Published in Sounds, 20th February 1982
The Lightning Raiders / Lords Of The New Church | Gig Review | Venue 1982 | MY SENSES feel as if they’ve been assaulted by a mugger in Central Park. I can feel the blast of the rock ‘n’ roll row wearing away at my red-rimmed eyes, actually forcing my contact lenses clean off the pupil and into the soft pink flesh at the back of the socket.
I try to focus upon the singer, a small spindly creature who stumbles like a drunk in search of the mike stand. With theatrical style he stretches and caresses his stick-like appendages not unlike a bear emerging from hibernation. Or perhaps that should be a rodent. Only rodents don’t hibernate, do they?
To his right slumps a guitarist whose head lolls like a backseat corgi as his legs cave in slowly from the knees. He looks in imminent danger of collapse. Eventually the vocalist makes it to the mike, and despite the chewing gum trying to lock his jaws he sings.
A terrible whining Yankee drawl attacks my ears and ascends my nose. For a fleeting moment I’m convinced I’m hanging out somewhere in the bowels of New York City taking in the Tuff Darts or maybe the Dead Boys.
My mouth cries out for a Dr. Pepper . . . Then I remember that the Dead Boys are dead and that Victoria ain’t no Big Apple. It’s an easy illusion to fall foul of.
Brian James’ new crew, the appallingly named Lords Of The New Church (why he’s lumbered them with such a pretentious handle I’ll never know) are the spit of Bators’ old bunch. The Dead Boys reborn.
The Lightning Raiders / Lords Of The New Church | Gig Review | Venue 1982
The similarities go far beyond Stiv’s gumslob performance, but it’s that which really does leave the strongest taste in the mouth. The short-changed singer still play the supreme snot, still rolls around the stage like a snake shedding its skin. And his vocals remain nasal and curiously irritating.
As for the songs, well they’re little more than the bastard offspring of the classic ‘Sonic Reducer’, a relentless parade of hard-rock variations.
‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ with its snappy chorus and punch drunk rhythm and the appropriately named ‘Turning Blue’ (well have you ever stood next to Stiv after a gig?) are typical.
They let the pace slacken only once for the delicious ‘Russian Roulette’, a smashing piece of soft-focus savagery due I hope for single honours very soon.
I must confess that sometimes I think I’m the only paid up member left in the Brian James appreciation society. There’s me baking cakes on his birthday (coming up to the 47th soon ain’t we Bri?) while others just dump huge amounts of guano on his head from convenient windows.
The James axe
To the annoyance of friends, I still proclaim Tanz Der Youth as the most misunderstood band ever. I mean, I’m a total bore on the subject. Understandably friends are few and far between nowadays.
The Lords do little to sway my convictions. The James axe still churns like an outboard motor and his songwriting can still scratch glass. I’m later told by a friend who notices these kinda things that Stiv got his p**”* out during one number but I can’t say that I spotted it myself.
The set climaxes with a rather unspectacular dive into the drum kit by the singer and then they shamble politely off. As a steward once said to a linesman at Twickenham, they’re the ones to watch, George.
Sweet revenge
The Lightning Raiders are the other side of a very similar coin, only they lack the temperamental flash, an unpretentious and gratifying rock machine who deliver the goods sans frills.
If you’re into rhinos you’ll love ’em. For what it’s worth this was about the best show I’ve ever seen them give. The dual leads clashed like stockings and slippers and their bare chested, barb-throated frontman, butch Gass Wild, steered them on like some demented Casey Jones.
The only real concession to style occurred during the driving ‘Sweet Revenge’ when they unexpectedly brandished a gleaming Flying V, but this was to disappear from sight almost as quickly as it arrived.
I rather think that the Raiders are a touch too competent for their own good. They’re hard and polished and as predictable as hell, so much so that a fluffed line is about as unlikely as a moon. They should come across with convincing power on the soon to be released vinyl sure, but I can’t help wonder if bulging biceps alone are really enough. (Steve Keaton)
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