THE BRONX

The Boileroom, Guildford | November 15th

The Bronx! It’s The bloody fucking Bronx! It’s been too long. Their last, third LP, The Bronx (iii), came way back in 2008, so by the time next album (The Bronx (vi)) drops next spring, the Bronx-free gap will be verging on five years. Getting our fix of arguably the greatest living punk band in the world hasn’t been easy, although the two mariachi albums released in the meantime under the guise of Mariachi El Bronx were both wonderful treats. Whilst the mariachi party has been great, nothing beats the real thing.

It’s possible this seeming reticence to return to their punk identity was caused by the fact their Mariachi alter-ego saw them surge to the most commercially successful period of their careers; to the biggest stages, and perhaps widest renown. Tonight sees the reality of  the band returning to their natural lifeform. Guildford has been chosen as one of six seldom-toured, unfashionable pockets of England, serving as a stop-off, a reminder perhaps, in anticipation of the forthcoming album. They’re driving themselves in the van and they’re setting up their own gear moments before starting tonight’s show, in a venue which has a capacity of just a couple of hundred.

Nonetheless, whilst frontman Matt Caughtran points out mid-set that it’s not “a dream scenario”, he seems determined to have the time of his life tonight, and, as ever, it’s massively infectious. From the moment he cooly announces that “we’re going to start with the first song off our new record – Heart Attack American” (the first song from their first record), it’s pretty much a relentless tear-up for an hour and a half. When The Bronx come to a provincial town near you, you prepare to go in hard.

Suffice to say, it all descends into a lovely mess, and the details remain a little sketchy. In summary, Heart Attack … bled into a pummeling Inveigh, before interspersing an album’s worth of ace-sounding new material – including fresh single Ribcage – with a generous array of oldies. They finished with a brutal, brilliant four-header of History’s Stranglers, Shitty Future, White Tar and Knifeman (though not necessarily in that order). And now here we are: beer hair, a badly aching, crowd-surfed-upon arm, and a sweaty new Bronx shirt with an ape on it. We wouldn’t have it any other way. The Bronx are back.

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Words: Jack Bolter

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