Theatre

In a poetically minded Rasta’s studio in Brixton, ex-rocker Plod (a charismatic David Kennedy) has reunited a punk band who couldn’t play in the first place after a 20-year hiatus. They haven’t forgotten how to swear. Nor has frontman Rob forgotten that guitarist Dan nicked his girl, and began a feud that broke up the band. And sadly, it doesn’t seem as though any of them have learned to play music in the interim, either.  

Initially, this ebullient tale of mid-life, midriff crisis from Al Gregg and David Schaal delivers all the pleasure of an illicit eavesdrop on your neighbours. The ‘will they/won’t they get to the reunion gig’ plot is quickly subsumed by the wish that they’d give up, go away, and hate each other elsewhere. But Chris Jury’s incredibly messy, brashly-acted production finds its feet and a deal of strangely solid charm in the wake of a funeral that forces a pause in all the backbiting. There, the beer-soaked memories and broken dreams coalesce into some touching, outlandishly funny reflections on anarchy, old age and the class divide. The only trouble, aside from the music, is that this doesn’t happen for a tryingly long time. Probably it’s very authentically punk: the furious noise, the unremitting, directionless anger, people being sick into each other’s mouths. But, for much of the evening, it’s not very enjoyable theatre.