Author: Henry Calvert

Fat White Family
The Continental, Preston
Sunday 13th December

Living in Blackpool, I usually have to venture into Manchester to see any live music worth watching, however, recently the local city of Preston (or as others know it “Depreston”) has had an uproar of amazing live acts coming through. After seeing an advertisement for Fat White Family at a venue of which I have never heard of, I couldn’t turn up such an opportunity.

Fat White Family may sound like nothing new to this scene; we’ve seen these outrageous statements about discerning topics such as oral sex and pedophilia so frequently before, much like the shock factor of Sex Pistols firing swastikas to their clothing. However, what make Fat White’s so special is that they exist in a time where music is so scared of being offensive, forcing any statements into a small corner of political correctness, and supplying this degenerative sense of creativity, where everything is clean cut. These guys are fucked and have something to say; they’ll say it as loud as they can.

My nostrils began to sting, pre-empting their appearance, as the wandered through the croud flaunting clean skinheads. They intiated the storm by teasing the crowd of eclectic post teens with the intro of a new song called Tinfoil Deathstar before melting into one of their most recognised numbers Auto Neutron. I can almost taste the Lysergic Acid in the back of my throat, tainting my lips as his fingers lick the psychedelic tones of the guitar.

FWF play other classic songs from their debut album “Champagne Holocaust” such as “Is It Raining In Your Mouth” which gets the crowd moving delightfully as Lias erupts, his neck popping and his half naked body dowsed in all kinds of fluid. He coats the crowd in Stella before grinding over the surface of his own residue, bellowing the lyrics “c’mon baby shoot your load, c’mon baby I’m gonna explode”. The sexually suggestive lyrics from his tarnished, belligerent mouth, of which you can almost feel taunting its way up the back of your neck, leaves you feeling slightly violated and creates an essence of insecurity.

Whilst playing their newest single “Whitest boy on the beach”  the PA system failed mid-song. Stealing other mics from the stage, Lias makes a combined effort to howl over this somehow orchestrated clash of sounds. Electrifying his lips, the microphone sparks to his mouth; thinking on his feet Lias fires one of his shoes into the crowd before brandishing a stiff sock around the mic, dampening the shocks.

Ensuing this, the band try to discuss what they can actually play and “Fuck it, let’s just Bomb Disneyland and this place,” is heard as their drummer begins to play the beat, swiftly followed by everybody else. Lias drags the mass of microphones out into the crowd as he screams, “all your kids are dead kids” fighting over the words with the crowd as he becomes one of us. A deranged scattering of legs and screeches. The song closes as the band make a final attempt to rescue the set by being as loud as humanly possible, before hurling their instruments in an abrupt halt of sound and make for the back door.

The lights stay down and one reveler launches for a nearby working microphone, calling for more. Only to be met by the bands road manager. At this moment a return becomes unexpected, the lights flash on.

The set may have been cut short but they made the absolute most of what they could play. They saw the final embers of rock burning out and brought the fire back to an antagonizing eruption. They’re a band, which touch a deep part of you, a place in which can only exist within that room; you truly will believe all their kids to be dead kids and you will belong to the cream of the young, before returning to reality through the exit of a door.

Fat White Family far surpass any expectations and the only way to understand these sensations would be to see them live, they’re an entity in which nobody can currently rival.

Henry Calvert