By his own reckoning, Matt Caughthran is on his 20th craft beer of the day. And The Bronx's frontman is not apologising for this at all. It's the feast of Samhain, in Irish mythology a day when the souls of the dead are permitted entry into the living world, and if you're going to be encountering spirits later, whether malevolent or blithe, easing into the hours of darkness protected by beer armour is entirely logical, indeed sensible. That's our excuse anyway.
Besides, today was supposed to be a day off for The Bronx, a chance for the Los Angeles quintet to draw breath and chill during a run of arena shows supporting Sum 41 on their final UK tour. Instead, good eggs that they are, The Bronx slotted in this one-off headline show in the capital, at Signature Brew's Blackhorse Road location, with just three weeks notice, and sold it out in a heartbeat. This is as much for them as for us: Matt Caughthran freely admits tonight that 99.9% of the people in the audiences he's faced in the past fortnight have no fucking idea who The Bronx are, and he understands and respects that: this, he gleefully explains, is a chance to see the band as nature intended, up close and personal, with only true believers in the house.
And it is nothing less than fucking glorious.
In a just world, obviously, it'd be The Bronx, not Sum 41, who'd be headlining arenas in 2024. But, to be fair, The Bronx had their shot at the mainstream too. They had credibility, a stack of awed reviews, heavyweight management (shared with Fall Out Boy and Paramore), and a major label deal for their second album. But the record-buying public just didn't bite.
Admittedly, a more calculating band might not have delivered an album with titles such as Rape Zombie and Transsexual Blackout for their major label debut, and might have thought twice about including lyrics such as "Dear God, I can't wait to finally meet you. You selfish cunt, you've got some explaining to do" (Three Dead Sisters) if angling for radio support. But The Bronx are as honest as the day is long, and bear zero regrets for following their hearts not chasing the money. If that means they have to settle for being the best punk rock band in the world rather than the biggest, so be it.
Whatever, this was only ever going to be A Lovely Time. Matt Caughthran is a truly wonderful host, this crowd is bang up for it, and the set-list is genuinely all killer, no filler, drawing from all six of the quintet's self-titled albums, with old school ragers (Heart Attack American, False Alarm) blending seamlessly with more recent singles (White Shadow, Curb Feelers). Is there a better feeling than being thrown around a black-walled room, grinning from ear to ear and dripping with sweat, while a few hundred equally exhilarated fellow humans scream "You motherfucker, I want your blood"? Maybe there is, but if there is, that pathway to nirvana is almost certainly illegal.
The Bronx will be back next year. Living or dead, you should be there too.
