ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: First of all that live reviews should probably follow the live event more speedily and second of all that I should probably review the records being promoted at said events when they come out. Sorry. Some of us have jobs you know. Rubbish ones. And sporadic internet access. Third, but by no means least of all, of the Jackal’s skill and kindness in coaxing his (temperamental would be an understatement) automobile down the M4 and back with sweet whisperings of “Come on you little bitch. Just a little further.” Thank-you the Jackal, you’re better than Great Western (and you don’t have to change at fucking Temple Meads).

Nice little venue the Bristol Academy, friendly atmosphere, intimate you might say (i.e. if you heckle the band they can see who you are). The heckling of Twopointeight is, however, largely good natured and induced by their amusing tendency to interject the immortal line: “Ve are from Sweden!” between every other number with genuine enthusiasm. Despite this highway to derision, their unfortunate decision to perpetuate the misguided notion that using numbers for a band name is a good idea and the relative unoriginality of their brand of punk rock, Twopointeight and their music are inescapably likeable.

The heckling of Failsafe is not so good-natured and based largely on the petty inter-sub-sub-cultural rivalry that makes them an unlikely choice as tonight’s main support. Although I, to some extent, sympathise with the sentiment of the hecklers -- the pernicious influence of bad emo and lime(1) bands is evident in the style of Failsafe’s guitars and vocals -- this was not entirely justified. Failsafe showed themselves to be a tight and enthusiastic (in the face of indifference and ridicule) live outfit, their guitarists were innovative and the band proved to be dedicated professionals who were far more gracious to their audience than it deserved.

Flogging Molly were really rather different from the two bands which came before them. Actually, when you see them play, it strikes you that Flogging Molly are really rather different from any other band. I tend to lazily categorize them in a genre that might include, say, the Pogues and the Dropkick Murphys at its extremes but the truth is they are a far more natural fusion between Irish music and punk than either of the above --The Pogues were not really so much different from the Dubliners (no bad thing but nothing much new) and, as much fun as they are, the Dropkick Murphys’ attempts to Celtify hardcore punk often suffer by the failure of the main ingredients to completely mesh (this is not aided by their frequent failure to play in time). In the case of Flogging Molly, however, the coexistence of these two great musical heritages sounds completely organic and not at all forced. The [musicians] play seamlessly together at a speed and with an energy which laps any hardcore band I’ve ever seen. Most importantly of all, Flogging Molly have tons of heart…the kind of heart that binds together those who have constantly been kicked in the teeth and are still grinning dangerously (and gappily). This is the sort of heart which is key to the successful execution of both the genres Flogging Molly span and does, indeed, put one in mind of a couple of the influences Molly rattle off to the crowd: Johnny Cash and Joe Strummer, the sorely missed uncles of everyone here.

Relying largely on material from ‘Drunken Lullabies’ (less of an album, more of an obsession, for me), Molly carry the crowd with them on their wave of dignified, defiant pride in being flawed and bruised but honest and resilient human beings. Everyone is tired, but they feel a little warmer inside, little smiles pass between strangers in the crowd. It’s not just the beer.

(1) Listen very carefully, I shall say zis only once. Lime…this is the CORRECT term for the musical genre the inaccurate masses frequently refer to as ‘nu-metal’. By and large even worse than old metal, lime is whingey (with no good reason) and is said to have a hip-hop influence (although this is sadly undetectable save for the misfortune of sad white boys trying to rap occasionally – you don’t sound hard, you sound like you got beaten up at school and you deserved it. One of lime’s archetypal bands, Slipknott, were treated to the, now legendary, “Slipknott Tea Party” at the Reading festival, when a group of japing hipsters went among the surly, unwashed, black-clad limers in children’s party hats, glitter and other gay apparel, shouting phrases such as “LLLLLLLLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIME!”, “MYYYYYYYYYEERRR!” and “THIS ONE’S CALLED KPTCHCHIPLTCH!” throughout Slipknott’s set, seemingly oblivious to the growing irritation of the scary (invariably) men around them.