The Tights &The Samples | Old Con Club, Malvern | 14th December 2024
We had descended by bus or jumping the trains or shanks’s pony. One or two lambrettas leaned precariously in the carpark. Our leather jackets, badge-adorned parkas and teenage arrogance were met in the bar with weak smiles. The muted thud of our dms must have caused knots in the stomachs of the locals. It was not long before we were asked to leave the pub; we were doing nothing wrong, we were only hanging around…waiting for the gig.
A genuine tinge of anticipation clung to the black walls of the Old Con Club on the night. I relished the notion that a night of indigenous Punk was to unfold in the reimagined Conservative Club. Indeed, a certain sardonic quality seemed to book-mark the evening from the outset.
There were no holes in The Tights performance on the evening in question. Assured and confident from the start the band took over the stage – this was not difficult physically – and more than one or two extended-arms rose in finger-jabbing solidarity. Rehearsal time had certainly been utilized effectively. The avuncular and teacherly approach of Malcom Orgee gave an understated performance; the accompanying raw-punk-noise of Hodge, Hogan and Banks ensured head nods and physical spasms from the audience.
When the bassist, Hogan, due to the lights, asked “the crowd to move forward, as he wasn’t sure there was any one there” – the audience obsequiously obliged. It was a frightfully polite evening.
Even the Duke of York received a dedication mid-gig.
Blood and Flowers was greeted by a knowledgeable and not inconsiderable crowd. Howard Hughes was greeted with a reserved singalong complementing the chorus. Poison Heart was greeted like a memento from a by-gone era. (Check out the price of the Ep on Discogs if you want to know how much the single is cherished.) This is punk for those who were educated before the introduction of MTV.
The band mingled freely with the crowd after their gig; swapping warm smiles, anecdotes and pre-Christmas bonhomie. Having stood for so long, over an hour, my arthritic hip began to complain and it was rather hot in the venue.
The Samples have a forthright approach to their performances. The expletive-riddled asides show they have no time for MTV posturing. Paz Smith holds his bass low and strikes a pose when the chance arises. Dave Evans holds his obviously cherished Gibson close to his chest and casts a proprietary eye over proceedings. The increasingly confident drummer Jake Powell powers the trio with an energy you wouldn’t begrudge paying a daily standing charge for…musically the band are tight. The obvious complicity – knowing looks, in jokes and warm smiles- shared between the band members conveys a united sense of belonging.
Maybe teenage fury has given way to a more worldly indignation after forty years but the passion still burns.
Government Downfall kicked off proceedings and belligerently set the tone. Bullets in the Streets ignited the room with the sheer velocity of the track. Dance Again was requested and under “pain of death” delivered with prerequisite aplomb.
The spontaneous and polite mosh-pit brought forth admiring glances from those unwilling to risk a hip or a knee. The sight of a middle-aged man shirtless in the melee brought forth a smiling respect. The participation of those not born when The Samples released their first single only added to the spectacle.
Badger’s Song was received with a befitting solemnity.
As the Evans decreed at one juncture in the gig: “Not bad for a bunch of old fuckers!” Indeed. Smith declared at the fag-end of the evening: “We don’t fucking bother with encores and going off stage and all that crap.” Fittingly, the band finished with a punky –reggae version of Who Shot the Sheriff. There must have been a high number in the room aware of the connection between original punk and reggae. It really was that kind of night. Don Letts I think would have approved.
Purchasing an album, for slightly more than £2.99 from the merch stall, I was asked politely -“if I would like a bag?” Those working the door profusely thanked us for coming and hoped we enjoyed the gig. The cold air outside caused me to quickly zip up my glorified car coat. Stiff legged while furtively searching for my glasses and my keys I wandered off to locate my hatchback. Noting my watch I wondered where had the time gone?
By: The Swilgate Scuttler
Photography by: Jem Pond