I fucked up.

So I got fucked up and went to see Fucked Up with a load of other fuck-ups.

Brudenell Social Club, Leeds, May 2013.

The cosy confines of this inner-city social club seemed, at first, an odd place for Fucked Up to host their travelling punk rock spectacle. However, it turned out to be the perfect venue. Damien ‘Pink Eyes’ Abraham, their gargantuan, sweat-soaked vocalist, took full advantage of the low stage and the split-level lay-out, bounding into the crowd, going for a wander and standing atop the Brudenell’s red velvet upholstery, spouting his between-song rhetoric while holding onto the ceiling.

This was my first taste of the Fucked Up live experience but most of the crowd already knew the drill. As the big man wades his way through them, screaming into the faces of those looking most ill-at-ease, he’s like the Pink-Eyed Pied Piper to agog local punkers who, treating him like some super-tame Russian circus bear, excitedly jump on his back and swing around his neck, partly as a ritualistic, macho kind of wrestle-dance and partly as a show of blatant PinkEyesMania. Around me, I heard fevered cries of:

‘‘I just touched him..!!” 

‘‘He let me shout into his mike..!!’’ 

“God, his back ain’t ‘alf ‘airy…!!”

Every major city has its local hardcore nutcase; unhinged, worldly-wise characters whose omnipresence at gigs guarantee it being more of an event. Toronto’s resident nutcase is just that bit more entertaining. He’s a scary-looking yet charming fella, playing the attention-grabbing ringleader, turning to a bit of impromptu comedy as the band take yonks to fine-tune their guitars, winning over and recruiting troops to join his creative energy collective.

As their frontman goes for a stompabout, the band plug away onstage without him and they’re a compellingly odd-looking bunch. One guitarist, Ben Cook appears to be aged about 12 (and is indeed variously known as; Bad Kid, Young Governor and Lil’ Bitey) while their bassist, Sandy Miranda (or Mustard Gas to you) sullenly sways her long dress and curtains of hair in time to the foot-stomping fury she’s helping to create.

Their thoughtful take on full-on rage-rock has the requisite level of Black Flag power, locking into metronomic Krautrock drone-outs on the rare occasion when they do slip out of 5th gear pace.  Drummer Jo Falco hammers away on his minimal kit like a hydraulic machine at full pelt, ensuring everyone else has to raise the intensity level of their big, fat familiar chord chains in order to match his power.

The NME may not have been made welcome in the D.I.Y punk scene but their recent voyeurism and gushing enthusiasm for all things Fucked Up is perfectly understandable.

Witnessing one of their shows is an exhilarating blast of total entertainment that teeters on teutonic and their inventive, far-sighted approach to creating punk rock, particular on record, make them a refreshingly exciting band worth treasuring.

And for all the precious hardcore scenesters who own all their early 7”s (still available at the gigs, recent converts!) and bemoan their growing popularity, surely their name alone will always ensure A-list playlist status on daytime Radio 1 will be as likely as ol’ Pink Eyes getting a hair weave and becoming the new face and body of Kellogg’s Special K.

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Regardless of whether or not you’re a fully paid-up Fucked Up devotee, you should take some time out to watch the brilliantly original video to ‘Queen Of Hearts’, the first single form their epic rock opera in four acts (oh yes!), ‘David Comes To Life’. It was made by the Canadian filmmaker duo responsible for some superbly arresting recent videos for Belle & Sebastian, Alt-J, New Pornographers and others, all worth watching, here.

You won’t come close to experiencing the energy and power they generate during one of their gigs but this is a more accurate glimpse of what they sounded like live: