Propagandhi at Koko

Joe Harrod

Propagandhi at Koko

01 December, 2009
by: Joe Harrod

"Come, come, come to the Sabbath. Come to the Sabbath – Satan's there!"

For an encore, Black Widow frontman Kay Garrett takes the stage inside a rope pentagram hastily assembled by a leather-clad gimp while Propagandhi deliver a high-camp version of his banned satanic anthem. The props are then cleared before a blistering final rendition of 'Dear Coaches' Corner' and old-school classic 'Anti-Manifesto'. Koko dissolves into a sea of colliding bodies, and roars of approval send the band on their way. Job done.

Ninety minutes earlier and the excitement is tangible. The second half of Protest the Hero's support set is pretty dire, but noisy at least. Apparently Strike Anywhere were well good but I was at my desk clicking away like a nodding dog. But forget the support! As the moshpit refill their plastic beers there's a palpable buzz around the venue for one of the most authentic punk acts out there. But my wife is teasing me. Can you imagine?

'Is this your first ever, ever punk gig?' she goads me in a high-pitched talking-to-toddlers voice, bringing furious blushing blood into my ears and face so hotly that I forget the names of Green Day, Lovvers, Dananananackroyd and every punk(ish!) act ever sampled. But she does have a point. I'm coming to this whole thing kind of late. While she was following Boysetsfire and Mineral on tour I was bombing round London listening to speed garage in Moschino jeans and gabbling about my enthusiasm for lasers.

Anyway, see if I care. At least I really, really love Propagandhi, and that's got to count for something. Right? At least I listen to punk now. Also tonight I've had no meat since lunch and no booze either – I'm channeling the spirit of hardcore straight-edge vegan anarchy!

And looking down from one of Koko's balconies on a thrashing mosh pit and one of the tightest rock shows ever seen, it's easy to feel a pang for misspent youth. These people, crowd and band alike, have a credo and a music that blows a dedication to raving out of the water. It really does. Propagandhi care about their fans and the world and politics and such – and their music and performance speaks of hardcore determination. For crying out loud, even the way they hold their instruments is deadly serious.

Front man Chris Hannah is a coiled, wiry fist of fury. Bassist Todd Kowalski is an anarchic joker with a bad sense of humour and incredible intensity. Drummer Jord Samolesky is perhaps the most impressive musician, totally explosive, and he also resembles a gruff bear as he dedicates a song to "fucking losers like Gordon Brown and Barack Obama". Ouch, they mean it! Oh, and David Guillas on rhythm guitar and keyboards looks very serious and intense. He's a militant nerd.

This is a band that takes an active stance against religion, capitalism and imperialism. They are unfashionably punk in the true sense of the word and though they've acquired a huge following worldwide they are yet to sell out and present an award at the MTV VMAs or some similar travesty. Unlike most hardcore rock acts, they've somehow retained their intensity – perhaps it is in fact a function of adhering to their politics – and their latest album 'Supporting Caste' is as fresh and gripping as anything they've produced.

Tonight's show features very few oldies (apart from track one off their first album right at the last) but showcases a band at the height of their powers. The drums and bass create a wall of noise while the guitars manage to combine thrashing pace with beguiling shards of stadium rock chordage that break through the beat and fade like so many punk hopes.

'Banger's Embrace' is a bit of a fist-pumping highpoint, as are 'Without Love', 'America's Army' and the slightly more classic rock of 'Tertium Non Datur'. But really, it's not a highlights gig. Oh apart from 'Today's Empires Tomorrow's Ashes', 'I was a pre-teen McCarthyist', and 'Purina Hall of Fame'. It's a floored seventy minutes of hard punk that boils the mosh pit, melts faces all over the venue and sends us into the night elated and wishing we were muscly, righteous anarchist punks instead of middle-age-spreading media tarts. Well, I guess I might be speaking for myself there. But dammit, these guys know how to live.

There, I've said it. I've betrayed my Reebok Classic heritage. I wish I'd spent my formative years listening to punk instead of drinking my glowsticks in obscure fun tunnels. But I'm glad I was never a vegan – that would just be shit.

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