The Birth of BonOyster, Catapult Club @ Amersham Arms, 16/03/07

*This post cannot be accompanied by photographs because unfortunately I managed to leave my camera at home. This was not without a moment of panic and frantic bag searching that was probably humorous to observe had your attention strayed to my direction.*

Middle act in tonight’s Catapult Club line up, skink-loving four-piece, The Birth of BonOyster, leap and bound ahead of the bloated hairstyle-punk pop on offer from the other bands. With a stage presence and sound already too large for the venue, the band, led by, appropriately enough, BonOyster produce artsy ska punk that simply comes alive live. This is no mean feat tonight; in all this reviewer’s years of gigging Catapult Club is one of the strangest nights I’ve ever been to. The crowd is full of people who, it seems, never go to live music and the tables and chairs are arranged much like a 1930s music hall; certainly not conducive to a night of rock abandon. Yet the band proves they are beyond such lacklustre trappings as this.

BonOyster – a mid-90s Billie Joe Armstrong had he been brought up in Tyneside not California – has a voice of rich depth and range moving from the feedback holler of Art to the gentle, searching sound of Yours Sincerely to the mash-up rap styling of Ice, Ice Baby and Let’s Get Ready to Rumble (you remember the one, it’s by those cheeky Geordie chappies Ant and Dec). Indeed the rap interlude is accompanied by hilarious rock-posturing and crotch-grabbing escapades that show BonOyster is perhaps not only hip hop’s undiscovered son but also that the band has a sense of humour. This is further enforced by Paul Stromdale, by day mild-mannered Physics teacher, by night hand-clapping, foot-stomping bass geek. Meanwhile lead guitarist Paul Langford has the nonchalant swagger of a man who has been round amps and booze for quite sometime. Indeed, he makes use of a brief pause in tonight’s set to jump off stage and get a fresh drink. And without wanting to promote over-indulgence (well, okay, maybe a little bit) if the sinking of a few beers keeps him sounding this good then who am I to refuse? Finally drummer Stu wears his punk glories on his (bare) chest; beating the hell outta the skins, all for our aural pleasure.

The enthusiasm of the band and the tightness of their sound – despite having only played a handful of gigs – make them infectious. Those with any sense in the room, shimmy, shake and cheer them on, and those who don’t seem to get it, well who’s losing out here really? It’s easy to imagine that with a more receptive audience and with an increasing band of repeat customers a sweaty pit of joyful abandon could form at their feet. Skink the night away boys!