Bands from as far away as Birmingham came for this Punk extravaganza at The Yacht Inn in Penzance on March 2nd 2024. Penzance’s Yeastlords made their live debut, Birmingham’s Jessi Eastfield, Bristol duo Hacksaw and local heroes, Dië Spanglë lined up on the bill. What a fantastic (free) night it was.

PUNK SOUNDCHECK PZ 24

We’re metres from the sea

In a Cornish pub, and like most,

It maintains a smattering of nauticality…

Which is nice.

Art Deco…that’s the pub

And not the lead singer

Of a band playing tonight.

There must have been one

Back in the day…back in ‘77.

There weren’t enough names

To go around, I suppose.

I’m there early, hopeful

To get one of the ‘New tees – £15’

‘CDs of the new EP’ a fiver

Offered up on day-glo cards.

We’re metres from the sea,

Where inflatable sharks patrol the shadows,

Deep denizens awaiting their later frenzy.

Blown-up seagulls hang from mike stands 

In the hope of chips, perhaps.

The four bands politely observe

Each other’s soundcheck;

Waiting for their own in turn.

Would Johnny, Sid, Steve and Paul

Have been so respectful when

They played ‘The Wints’…

The Winter Gardens,

Further along the Prom

Almost fifty years ago?

I suspect Joey, Johnny, DeeDee and Tommy,

When they were there

A month before…would have.

Forest Hills’ finest were

A different kind of punk;

American, well-mannered.

And Talking Heads were in support, after all.

The microphone one-twos, two-twos…

The guy with the Pearl drumkit

Belts seven shades out of it

In staccato skin-busting bursts.

The guitar riffs into keening hyperbole

With pedals all lined up in order.

And the bass plays familiar lines that

You recognise, but just cannot place.

Black cables unravelled and rolled

In and out of plastic boxes

One red one, a strawberry lace

Draws the eye.

The audience drifts in,

They know when to arrive.

The procession of old punks, well-met,

Many the remnants of PZ77,

That summer of discontent.

Some of them stayed

And some came back.

The odd hearing aid here,

An aluminium crutch there

Sensible coats abound;

As you can’t take chances

With the Cornish weather

Especially out here on the prom,

At our age.

Parkas and Puffas

Are shaken off to reveal

Punk paraphernalia,

Band T shirts and tatts,

Piercings and Peaky hats,

Roll-ups and Rizlas

Primed and ready

For the quick nip outside.

We’re metres from the sea and

Like those old maritime charts

Where the wind, with screwed-up eyes

And puffed-out cheeks, blows its heart out

Along the Penzance prom,

At the edge of the world where…

Here be punks, not sea serpents.

The only Kraken comes in a black bottle.

But wait…what’s this?

The spirit of PZ77 reborn…

New growth…like snowdrops

Pushing their way through winter gardens.

Another summer is coming

And young folk will make it their own

Just like we did…

Hungry for the beat

And bigged-up for bouncing.

For the headliners, Dië Spanglë,

The travails of the night before

At The Garland Ox, in Bodmin,

Seemed to be taking their toll.

Dodgy kebabs and lack of sleep

Notwithstanding…they go again.

They’ve still got it…

We’ve all still got it.

Anarchy in the Duchy.

Four and a half hours of carnage.

Tonight…where did that time go?

The last fifty years…same question?

©gray lightfoot