The band looks on sardonically while a technician deals with an issue, smirking at him, the crowd, each other. But when it’s finally fixed, that’s when the crazy starts. The frontman spits a gob of beer over himself and launches into a tirade of disillusion, backed by charged post-punk calamity, sneering at the crowd, stealing hats, pouring beer more beer on his head, gradually showing more and more skin, until finally he’s right there, half-naked, in your face, pressing his sweaty, beer-stained forehead against yours – and it’s glorious.
Only youth can breed such charged nihilism and Shame, a surprisingly cohesive gang of hoodlums, has bred it to a distinction. “Shame, Shame, Shame, Shame is the name”, they spout off into the air before waling off the stage. Indeed it is.
