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Ten years into a prolific career, the duo –\u00a0Jason Williamson<\/strong> and beat-maker Andrew Fearn <\/strong>– are something of a phenomenon, providing an alternative expletive-ridden commentary on modern Britain’s failings and frustrations.<\/p>\n After a brief Brucie-style welcome of “Nice to see yer,” \u00a0they launch into the darkly humorous\u00a0Army Nights<\/strong><\/em>, from latest long player English Tapas<\/strong><\/em>.<\/p>\n It takes them a while to get properly into their stride, Williamson twice rightly chastising the guys on the missing desk for an over preponderance of bass.<\/p>\n But once the sound is sorted, it soon becomes clear just what all the fuss is about.<\/p>\n Fearn’s stripped back beats mirror the fitful, restless urgency of the lyrics, while Williamson is never less than mesmerising.<\/p>\n His body in constant motion, the vocalist is a hive of nervous tension and pent-up rage, an array of tics and mannerisms, commanding your attention.<\/p>\n Hunched over the mic John Lydon<\/strong>-style, he often seems to be swatting \u00a0at an imaginary wasp buzzing around his ear.<\/p>\n As each song starts, he becomes consumed by his own characters, delivering his lines with total conviction.<\/p>\n He doesn’t sugar coat or pander to any particular generation – the ‘pretentious little bastard on social medias’ rubbing shoulders with Ena Sharples and vampiric snooker champ Ray Reardon in his scattergun wordplay.<\/p>\n The anger is real and ferocious, but Williamson is too sharp a lyricist to simply bludgeon an audience into submission.<\/p>\n Acid humour punctuates the stream of invective, making you stop and think all the more about what he’s saying.<\/p>\n He’s funny off the cuff too, taking the venue to task for not having a long enough microphone lead:\u00a0“That’s just not good enough for the best focking band in England,” he retorts, tongue at least partly in cheek.<\/p>\n Songs rattle past at a furious rate,\u00a0Jolly Fucker<\/em><\/strong>,\u00a0TCR<\/em><\/strong>,\u00a0Job Seeker\u00a0<\/em><\/strong>and a magnificent\u00a0Tarantula Deadly Cargo<\/strong><\/em> among them.<\/p>\n Warming to his task, Williamson senses a real connection with the crowd, pointing out that this is probably the band’s best ever London show.<\/p>\n And while not exactly a honey-voiced crooner, he proves he can definitely hold a tune.<\/p>\n There are shades of the wit and wisdom of\u00a0Ian\u00a0<\/strong>Dury<\/b> and\u00a0John Cooper Clarke\u00a0<\/strong>about Williamson, but essentially he’s is a one-off, a true original.<\/p>\n “Punk’s not dead,” he remarks with a sneer on\u00a0Just Like We Do<\/strong><\/em>.<\/p>\n With Sleaford Mods around it might just be shocked into a revival.<\/p>\n The best focking band in England?<\/p>\n I wouldn’t bet against them.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" For some the thought of spending 90 minutes in the company of two middle-aged blokes, armed only with a laptop and a microphone, would…<\/p>\n