The Gang's All Here

[February 9th, 2005] Editor's note: If there were a Grammy for most namedropped band of the year, the surly post-punkers of Gang of Four would walk away with the golden gramophone this year. A critical favorite since the release of its debut, Entertainment!, in 1979, the Leeds quartet's name began showing up in national glossies in 2003 with the frequency of a sporty new deodorant. As Spin and Rolling Stone rolled out articles on Gang-inspired bands including the Rapture, Franz Ferdinand, Liars and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, the influence became an assumption. Everyone loved Gang of Four, even those who had never heard them. A couple of years ago a reunion tour was unthinkable. But massive national exposure can heal wounds in a strange way, and late last year Gang of Four announced its return. Last month Jon King, Andy Gill, Hugo Burnham and Dave Allen took the stage together for the first time since 1981 for a five-city British tour, where they encountered photo-phone wielding fans, the British music press and taxidermy. Allen, the band's bassist, current Portland resident and admitted geezer, explains in his tour diary.

^The Montague Arms, London, Jan. 21

From the lip of this pub's tiny stage, past the Karen O-inspired fashionistas, past the chavs (that's new slang for poseurs), just beyond the puzzled stares of the seen-it-all-before bar staff, through the cigarette fog I can make out the shape of an old-fashioned horse-drawn carriage carrying a full-sized stuffed zebra and a big-horned sheep! It turns out that the pub's owner is a retired taxidermist and he has decided to decorate his establishment with some samples of his trade. Surreal? Surely, but not surprising considering the circumstances. Finding a pub full of the latest-generation U.K. hipsters sharing space with stuffed animals once seemed as likely as a Gang of Four reunion. Now they're both reality.

Welcome to the "secret show," a fine English tradition that always takes place in London because England is so small and all the music press is based here, or at least what's left of it. Tonight's fans are not the types that spend precious minutes poring over badly written music rags; news travels faster by texting each other's mobiles. They are here to display their original tattered Human League T-shirts and their New York Dolls pins, and although these kids may not have been born when we released our debut album, Entertainment!, they sure look good in their signature chav Burberry outfits. (For the record, Burberry is now déclassé, definitely out of style, so please discard any clothing that has its signature check pattern.) In London nightlife your connections are paramount, and these guys all knew whom to call to find out where we were playing. Three hundred eighty fans have managed to squeeze into this venue that holds about 200 people. Earlier, with the help of our road crew, I waded through the crowd outside to pluck my friends from the heaving mess and get them in; right now it feels far beyond dangerous.

We kick off the set with "What We All Want," and amazingly—to me, anyway—the crowd sings along. They whip out their mobiles and snatch grainy and blurred photos that are instantly texted to friends who may just be languishing in the throng outside the venue. Who knows? A phalanx of professional photographers fight for space down front, and as we charge headlong into "Not Great Men," the crowd surges to and fro across the room throwing beer everywhere, a heaving sweaty mass that threatens to engulf the stage. The heat is intense, cigarette smoke burns my lungs, sweat floods my eyes, it is so fucking loud, and I love it. We end with "Damaged Goods," and the place detonates.

^The Academy at Manchester University, Manchester, Jan. 24

Having got the first gig under our belts, we are feeling more confident. The chatter in the van is significantly upbeat, but I have a knot in my stomach as tonight is our first official public show in 23 years and all the major broadsheets—the Times, the Telegraph, the Independent and the Guardian—have dispatched reviewers; it's that difficult second show coming off the high of the pub gig. We also know that Jon Pareles, chief music critic for The New York Times, is busy pecking away at his laptop in a London hotel, filing his review of the London show. Oh mercy!

The Academy at Manchester University is cavernous. The road crew is ringing out the monitors, smoke begins to creep across the stage, and the tour support band the Departures sheepishly cross the hall to shake hands. It's an interesting moment: Here we are face-to-face with one of the bands who have openly name-checked us; they are clearly excited to meet us. My limp handshake exposes my inner turmoil; I am probably twice as old as these fresh-faced young men!

The sound check only reinforces my anxiety. The pub gig was incredibly energetic because we fed off the audience that was mere inches from our faces. Tonight we will be separated from the audience by a row of metal barriers and a motley crew of security guards. I presume that Manchester may live up to its reputation for being England's most violent city. That's not the root of my anxiety, though. By definition, large gigs always remove that intimacy between fans and bands. Gang of Four feeds off that energy; we will have to work hard to maintain our edge tonight.

Julian Baggini, an English philosopher, interviews me. We had agreed to meet and finish up an interview that began about a year ago. We have an interesting but contentious discourse on his views of how "success" can or should be measured for artists working within their chosen disciplines.

Showtime. My idea of Gang of Four's current level of success is measured as follows: If you can't begin to play the opening song of your set because the crowd is screaming so loud, that's success; if you don't have to sing the chorus of your songs because the crowd sings it for you, that's success; if you are 49 years old and still play and leap around the stage in front of a sellout crowd that calls you back for three encores, that's success. Julian 0, Dave 1.

Next day the reviews are all extremely positive, and no one got hurt in the very boisterous crowd. I'd call that successful. Tonight on TV, Mark E. Smith, leader of the Fall and legendary curmudgeon, rambles on about how everyone in the British media is a poseur, how all bands except the Fall are crap and how he has had the right to fire the members of each of the 26 different lineups the Fall has had. His criteria for this are simple: "I don't want to work with anyone as old as me, and anyway they were all crap musicians," he says. Various darlings of the media are rolled out to trumpet Mark's genius; I change channels.

^Shepherds Bush Empire, London, Jan. 28

The camaraderie that exists among all bands has now reappeared among the members of Gang of Four. After rebuffing the nostalgia crowd who implored us not to sully the reputation that has been hoist so high, we have now performed in five cities to adoring fans both new and old and have been received with open arms. Tonight, though, is the reason we have been honing our chops around those provincial cities. Our public show in London, home of the cynical music press. The knives will be out.

All 2,500 tickets to the show sold out in early January. The Shepherds Bush Empire, on the edge of the West End, is but one of those many wonderful Victorian or Edwardian theatres scattered all over London. In the '60s and '70s it played host to many rock bands as a live venue for the BBC's televised music shows. There was a fallow period for a while, but nowadays it serves as a midsize rock venue full time, and, in an odd way, it is perfectly suited to the job. From the stage, I think that I can see everyone in the building; from the crush of the dance floor up through three tiers of balconies, all eyes are on us. The audience is our friend, a room full of smiling faces; it's ours to lose. London audiences are historically hard to please, but tonight we appear to have their support as the room erupts at the first notes of each song and cacophony greets the end. To have any audience these days respond in such a way to our angular, metallic, white sexless funk is a surprise, but this tour has been full of surprises. More noise, heat, smoke and roaring as we end the third encore with "I Found that Essence Rare." The final song of the first leg of the tour, and with the audience's stomping of the boards ringing in my ears, I finally feel like it's time to party.