It’s hard for longtime fans to not consider Toronto’s Fucked Up–at this point as much of an institution in latter-day punk and hardcore as can exist–as much more than a running joke at this stage in the game, but what a joke it is. Now a total of six rambunctious individuals in various states of garish dress/undress, they douse a light, showman-like touch onstage with a bracing, three-guitar wall of force, melodies peeling off like paint in an abandoned house, and engender one of the more rowdy, good-time displays of force out on the circuit. They’ve been steadily climbing the ladder for this entire decade, from a handful of self-distributed singles to an impending record deal with Matador, and while early fans might balk at the direction they’ve taken in the last few years (as if issuing records featuring 18-minute songs means they have to hand in their punk registration cards), their enthusiasm and relations with their core fanbase keeps them endeared to a growing legion of kids each day. Friday night’s headlining performance at the Knitting Factory seemed no different than any other of theirs in recent times–frontman Father Damian was busy wrestling his nylon track pants up above his hulking, shirtless equator for the duration of the set, often jumping into the crowd and miking the excitable throngs who crowded and jumped off the stage. Didn’t need to see that naked guy diving off, but what are you gonna do.
London’s Hard Skin also employs the running joke–traditional Oi! laced with more between-song barbs than a Dean Martin Celebrity Roast–but came through with an opening set that may have bested Fucked Up’s in terms of consistency and brevity. Hulking bassist and frontman Fat Bob took every chance he could to lovingly torch the headliners, lambast the punks and crusties in the crowd, and eagerly turn the invective back onto himself and his bandmates. His withering jab at Damian of being a “chubby GG Allin” easily bowled over Damian’s retort, which referenced British comedian Alexei Sayle. Most of Bob’s comments aren’t fit for print here, but the balance of great, melodic, working-class anthems and gutshot humor made for the most enjoyable set of the evening.
It’s hard to hold Spain’s Invasion to the same terms as either band, but their opening set was the most ferocious display of cyclonic noise the night had to offer. Microphonic feedback, relentless tempos, and a spastic, unhinged vocal presence in frontman Guille, an expert in launching loogies in the air and catching them in his mouth, left diehards up front wanting more and most of the crowd perplexed. But I’ve always believed that you shouldn’t go to a hardcore show and not expect some form of abuse.