It has been said that punk is dead; buried in an unmarked grave, littered with beer cans and syringes at the side of a road somewhere, forgotten by most except one or two addled survivors from the 1977 glory days. But stop a second and listen carefully. Point your ears towards the South East, and perhaps you will find that you can still hear a muffled bass drum pounding away at twice the speed of the human heart.
Pause and concentrate. You can just about hear a high-speed three-chord riff ripping apart the peeling walls of an underground sweat-box club; a throbbing bass line that shakes the head and causes compulsive circle pits. A vocal that makes you believe again; believe that perhaps punk is not dead after all. That life, not fortune, favours the brave, whoever they may be.
“Favour the Brave” are a three-piece punk rock band from Woking and Basingstoke, at times sounding reminiscent of the mighty Screeching Weasel, Black Flag or Leftover Crack.
Neil wakes the dead with his bass lines, whilst Stu brings off-kilter melodies and humour with his buzzing riffs and scathing vocal, and Joe skilfully beats his drum kit into submission at a thousand miles an hour.
The band work through an idea in two minutes or less, pinning it to the wall and leaving it to the audience to decide what just happened, like Technicolor snapshots of a riot.
They write songs based on their experiences and frustrations, applying their scathing punk rock microscope to life in the 21st century like mad biologists, smiling while they search for a cure to the ills that plague society.
Inspired by the best punk and hardcore bands from the last thirty years, NOFX, Lifetime, Dag Nasty, the Bouncing Souls and Kid Dynamite, “Favour the Brave” are a thoroughly English take on the scene, bringing their wry sense of humour to the party. They want to play a hundred songs in half an hour; they want to make you dance like you’re diseased. They believe.
And so should you. Go out, tonight, with a shovel and exhume your fossilized Mohican, buried next to that decomposing bag of glue at the bottom of your well-manicured garden, next to the dahlias. Turn off that television, put on those dusty Doc Martens you keep beneath the bed and go out and find that club, throbbing in the cold night air. You will find a salvation of sorts. You will find that, no matter what, life still favours the brave.
By David R J Sealey
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