Ruts DC – Live In Belfast

A gig of paradoxes, this one. For support Somehow Sentient, it must have been an enormous buzz to be invited to open for a band of Ruts DC‘s standing. The reality of the show was, however, that the Ruts DC crowd (more on them later), were there, unsurprisingly, for Ruts DC. This is a shame, because Somehow Sentient have a lot to give. Their funky punky rock is mucho fun. The saxophone flavours add a dash of old school X-Ray Spex vibe to their guitar-based, occasionally offbeat tunes and there’s clearly a lot of personality going on. The supremely early doors (7pm) on a filthy Saturday night can’t have helped bring out their homies. I liked them, and I’ll certainly try to check them out again in a more appropriate environment.

Somehow Sentient‘s departure from the modest stage seems to trigger a surge of punters who must have been hiding in Voodoo‘s odd corners. Amongst the, ahem, heavier-set gentlemen (in which I include myself) and the used-to-be rock chicks there is a small gaggle of alt-teens, all determined to take photographs of themselves. ‘Why are they here?’, I wonder. I’m always encouraged to see punk-curious youth, maybe themselves initiated into the culture by their parents (or even grandparents now), but this strange, gurning, back-to-the-empty-stage photo obsession is baffling. It’s a brief and mild diversion because, before long, Segs, Ruffy and Leigh amble stylishly through the crowd onto the stage. It’s that kind of venue.

What follows is another paradox. Without any spoilers for those still to see this instalment of Ruts DC‘s seemingly perennial roving, this set moves freely across space and time. Yes, there are anthemic crowd-pleasers for the arm-wavers (me, again), and yes there are throbbing dub interludes. Touchingly, and very finely judged, is the band’s tribute to the recently fallen, initiated by Ruffy‘s snippet of Dirty Old Town. But it’s not just for Shane. Sinead, Geordie and Benjamin Zephaniah are on the honour roll of the departed. This is Ruts DC in a nutshell. They’re flying the same flags as they ever did, calling out the same villains, lauding the same heroes. And all in their inimitable style, always sharp as razors, always dapper, always tight as the proverbial drum. Quality guaranteed.

Before you know it, it’s over. The lights are up, road crew scurry to clear the stage as the venue reverts to being a nightclub at 10pm. We’re left exhilarated. It should have gone on and on. If we have learned nothing else, it’s that Ruts/Ruts DC have a body of work that transcends scenes and fads and is as vital and relevant today as it ever has been.

And the alt-teens? They knew every fucking word. Respect.