Meryl Streek first entered my life supporting PiL in Edinburgh. To say I was impressed by the rawest display of punk slam poetry I’ve ever been exposed to is an understatement and I promised myself to catch the headline tour in February.
It’s February and I’m in the dry ice filled basement of Stereo drinking a delicious pineapple Schöffer Hofer which I didn’t even know they made. There’s good new age hardcore punk on the PA for the hour between doors and the act, and I’m feeling pretty good about my life choices so far.
The support is Scattered Ashes, hailing from Dublin just like our headliner. One thing you can’t accuse this band of being is too polished. Our frontman wouldn’t look out of place selling hash on the corner of a scheme (in the nicest possible way) and his voice is deep and smooth – but not too smooth. When Scattered Ashes began, I was underwhelmed but I think I’ve figured out why. I know that I’ve come here for Meryl Streek. When Meryl is on stage, I could point to a random person in the crowd, shout “landlord!” and chances are he’d kick the face clean off the unsuspecting mark. That’s how punk he is.
Since these guys are his support act, I was expecting the same overt aggression and venom. That’s not here, but that doesn’t make them a bad band. Once I’d figured out where my own expectations skewed my judgement, I listened to the rest of the set with fresh ears. It’s not hardcore, it is punky, it’s not indie, it is rock. I can’t really put it in a box. The lead guitar is the most polished aspect with delays and reverbs almost pushing us into the territory usually occupied by The Cure. It’s a weird blend, but worth listening to if you want something you’ve never heard before. There’s riding on the coattails of any other bands here.
Meryl takes to the stage after an announcement regarding strobe lighting and a false start when his mic faltered at the crucial point in the backing track. It didn’t slow him down, though as he launches into a brutal attack on the sexual abuse of children perpetrated by the Catholic church. His delivery is primal and frantic as he literally bounces off the walls and darts over the crowd, growling and roaring. Absolutely no target is safe during this set. Landlords, the music industry, and obviously, the Church. The stage spends a lot of time in darkness as he spins a strobe light around in his hand, occasionally being lit up by the side lights in the wings.
This use of lighting puts you even more on edge… You have a mad man who is clearly out for blood and the lighting allows him to materialise and disappear in an instant. You’re watching him at the far end of the stage and mid-line he’s suddenly looming over you with his colourless eyes. It’s not only the first few rows that’s in danger as he launches himself into the crowd at one point and proves himself more than capable of firing in all directions.
This is avant-garde performance art, but not in the pretentious way that excludes “normal” music fans. I’d actually go as far to say that I’m now firmly in the camp of “you can’t call yourself punk if you don’t listen to Meryl Streek”. The absolute vitriol and wrath are pushed to the very limit before it becomes unauthentic. The stage is Speaker’s Corner, and everyone has bought into this sermon of justified violence, spite and malice.
And to think, I used to argue that Green Day were real punk…
Photos by Catching Light Photography