It's
cold, it's wet, I've been trying to move house all day and
I'm exhausted, but I'm getting the train to Chatham. Am
I completely deranged? No, I have an eminently sensible
reason for descending into the heart of 'Chavham' on a Friday
night and running the gauntlet of Burberry-covered, Stella-soaked
Knuckle-draggers: Billy Childish and the Buff Medways are
playing on their home turf.
It's hard to describe Billy Childish without resorting
to cliché's like "Maverick" and "Outsider",
but while the twin fingers of fame and fashion have periodically
wavered in his direction, he continues to plough his own
furrow; not so much anti-fame as apparently oblivious
to it, although reputedly he has declined an offer to
appear on Celebrity Big Brother (though if true this is
merely a sign of sanity, surely?). If he is known at all,
it’s most likely as Tracey Emin's 'ex', as a (it's
that word again!) maverick ‘Stuckist’ painter
or as a single-minded cottage industry musician with fans
including Graham Coxon, Fugazi and um, Kylie. However,
it’s music that seems to be his first love and (In
his own words) "like Rolf Harris", he prefers
to keep the two separate (although tonight a lone, unidentified
easel-equipped artist stands at the band's side and throws
down an oil portrait of them whilst they play). Since
his first recordings in the late '70's with the Pop Rivets,
Childish has followed a single-minded course under a variety
of monikers including Thee Headcoats and the Mighty Caesars
and most recently the Buff Medways, named for an extinct
breed of chicken and the nickname of the now defunct East
Kent Regiment (which partly explains their favoured stage
gear- Crimean-era army jackets complete with epaulettes
and medals, albeit combined with distinctly non-military
Chelsea boots and drain pipes). Childish hasn't really
deviated from his Punky Kinks-Who-Bo Diddley-Link Wray
cottage-industry formula and has found himself influential
on two principal occasions- firstly on the nascent Seattle
Scene (Mudhoney covered You Make Me Die on Superfuzz Bigmuff)
and more recently on the more credible end of the 'garage'
rock that has been fashionable since c. 2002, largely
thanks to the White Stripes and also Graham Coxon, on
whose Transcopic label the two Buff Medways' albums thus
far have been released.
The current line-up is a veritable Chatham's-answer-to-Velvet
Revolver supergroup, including as it does fellow Medway
Scene alumnus Graham Day, formerly singer/guitarist with
‘80’s should-have-beens The Prisoners and
a criminally overlooked songwriter in his own right. Reputedly,
the band only rehearses at soundchecks but in spite of
this, they play without any obvious cock-ups. There are
a few exchanges along the lines of ‘Do you remember
‘x’’ and 'How does it start?!', which
could be playing to the gallery, but only Barbara Wire
comes noticeably unstuck, but even then not in a 'bad'
way (they forget the ending), nor in a way that seems
to bother anyone- it’s all part of the off-the-cuff,
relaxed, dare I say it? authentic atmosphere that Childish
has worked to maintain since his punk-era roots. In fact,
the band are exceedingly tight- Childish’s gnarled
riffing on his Bo Diddely-esque shark-fin guitar sits
comfortably with Graham Day’s grungey Entwistle-in-a-tarpit
bass and Wolf Howard’s piston-armed drumming. The
band plays plenty from 1914, a little from Steady The
Buffs (including the anthemic Strood Lites!) and new LP
material including Lie Detector. They delve into Childish’s
archives for the Kinksian (I Don’t Like) The Man
I Am (Although sadly no (I Hate the Fuckin’) NME
tonight) and also pay due deference to influences with
an exuberant thrash through the final section of the Who’s
A Quick One, Hendrix’s Fire (during which Howard
pulls off some impossible triplet fills that would surely
make Mitch Mitchell blush with tutorial pride) and Jimmy
Reed’s What Do You Want Me To Do?. Childish’s
vocals are all delivered in his distinctive reedy-but-expressive
Medway voice and his guitar playing sticks largely to
his key loves (Link Wray, Dave Davies, Townshend, Downliners
Sect etc etc). The spirit of punk looms large with echoes
of the Stooges, the Roxy club in ’77 and the whole
no-nonsense ethic (not, repeat not the pseudo, sanitised
Green Day variety); but in many ways the Buff Medways’
collective persona harks back to more supposedly innocent
days, pre-rock ‘n’ roll, pre-First World War
even. Retro? Perhaps, but there is a unique personality,
a warmth and a sense of humour at work here that mere
copyists or revivalists a la Ocean Colour Scene lack completely.
Childish claims to eschew the quest for ‘originality’
as futile and cites ‘authenticity’ as his
goal. Arguably, the latter is the more chimerical of the
two, but; if you define authenticity as a lack of ulterior
motives and a general artistic integrity then Childish
and the Buffs have it nailed.
Any fears that Childish’s brushes (no pun intended)
with fame might have changed him in anyway seem unfounded.
The choice of venue for a start: the basement of a large
but unpretentious Medway-side pub and a commendably low
ticket price. The band’s equipment is simplicity
itself- guitars, drum kit, two amps and a pre-historic,
vocals-only Vox PA. The band is set up at the end of the
bar, barely ten feet from the entrance- no sign of pop
star egos here! With apparently next-to-no publicity the
venue seems full to capacity with a fair mix of people-
student and indie kid types, older, art teacher types
and one or two Medway faces including ex BM’s bass
man Johnny Barker and also Alan Crockford, formerly of
the Prisoners and Headcoats, amongst others. Childish’s
well-known distrust of so much of what constitutes modern
popular culture is well known, but this should not be
construed as some sort of knee-jerk misanthropy. The atmosphere
is as intimate and welcoming as they come, the audience
are obviously kindred spirits, there is no stage, equipment
and volume are minimal and the band hammers out their
material with an obvious joy. There are no rock star trappings,
no barriers, real or metaphorical and Childish seems genuinely
affable and happy to talk to the tired and emotional music-saddoes
that buttonhole him afterwards as he dismantles his equipment
(Yes, I'm guilty as charged!).
It seems that Childish's attempts to cut through all
that is bogus and phoney and remain untainted by the pitfalls
of any degree of fame he has attained are entirely successful.
After 25 years or more of following the path less well
trod, Childish has attained some well-earned recognition.
When you look at the endless Clip-Art music that fills
the charts and airwaves and the cliché-hugging
Stepford musicians that pass for 'rock bands' these days;
the legions of endlessly hyped, all-haircut-and-no music
bands that abound, you realise just how much the country;
nay, the world needs true mavericks like Billy Childish
and the Buff Medways. God bless 'em!! Long may they rock,
roll, forget endings and tolerate drunken saddoes. Hurrah!
Alex Williams
