62. Fat White Family
Electric Ballroom
18 September 2014
The Fat White Family don’t have a reputation so much as they have a slowly advancing toxic cloud of notoriety. It doesn’t precede them; it ambushes you in a dark alley, grinning through a missing tooth and reeking of cider and regret. TThere are myths about this band, squalid, half-clothed myths, like they once allegedly lived in a condemned South London pub, beaming low-res porn onto battered plasma screens while mainlining nihilism and releasing albums that sounded like someone had weaponised an amphetamine come down.
Imagine Spahn Ranch, but instead of doomsday folk and cryptic ramblings, it's howling rockabilly filth and the very real possibility of being glassed. Their live shows, we were told, were not just gigs but ordeals; mosh pits that doubled as controlled demolition sites, half-naked band members inciting the crowd to levels of violence usually reserved for medieval battlefields. And there was always the lingering concern that the nakedness wasn’t limited to the top half.
So, with a mix of excitement and mild fear for our personal safety, we entered the Electric Ballroom. The floor, a soon-to-be churning mass of flying limbs and questionable decision-making, was very much avoided. We took refuge on the balcony, where we could spectate the chaos below with all the detached amusement of Roman emperors at the Colosseum.
What a spectacle it was. Now, I’ve seen a riot before, a real one. I once watched, from the relative comfort of a hotel balcony in the Middle East, as an election meltdown escalated into full-scale street warfare. I can tell you, there is something both terrifying and darkly comedic about grown men hurling insults and live chickens at each other.
That being said, I can confirm that a weaponised poultry-fuelled riot has nothing on the mayhem of a Fat White Family gig. From the first filthy, scuzzy note, the crowd descended into pure, feral bedlam. This wasn’t just moshing; it was a warzone, a swirling mass of sweat, elbows, and violence. The music veered wildly between unhinged rockabilly and hardcore filth, a soundtrack to the inevitable hangover of late-stage capitalism. By the time the band staggered off stage, they were drenched in blood, beer, and assorted bodily fluids that were almost certainly not their own.
It was an experience. A violent, visceral, anarchic thing that you don’t just see, you survive. And we were very relieved to have survived it from the relative safety of the balcony.