It was the last night of Riot Fest, the punk fest that spent the previous five days stretching 39 bands across five Chicago venues. I had wrangled a press pass to see Oi! legends Cock Sparrer. With songs like "Where Are They Now," "Runnin' Riot" and "England Belongs to Me," the five cockneys are the most famous band you've never heard of.
They were headlining at the Metro on Sunday, the final of four bands. Now, I'm going to put some YouTube videos in here to show off the bands. I shot none of these. Not a one
The first band, Fear City, was pretty good, I guess. It was a skinhead band and skinheads always scare the crap out of me, so I'm not the best judge. They're this weird combination of things that remind me of neo-Nazis (shaved head and tattoos) and things that remind me of my friend Rob (shaved head and tattoos). They made a lifestyle out of something my friend does to hide the fact he's going bald.
It's ... uncomfortable.
The second band, however, was amazing.
I've never seen Flatfoot 56 before, aside from a few online videos, but I've always been a huge fan of theirs in theory. Why? They have a bagpipe.
This band was worth it. They lived up to the hype of having a punk rock bagpipe.
The gauge of a punk show isn't the sound quality or whether the band hits all the notes. The gauge of a punk show is the pit, that rampaging slam-dance of a crowd ramming into each other for joy.
I had a view from the balcony and was able to watch the bands whip that pit into one beyond any I've seen. Maybe it was just the shock of seeing it from above like aerial footage of a hurricane, but it was a spectacle. Faces were jarred, humans were tossed, mohawks were bent beyond recognition.
Starting under Fear City, the pit truly took form under Flatfoot 56's steady fast-paced punk. By the time the band separated the crowd into two halves and ordered them to charge each other, the phrase "frenzy somewhere between warrior and psychopath" popped into my head. And if you had seen the whirling, swirling, blasting mob in the pit, you would have agreed.
Then came the Lower Class Brats. Very good, but honestly not my cup of tea. The lead singer looked too much like Johnny Rotten. Another guy looked too much like Joey Ramone. There's a difference between celebrating the spirit of '77 and just celebrating the haircuts.
But, like I said, the pit is the final judge. And based on the sheer numbers of people the bouncers had to shove down from crowd-surfing, the Lower Class Brats were a triumph.
With a final warning, ("You don't see Cock Sparrer; you witness Cock Sparrer.") the Lower Class Brats left the stage. Then came the gods.
I admit I didn't know Cock Sparrer before the show. I knew of them. But seeing them live, wow. Just wow.
Cock Sparrer is one of those bands that never quite made it as big as others. While the Sex Pistols and Clash rocketed to stardom and disintegrated, Cock Sparrer kept going, filling the hardcore fans with decades of music.
During the show, lead singer Colin McFaull said they've only played in the U.S. five or six times, always in New York.
Chicago, bring them back. Often.
Let me put this as simply as I can: They were one of the best acts I've ever seen. And I've seen Ray Charles. (He didn't see me.)
Cock Sparrer whipped the crowd past warrior, past psychopath, past fundamentalist tent revival and epileptic seizure straight into that mythical state known as "British soccer crowd."
Physically, the five men shouldn't form a band. They should form a bowling team. It looked like if your dad joined forces with the "Batman Begins" mob boss, the fat, flat-top guy from "Big Love," MacGuyver's boss and The Thing from the Fantastic Four. And then showed that they were cooler than you could ever hope to be. Clapping and stomping, screeching and blasting music, they gave an energy more than all three other bands that night.
If I could describe how it felt to be part of that surging, screaming, fist-pumping crowd, give me the Nobel for literature now. Even leaning on the balcony next to a lip-locked couple and the bowler-hat wearing bagpiper from Flatfoot 56, I felt part of the mob. I felt like I was part of the hurricane pit below and the mohawks and skinheads alongside. I felt part of the baby punks and the Hot Topic rebels and the drugged-out old-schoolers and even the older couple who brought their 12-year-old to a real, live rock and roll show. Starting as individuals, we became a crowd, changed by what we had seen. I screamed along with lyrics I was learning along the way and sweet baby Jesus it felt good.
I've been to concerts that made me angry or made me smile. I've been to ones that made me maudlin or made me feel inspired. But I've never been to one that made me so truly, deeply happy.
It was cold outside after the show. I never stopped smiling as I trudged through that cold, dark night.
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Paul Dailing
Paul Dailing (pictured standing in front of the World's Largest Boot), now has a different haircut. He's also lost a bit of weight since that picture was taken, but not as much as he likes to think. More
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