195. Live
Shepherds Bush Empire
30 June 2019
Nine months of sheer hell. Two bouts of pancreatitis (would not recommend), a surprise kidney cancer diagnosis, and a miracle worker surgeon. The NHS kept me alive and generously supplied the morphine, but by the end of it I felt like I’d been tenderised by a concrete mixer. Still, cancer out, scars in place, and technically “in the clear.” Which is to say: no more excuses. Time to get back to living.
The problem was, I had lost my rhythm. Gig-going, once my favourite pastime, other than my kids, had dwindled. I’d dragged myself to Canterbury to see Tears for Fears with my oldest mate, an event I’d arranged from a hospital bed, still high on anaesthetic, but honestly, I wasn’t all there. The lights were on, but the spirit was wobbling. Trauma, it turns out, is a sneaky bastard. It leeches your spark, leaves you tired, wounded, not complete. Given that I was the engine room that powered gig-going between me and my friends, I hadn’t retaken up the mantle. Which basically meant there were none booked or planned by anyone. It had, for all intents and purposes, ended.
Enter another pal, my straight-edge saviour, one-time Kerrang! scribe, and queen of all things punk and hardcore. She wasn’t having any of my “too tired” nonsense. And so, on a humid summer evening, she dragged my sorry carcass to Shepherd’s Bush to see the Pennsylvanian purveyors of emotional grunge-rock melodrama. It was glorious.
It’s been a strange road for Live. After years of bitter feuding and lawsuits, frontman Ed Kowalczyk rejoined his band in 2016. This London show was their victory lap, proof that time, forgiveness, and likely hefty legal bills, can heal all wounds.
They stormed the stage with “All Over You,” detonating like it was still 1994 and irony hadn’t been invented yet. Kowalczyk, now gleamingly bald and looking like a grunge-era monk, prowled the boards, his voice still capable of splitting concrete.
The band, older, thicker, but no less thunderous, still sounded colossal. Chad Taylor’s guitar came down like scaffolding collapsing in rhythm, while the rhythm section churned like tectonic plates shifting. “Selling the Drama” hit like a sermon, “White, Discussion” roared like a tank, and “The Dolphin’s Cry” had the whole crowd dissolving into a sea of heartfelt arm-waving and misty-eyed catharsis.
And then, of course, that song. “Lightning Crashes.” Still as overwrought, ridiculous and utterly brilliant as ever. Kowalczyk closed his eyes, arms spread like he was conducting divine intervention.
By the time they closed with “I Alone” and “Pain Lies on the Riverside,” the place was shaking. It wasn’t just nostalgia; it was something deeper. Redemption, maybe. Catharsis. Or maybe just proof that sometimes, loud guitars and a touch of melodrama are the best medicine. As the lights came up and we shuffled out into the London night, I realised something: for the first time in months, I didn’t feel as broken. I felt alive. Fitting, really.