frank carter & the rattlesnakes @ the cathouse, glasgow 

Jonny Elswood

I wanna stay this warm forever.
I wanna be this close to heaven.

Glasgow. It's a late October evening and it's pissing it down.

I walked through the prettily dark town centre, soaked in the same Scottish rain that has dashed the shoulders of a thousand of this country's singers, and generations of its poets. I passed King Tut's, where the steps are covered with the names of band after band whose careers that venue helped launch. One of those bands, incidentally, is Stone Temple Pilots, who just yesterday endured the shock of a Scott Weiland-shaped wound that will last for a lifetime. I passed The Arches under the station, where I've seen some of the most engaging and, for me, important performances in memory. And the last I heard of that place, they were about to shut it down because Glasgow needs more gastropubs. Things were bleak.

But around the corner from The Arches, in plain sight just off Argyle Street, is the Cathouse. My brother took me here when I was fourteen to see a Scandinavian metal band, and, despite its size, I know the place must hold more heart-warming memories like that than anyone could count. And this night in October created about three hundred more. The bill: Creeper, Blackhole, and Frank Carter & the Rattlesnakes. I'd only ever heard of one of them before, and on paper, the entire line-up has a meagre total of two hours of published music. But this gig was nothing to do with what can go on paper, and in a way the redundancy that that lends to any kind of review explains why it has taken me so long to do one. Frankly, you'll never know until you see them.

Creeper serenaded the crowd's gathering with some really solid and proudly emo energy. They were all skinny jeans, leather jackets and long, black hair, and they would probably be easy targets for cynicism if they weren't so talented. A crowd of incredible diversity swelled to capacity within an hour, and nearly everyone got a glimpse of their set. I caught sight of a shining t-shirt through the bodies - a young lad of about seventeen with three words across his chest: "FUCK THE -"... I couldn't see the last word. Could be anything. Police? Gastropubs? We say anything these days, and I guess it's easier to buy a shirt than actually express vocals.

Creeper were very good. Blackhole were better. A formerly dispersed hardcore band that Frank Carter himself had resurrected for this tour only, these guys raised a few eyebrows even in the Cathouse. Like a snarling snapshot of what was to come, their set was an old-school sprint through as many songs as the amps could handle in their allotted time. Hardcore's not for everyone, but an impassioned artist isn't difficult to identify. Clearly overjoyed to be back on the stage together, they thrashed the minutes away in a world of their own. Like any other prejudiced genre, I invite anyone who hasn't leapt into hardcore to take a song and ignore the parts you find grating. Instead, focus entirely on the drums, or a guitar sequence, or just read the lyrics. You'll be surprised at the ubiquity of outstanding talent. Exhibit A: Blackhole's My Lord.

But almost everybody in the Cathouse was there for Frank Carter. The tattoo-covered standard-bearer for the British punk revival, outcasted from his own band Gallows after securing a million-pound record deal, he's been through the wars. And his new album Blossom shows it. And yet even the title suggests the tenderness that such a genre can nurture. This time around, he's been taking stages all around Europe alongside former Ghost of a Thousand drummer Memby Jago. Partnered with two outstanding guitarists, these four men constructed the best gig of my life.

"My name is Frank Carter, and we are the Rattlesnakes", he shouted above the total din of adoration. "This stage, is your stage."

What followed was a night of thunderous rock music that left me exhausted and literally bleeding as I laughed my way back to Fife. The Rattlesnakes showcased the most ballistic and intimate performance I've ever witnessed, and by the end of the first song, nobody in that venue was thinking about money, or relationships, or work, or bullies, or their own personal safety. The wall of noise they produce in tracks like Trouble, Loss and Rotten Blossom annihilated all human distraction and demanded physical retaliation. I saw people of all ages and all visible musical backgrounds lose their minds, and aided by the total absence of a security barrier, there were dozens of stage-dives. There's a reason people call hip-hop and punk-rock 'real'. Frank connected with the distress and the rage of every soul in that venue in a way that only those genres can handle. His album, with the rhythm support of the most brutal drummer in the country, conveys fury (Paradise), heartache (Beautiful Death), lust (Fangs) and a kind of burning office annoyance (I Hate You) all in one fire-ball of passion that deserves wide recognition. My loss for adjectives enforces my conviction that a punk gig is an experience that must be felt first-hand.

As I headed for the exit, drenched in sweat and with Frank's own sharpie writing on my forearm (he politely offered to tattoo it afterwards), I finally spotted that kid's t-shirt in full. He was sitting on the filthy ground and laughing with his friends as if a fighter jet had just missed his head by inches. The slogan: "Fuck. The. Future."