The Pale White

The 100 Club

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Take It Off (Or Don’t): The Pale White Bring the Heat

There are at least 100 exhaled breaths hitting us like the backdraft from a fry kitchen extractor as we descend into the 100 Club. Acclimatising, we crane heavenward for answers and instead get a ceiling snaked with metal conduits and—wow—the highest concentration of broken zip ties ever witnessed. Our eyes track the chaos down to the two-metre-tall ‘100’, looming over a bass drum stamped with The Pale White in a A Clockwork Orange-style stencil. Oh, my brothers.

The Pale White—Adam and Jack Hope, plus Scott Hepple of the Sun Band—three Newcastle lads who look like they’ve slipped a time vortex and come back swinging. Adam dons a Canadian tuxedo, Jack’s in a Lennon-era “New York City” ringer tee, and Scott’s rocking something he probably outgrew in Year 8, paired with a pair of bootcut trousers that button in the back. The tunes follow suit: a mash-up of styles that shouldn’t work but absolutely do.

Opening with ‘Lost in the Moment’ is bang on—so is the crowd. Everyone’s up, belting it back. ‘Moth in the Headlights’ follows, snapping at its heels with an aggressive kick drum that sets the tone for the night. Adam’s vocals flirt with falsetto—think The Darkness—but pull the chute just in time, settling into a slow, rising hum like a mate spinning a yarn in a packed pub.

“We just released two albums in one year, how about that?” Adam tosses out, low-key flexing (Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal energy). Fair play—it’s no small feat. He asks for hands up across the room, like we’ve all just been yelled at to freeze. Is this the new 6–7? Who knows.

‘Absolute Cinema’ lands next, all Queens of the Stone Age circa Songs for the Deaf swagger. Around here, Adam pivots to stage banter via heat complaints and starts taking bets on how long the tux lasts. A chorus of “TAKE IT OFF!” rains down—largely from the women in the room. ‘I’m Sorry’ goes big: wall-climbing antics and Jack absolutely decimating the tubs.

‘Göbekli Tepe’ swings in heavy—literally. There’s friendly fire; the boat’s rocking and casualties are inevitable. Scott Hepple takes a bass headstock to the noggin courtesy of Alfred (and the Sun Band), but the mop top absorbs most of it. Soldier on.

Truth is, it’s hard to watch anyone but Jack. With premeditated chaos, he steals the show—working the kit like it owes him money, lighting cigarettes on a powder keg, mugging for cameras mid-assault.

So, what do we take from it? Easy to dream about floating off in a hot air balloon, away from it all—but good luck getting a pilot’s licence. The band stagger off spent, running on fumes, then rally for the die-hards with a cover of ‘All I Have to Do Is Dream’ and ‘Nostradamus’. And that’s that.

We’ll leave you with Adam’s earlier wisdom: “Don’t be sad it’s over, be happy it happened.”

The Pale White are on tour now—we reckon you’ll dig the gig.

The last time I saw Pissed Jeans was at the legendary Brudenell in Leeds, not long after they released Honeys. A challenging and ramshackle set acted as a radio signal from the left field of hardcore – an indelible impression of what was going on out on the fringes as they and support band Hookworms took a basic formula, force fed it acid and then sent it packing out into an apocalyptic landscape of paranoia and neurosis. With the band returning to these shores and me now residing in London, it seemed time to revisit the proudly combative weirdness of David Korvette and co in the confines of the 100 Club.

We reach Soho slightly later than intended, stopping to get food on the way at a German-themed bar which was hosting an opening offer of a free beer with every Currywurst bought. It also hosted a big fella in a silver leotard and mohawk, miming and dancing suggestively to various pop hits of the 90s. I usually avoid central London during the evening, so perhaps this is what usually happens? Anyway, it seemed like a positive start to an evening’s oddness and we head through to the venue encouraged. The 100 Club is a relic of old London and one which played a major part in the punk scene of ’77, but has not been left unaffected by both its status and location. Buying a drink at the bar is a sharp reminder that this time I am seeing the band in central London rather than Leeds, and an executive decision is made not to buy more until we head out into night.

Due to timing and the alternate Currywurst universe we briefly entered, we miss the support acts and only have about ten minutes of sipping our overpriced booze before Korvette starts proceedings off with the mangled croon which heralds the rest of the band’s entrance to the stage. A sardine sway occurs as the packed in crowd jostle to either get to the front or at least find a viewpoint as the band launch into a set which is one minute furious, the next dirge-like and the next pure distorted noise. Korvette is undoubtedly the group’s visual anchor, flailing his way across the stage, swooning into the crowd and at one point writing an impromptu ditty about sniffing a sweat-drenched beanie which has somehow come into his possession. Musically, however, he is another (admittedly flamboyant) part in the shambolic Pissed Jeans whole. Underneath every descent into squealing feedback, every driving beat which peters out, every moment which has the crowd scratching their heads, there lies a band who have been on the road for a good few years now and know what the fuck they’re doing.

They seem happiest when they seem to be genuinely getting to the audience – challenging the heavily be-hipstered crowd as far as they can. Nodding heads miss an unexpected change in pace, confused looks are exchanged. By the end, as Korvette utters repeated hoarse and unintelligible yells for a number of minutes, one person in front of me stands with his head in his hand – completely and utterly over it. It might not be an easy listen, sometimes it is musically daring to the point of confrontational, but there is something strangely likeable about Pissed Jeans’ cacophonous stew. You might not enjoy it, but I highly recommend that at some point you experience it.