Despite having travelled THROUGH Nuneaton on a variety of occasions, this is only my fourth actual visit to North Warks’ largest town: stuck as it is ‘out on a limb’ betwixt Coventry, Leicester and a dozen other places, yet with no bus or train routes back to any of them running later than around 11 15pm, it’s not exactly the easiest place to get to or from without one’s own transport. Hence also why this is also only the second time I’ve ever seen a gig here: sure, many a great band comes through, and most of those tend to play either this venue or the nearby Kingswood Tavern, but as they also tend to frequent venues a lot nearer to me [several actually in my town of residence] then I don’t really feel the need [or, as an unwaged amateur, possess the financial wherewithal] to venture into such a farflung vicinity that often.
A shame, really, as it’s a great place: despite its fearsome reputation as the ‘chav capital’ of the West Midlands [Jesus, have the people that compile these polls never been to Chelmsley Wood?} ‘Sunny Nunny’ is actually one of THE most rock’n’roll towns in the entire region [even more so right now than Brum itself, which at time of writing boasts only ONE late night rock venue in its entire city centre] and the Queens the undoubted jewel in its black leather crown. It’s also one of the friendliest places I’ve set foot in in months: apart from the local micropub, who seem to think that closing at 8pm is good for business [I still squeeze a toffee apple cider out of them though!] all the local boozers are welcoming, and much as with the pubs in Burton, Buxton, Northampton and even Bolton [must be a ‘ton’ thing, evidently] each boasts its very own rock/goth/punk/alternative/biker contingent, most of whom will instantly talk to you like you’ve been their mate for years.
Even better than that, the downstairs of the Queens [known locally as ‘The Crew’] is decked out like every traditional rock venue I ever perused photos of in my Kerrang-reading youth: dark and moodily lit in green, blue and red, with skulls and cauldrons aplenty, it looks EXACTLY how a place like this should look and feels exactly how such a place should feel. Not that I’ll be spending much time down there, though, because tonight, no less a band than Gun are playing in the big room upstairs. Yes, THAT Gun – no, proggers, NOT the one from the late 60s who wrote Race With The Devil, the other one. The lean, mean Glaswegian gangie who between 1988 and 1998 scored an astonishing ten top 40 hits- no mean feat, in an age when rock barely got played on British radio at all. And, might I add, the one I haven’t seen for FAR too long.
The last time, in fact,was in 2010, opening for Lynyrd Skynyrd in their native Glesga: the distinctly un-Scoootash Toby Jepson [ex Little Angels, now leader of Wayward Sons] had recently joined on guitar and vocals to replace the outgoing Mark Rankin, and despite the fact that they played a tight, professional set, there still seemed to be something missing that night upon which I couldn’t quite put my finger, leaving me not quite sure what to make of it all. Then again, the last time I’d seen them before that was during their ill-advised late 90s attempt to change the spelling of their name and reinvent themselves as a dance/Britpop combo, and though that at least showed them attempting to move in ‘a’ direction, it wasn’t really what I wanted from them either: for an outfit now into the 36th year of their career, they’ve sure endured a lot of false starts and missteps along the way, and as a result, there have been several occasions when, much like their fellow countrymen The Almighty, I was unsure whether they still existed at all. For a while, it was even questionable whether or not they knew.
But exist they most certainly do: and now, with all beggars and hangers-on finally booted ‘oot’ the door and former bassist Dante Gizzi handling lead vocals [a task he first performed on 1996’s runaway hit single Something Worthwhile] they sound better than they’ve sounded in ages. Better than on the multi-million selling Swagger, which bestrode the mid-90s for them like some alt-rock colossus: better than on its predecessor Gallus [the first time I ever saw them, opening for Leppard at the NEC] and EQUALLY as good as on their classic 1989 debut Taking On The World [a statement of intent if ever there was one] And, if you’re wondering whether the singer and his guitar-toting brother Guiliano are ready to take it on again, then the answer is an emphatic yes: indeed, as they burst into action with defiant newie Backstreet Brothers and swiftly follow with a slinky, lurching Coming Home, the regrouped quintet look like they’re ready to kick down walls.
Which in a way, is only understandable, given the brick walls of resistance they’ve consistently met with from the genre snobbery police: despite having a management who believed in them from the off, and a hefty agent who got them support gigs with the likes of the Rolling Stones as far back as 1990, they’ve never been the darlings of the small-minded UK media. And, with both a sound and image regarded as too soft to be truly Metal, too short-haired to be Glam, too cock-rock to appeal to the sort of dullards who buy U2 records and far too commercial to ever be ‘alt’, they have increasingly found themselves in the unenviable position of playing to a rabidly fanatical yet never-expanding fanbase: regarded as semi-Godlike by those within, but nigh-on forgotten by all who stand without. Yet if the rammed-to-capacity crowd here is anything to go by, Nuneaton and its surrounding districts are clearly home to one of that fanbase’s largest contingencies- and as Gizzi Jr yells out the chorus to the AOR-tastic Don’t Say It’s Over and ‘that cover version’ Word Up, it’s easy to start remembering why.
There’s just something there: it doesn’t have an easily applicable name, and I can’t put a label on it other than ‘rock n roll’, but they’ve sure as fuck ‘got it’. Part of it, I think, is to do with those huge choruses and raunchy, meaty riffs: the same anthemic qualities that fans of Thunder, Jovi, Leppard, Bryan Adams and the aforementioned Little Angels found so appealing ‘way back when’, only with a dirtier, raunchier, streetwise aggression that could only have been forged whilst running the pavements of Gallowgate, Calton and Parkhead. Hence why a song like Better Days is still such an anthem for them- as a bunch of impoverished Tims from the backstreets of a city where hard rock is [bizarrely] all too often jettisoned in favour of jangly twee schmindie, they didn’t just write about such things, they actually hoped for and believed in them, and got them. To put it another way, these are the type of musicians [and people per se] that Scotland needs and always has needed: there’s no navel-gazing introspection or dreich doom-laden lockdown-inducing misery on display here, just bold, fearless, brash confidence from the kind of industrious minds that built bridges, invented televisions and laid their hands on you like the faith healer.
And it’s not just about the Gizzi clan either: rhythm guitarist Tommy Gentry, his long red riah billowing behind him like a lion’s mane, sure knows how to throw a riff-bending shape or two, and even if bassist Andy Carr and drummer Paul McManus may be relatively nondescript by comparison, they are at the very least tight, consummate players, providing precisely the kind of driving backbeats necessary to power classics like Steal Your Fire, Money [Everybody Loves Her] and Money To Burn. As a team, they make a smart five-a-side, dribbling a solid ball of melodic hard rock skilfully through Tollcross Park and straight between the jumper-shaped goalposts of pop: admittedly, DG does appear to have had a wee swallie or three before taking to the boards, but it sure as hell doesn’t affect his vocal prowess [in fact if anything, he’s a better singer and frontman than Rankin ever was] and his mike-gripping, strutting demeanour, matched to his big bro’s hardman axe-toting swagger, displays a textbook understanding of stagecraft that Black Country-based openers Gin Annie- for all their local popularity- are still to perfect.
Sure, maybe I’m slightly biased where Gun are concerned: they were always a band had time for back in ‘the days of yore’, and I still do now. However, simultaneously, I was never head over heels in love with them in the same way as I was the early Wildhearts or Manics, and I’m still not: I just happen to objectively think they’re a decent, straightahead, honest party rock combo whose distinctive Scots-Italian identity has blessed them with a unique outlook and made them consistently far more interesting than their peers. They also still possess an interesting lyrical theme or two that many of their contemporaries lack [ably demonstrated on Shame On You and the arm-waving Taking On The World itself] and for all those reasons, as well as the fact that they work their bollocks off to entertain us for 90 solid minutes, they deserve our unwavering respect. In addition to which, I’ve got a strange feeling in my gut- although that could be the Toffee Apple cider of course – that a late-career resurgence may yet be round the corner. I’d certainly like to see one, anyway.
It may have been foggier than Brian Wilde out there, but this evening, Nuneaton [though the ebullient singer did insist on repeatedly referring to it as ‘Birmingham’] was the place in the Midlands to be: even the steampunk bloke and his gothy missus who I dragged in on my guesty seemed to enjoy themselves every bit as much as the actual fans, and though I had to [inevitably] peg it out the door before the end for fear of missing that all-important last train to Grand Central – almost sounds like a Billy Connolly song, doesn’t it ? – I guarantee I won’t leave it so long before my next visit so long as they don’t. Of that, I am Nun more certain. I’m a Gun-u, a Gun-other gun-u…[STOP IT- Ed]
DARIUS DREWE
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