Gay For Johnny Depp

Liam McGrady 18/09/2005

It's unclear tonight why Marty Leopard, frontman of New York Punk shock rabble GFJD, actually bothers to clothe his upper body. Within 5 minutes of taking to the stage - in which time the remaining band members have crammed in enough spasmodic blasts of pure unadulterated noise to make even the most Botch and Dillinger Escape Plan hardened ears throb - Leopard has disrobed from his original attire of jacket, scarf and shirt to reveal a bare torso. Flinging away the warm winter wear as if it were more of an irritant than a foot fungus, he prowls and slithers around the stage resembling a depraved Johnny Knoxville.

What is clear however, is that while the rest of the band - massive metallic riff toting guitarist Sid Jagger in particular - are the ballast and weld keeping GFJD from sinking and breaking into complete chaos, Mr Leopard is the one thing propelling them to notoriety. Only days ago he managed to incite fisticuffs from the civilised people of Exeter; and it's not hard to imagine why. A provocative presence, he breaks away only from his crude striptease (by halfway through the set he is down to just boxer shorts and one sock; worn on the hand and used to vigorously massage his now sweat glistened body) to wail caustically and scream gutturally, lyrics that are generally along the lines of “FUCK! FUCK! FUCKING GAY FUCKERS! GAY! GAY! GAY! FUCKING! FUCK! FUCKERS! FUCKING! FUCK!” while either sprawling suggestively on the floor or grasping the head of a petrified front row audience member; starring intensely and aggressively into the whites of their eyes.

But to break away from Leopard's antics for a moment, the music of GFJD is just as outrageous. You get the feeling, as shockwave after juddering shockwave of crazed Post Hardcore jolts the body (especially on forthcoming single 'Fucking Isn't Cheating') that it could realistically kick-start the heart of the big fat rat I spied on a scrap of wasteland on route to tonight's venue. You also get the feeling though, that they may then slaughter the mangy vermin; and then eat it. Possibly just to shock and appal, but more likely in the spirit of their well practised, comedic delusion, because it could perhaps endear them with their hero and inspiration the Hollywood superstar. Nigh on ridiculous though this line of thinking is in retrospect, when you're witnessing first hand a grown man alternating between talking to a sock with only a pair of underpants preventing indecent exposure and berating a man until he throws a pint of warm lager in his face - all the while being aurally defiled by brutal, fractured splinters of hellish sound - this kind of event seems perfectly feasible.