104. Uncle Acid and The Deadbeats
Metro Chicago
19 September 2015
I’d fluffed it last time. my pal and I had lingered too long over ribs and lurid cocktails in Camden, misread the stage times, and wandered into Koko precisely as Uncle Acid & the Deadbeats slammed out their encore. One track, polite applause, lights up. We shuffled home tasting regret. That was the Blood Lust tour, Sabbath-soaked fuzz, B-movie gore, music that practically gnawed bat heads. Missing it stung.
Roll forward a couple of years and the band have exhumed The Night Creeper: a concept album inspired by the grimy underbelly of 1970s America and steeped in Seventies paranoia, Helter-Skelter hitchhikers, Kool-Aid cultists, sun-bleached serial killers. The sleeve looked like a dog-eared pulp paperback you’d find in a bus station vending machine; the music sounded like a VHS tape melting in a dashboard glovebox. The guitars were murky. It was heavy, hypnotic, a concept album about murder and nihilism. This time I was determined to atone.
Fate (and my employer) deposited me in Chicago with a free evening, and quick listings search revealed Uncle Acid were in town. No ribs, no cocktails, no margin for error. I arrived early enough to watch the roadies argue about cymbal heights.
This was my first U.S. gig, and it hit differently. In London, the typical rock crowd is a blend of beery veterans and balding nostalgists, politely nodding while balancing a pint and a tote bag. Chicago, however, brought the heat. The audience skewed younger, louder, and physically larger. There were the usual black-T-shirted metal nerds, sure, but also a worrying number of men built like nightclub bouncers who’d taken up powerlifting to deal with unresolved childhood trauma.
One guy looked like a young Lemmy who’d accidentally wandered out of a bare-knuckle boxing ring the rest appeared to be auditioning for the Sons of Anarchists. There was a permanent undercurrent of menace, like someone had spiked the pre-show playlist with testosterone and bad decisions.
The venue itself was grimy in that very American way, beer-stained floors, bar staff who looked like they’d seen things, and a merch stall selling shirts so black they seemed to absorb light. I took a strategic position halfway back: close enough to see, far enough to dodge projectiles.
When Uncle Acid finally ignited, any lingering tension dissolved into a communal doom-trance. They leaned hard on “Blood Lust” and “Night Creeper”: filthy riffs strafing the room like helicopter blades, vocals drenched in reverb thick enough to surf on. It felt ritualistic, part gig, part midnight drive-in massacre with live soundtrack. The guitars snarled, the crowd howled, and for ninety glorious minutes no one cared about anything but the noise.
As the encore’s last power chord decayed, I executed a French Exit: slip out while the house lights are still dim. A swift walk through warm Chicago streets, heartbeat syncing with the distant rumble of traffic whilst I casually scanned the intersections for any stray biker gangs exiting the neighbourhood. Back in my hotel by midnight, ears buzzing, shirt faintly speckled with mystery lager. Redemption achieved: Uncle Acid seen properly, honour restored.