While the same old talking heads romanticise Britpop’s worst b-sides and exhaustive Nirvana nostalgia draws to its ugly conclusion as pictures of Kurt Cobain’s suicide scene finally claw their way into the tabloids, is seems too many players from the class of ’94 have been casually swept aside.
Take Therapy?; in the 20 years since Troublegum propelled Andy Cairns’ men into the poster pages of Kerrang!, hindsight could call it both a defining statement and an albatross for the Irish trio. Marrying industrial rhythms with pop nous and the sort of razor-wire riffs that Killing Joke had been struggling to bring over ground for years, it was a disquieting masterpiece. Punchy and political, Cairns’ despair was as much at society as the self. “Domestic refugees,” he growled on Stop It You’re Killing Me, coming on like a weathered street preacher lobbing thought bombs at passing traffic, “sink in the same boat as me.” It spoke for the times that a band this joyfully nihilistic could find regular play around the clock on MTV Europe.
Two decades on, Cairns surveys The Garage's sweltering throng, assembled to recollect its dark genius. “I’m having a ball up here,” he cheerily imparts with a satisfied grin, apparently at peace with the moment they’ve been battling to better (rather than repeat) ever since. The latter day obsession with seeing classic albums performed live in full by their original maker might seem unnatural in certain instances, but part of Troublegum's enduring appeal is its remarkable fluidity. The tempo seamlessly shifts from track-to-track; Knives – still a thrilling two-minute juggernaut – gives way to Screamager before careering into Hellbelly. Nowhere (still their biggest international hit) is introduced by an unholy medley of Pretty Vacant and Nowhere Man, whereas Cairns punctually offers Die Laughing in dedication to Peaches Geldof.
With certain cameos to fill (Page Hamilton won't be swooping in on wires to reprise his jazz metal solo on Unbeliever tonight), the crowd are encouraged to recreate Lesley Rankine's shrieking chorus for Lunacy Booth. More pertinently missing is the expressive clarity of prodigious founding drummer Fyfe Ewing, although Neil Cooper can conjure up his own thunder. They're on fiery form and in good humour throughout; bassist Michael McKeegan bounds the stage like a teen while Cairns gives praise to the rejuvenating effects of Glasgow Royal Infirmary's antibiotics, to the point that chants for ‘one more tune’ become interchangeable with 'N H S.’
With Troublegum in the bag, the set's second half is comprised of old heirlooms as Cairns vows not to play a note later than 1995. A few select bursts from the earliest corners of their catalogue (most cheered for is their immortal rock club crasher Teethgrinder) rub shoulders with covers of Judas Priest and The Stooges. Generations mingle in the mosh-pit and the first crowd surfer of the night goes over the barrier as they break into I Wanna Be Your Dog. Potato Junkie, affectionately introduced by Cairns as ‘an old Irish folk song,’ is a potent closing nod to their punk roots with its charming sing-along refrain “James Joyce is fucking my sister.”
Their most recent trio of albums have proven that they’re far from a creatively spent force, and with those days of mainstream flirting long since put behind them, in 2014 Therapy? seem comfortable in their own skin as divisive margin walkers. “I get the feeling that I’ve been cheated,” Cairns wailed on Trigger Inside, speaking from the black heart of their anomalous breakthrough. Probably not tonight.