Live Review
Viagra Boys, Troxy, London
With vaudevillian rave-punks Fat Dog in tow, tonight is a glorious shrine to beautiful chaos.
When the awful day finally comes for punk rock godfather Iggy Pop to depart from this mortal coil, he can rest assured in the knowledge that he’s left a spiritual successor in Viagra Boys’ tattooed frontman. It’s not just in the fact that Murphy takes all of three minutes to take his top off, flanked on either side by two bandmates in tiny hotpants just to cover all bases of partial-nakedness. Alternating between a baritone growl and a wild-eyed yet strangely alluring knack for narration, and dancing around the stage with that all-important splash of the feminine that keeps things knowing and playful, he’s a frontman in the truest sense of the word: an entertainer who understands that wearing shades and acting like a rockstar is fundamentally ridiculous unless everyone’s in on the joke.
Where ‘Punk Rock Loser’’s sleazy stomp takes the piss out of the bad boy cliches (“I don’t go to parties where folks get dressed up/ I go to the function just to fuck shit up”), between songs the vocalist embarks on equally, overtly ludicrous tirades. “I just wanna take drugs and they sent me off to Sweden, man!” he declares at one point, before claiming to have started a fitness TikTok: “I’m trying to get to the most ultimate form.” ‘Creepy Crawlers’, meanwhile, is the midpoint between the two, its lyrics a stream of consciousness tirade from the point of view of an anti-vaxer.
It’s a strange ingredient list for what is undeniably a brilliantly magnetic set, capable of holding 3,000 people in the palm of its sweaty hand, and yet there’s no moment in this 90 minutes of madness that dips in pure ridiculous fun. At one point, one of the hotpants-men embarks on a long, spotlit sax solo; shortly after, Sebastian is writhing on the ground being battered by a relentless strobe light; not long later and, ahead of ‘Shrimp Shack’, he’s giving a lengthy, lengthy monologue about the crustacean which concludes with a “your mum” punchline. It’s stupid and clever, mad and fantastic all at the same time; their strain of brass-laced, seedy punk still hooky enough to reel things back in every time chaos threatens to entirely reign.
Tonight should have been at the milestone career venue of Brixton, and you suspect the sheer magnitude of the venue would have felt like a bizarre victory for the underdogs much like when Fat White Family crowned the space many years back. But within the decadent belly of the Troxy, Viagra Boys remain a beautifully grubby sore thumb; punk rock’s winners, through and through.
Photos: Robert Karlsson"}]
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