Gail peppering this double percussion with a flavourful bassline. Ted began scratching out these bizarre chords that made the whole affair seem like a demented execution. Once the microwave door flew off, the frame easily caved with each subsequent bludgeon. This amorously destructive rendition of “He’d Send in the Army” was peak-punk, calling to mind the onstage antics of Jimi Hendrix, The Who, and Nirvana. Except in this case the victim is a cheap, probably faulty microwave rather than an expensive guitar or drum-kit. Once no more deformity could be squeezed out, Jon picked up twisted husk of the appliance and hurled it away. My favourite bit was when one of the crew sidled on stage with a broom and swept away the plastic shrapnel.
Virulent from the blunt force trauma of the previous tune, they played “Outside the Trains Don’t Run on Time” with the frenetic tempo of a getaway.
Some backup singers were brought on for “We Live as We Dream, Alone” but I couldn’t care less because I plainly dislike that song.
Why is it that every horn trio in the world looks exactly the same? Discreet, slightly ill-fitting suit; at least one fedora; and brass instruments polished to perfection. Anyway… the band brought a horn section for “What We All Want”, a song that features no brass on the studio recording. While Hugo’s drums fired like cannons, Jon strangled his tambourine with one hand, Ted and Gail wandered around the stage making strange noise, the boys in brass punctuated the end of each verse with a resonant sax/trumpet/trombone blast.
Jon sung half of “I Love a Man in a Uniform” on his knees as if praying to some dapper messiah. Joining the horn section were the back-up singers who energetically howled the chorus. A deluge of sweat had turned Ted and Jon’s pink shirt several shades darker.
I moved to the front of the balcony from where I could see the crowd more clearly, so I tried the impossible game of trying to find Eliza down there. I thought I spotted someone who looked like her; she had the same loose posture and boisterous hair but it was difficult to tell in this lighting.
“I’m lowkey in front of the balcony,” Eliza struggled to type on her phone as people kept shoving into her.
“Raise your hand hahaha” Asiimov texted back.
She waved a heavily bangled arm – one that would make a metal detector explode – in time to the music and looked up behind her. Almost immediately she spotted him waving at her with an expression of joy. With a laugh she waved back excitedly.
I fucking knew that was her! Spotting her loud hair in a sea of balding and grey heads wasn’t that difficult after all. Feeling really proud of myself I turned my attention back to the band who were performing “I Parade Myself” with guest guitarist Kathy Valentine. Her glistening, cherry-red Stratocaster juxtaposed against her smart-casual outfit looked like she’d come here straight from a business meeting. Ted and Kathy were subjecting their amps to incinerating chords and lines between each verse while Jon swung his mic around.
After the opening screaming guitar licks of “To Hell With Poverty”, Gail and Hugo laid down this dancey beat which got the whole crowd swerving. While Jon told poverty where to go, Ted discordantly scratched out these anticipatory chords before breaking into a boogie again.
Bowing to a long applause, the band walked off stage but we all knew there was more to come. There’s always a lack of finality whenever a band perform a false finish like this, plus how can they resist the hungry stamping from the crowd beckoning them out for more. Surprise surprise, they appeared again; performing three encores; “Armalite Rifle”, a deep-cut demo called “Elevator” which they played in a different key to the studio recording, and…
“We’re going to repeat ourselves,” said Jon, “Let’s bring the horn section on.” To the unsurpassed delight of the crowd, they played “Damaged Goods” again but with the carnivalesque addition of the horn section that added a jaunty power this time round. Their brass repartees mixed with the instrumentation like fantastic static, bringing the whole thing to a riotous end. Now that’s how you let the crowd know there won’t be another encore…
All that was left on stage was the mic stand, twisted and bent from Jon stamping and smashing it around. A gig like this isn’t complete without at least some of the venue’s equipment falling prey to the musician’s wrath.
Fitting the name of their tour, Gang of Four really did wave us a Long Goodbye, bringing a nearly fifty-year stint to a rebellious end. Although their last few albums are riddled with bizarre line-up changes and total lack of coordination, Entertainment! will continue to inexhaustibly shine as an immortalisation of their post-punk legacy – not just in its own right but through the manifold influences subsequent generations of musicians have gleaned from it.
Eliza and I reunited outside as the crowd was filtering out of the building. She looked decidedly a mess, as if she’d ran a marathon in a human-sized hamster wheel. I, on the other hand, felt too clean and put together.
“I’m chuffing for a fag,” she said, “let’s find someone who’s got a filter”.
“There’ll be plenty of people smoking outside the pub next door,” I said as we began moving in that direction.
While trying to squeeze past some people we were encountered by the soft hand of a short and bright-looking woman in a floral dress. Is she telling us to halt or offering a high five, I thought. I guessed at the latter and returned her high-five, which was the correct response judging by her satisfied expression.
“Do you have a filter queen?” Eliza asked.
She did! In an aerodynamic voice she introduced herself as Daisy.
“I came here by myself,” she told us, “but now I’m kinda looking for a place to charge my phone so I can pay for my train back to Nunhead.”
“Well…” ventured Eliza, “his flat is only 10 minutes down that way, you can charge your phone there!”
I gave her a look of assent as we set off homebound, grabbed some drinks on the way, and geared ourselves for a night of what turned out to be sleepless, coke-fuelled drinking. A story for another time and place…
