Meryl Streek live review: behold a righteous musical force

Posted On November 13, 2024November 13, 2024

Trekking into central London on a frost-bitten Tuesday evening might not be the idea of merriment for most people in mid-November, with droves preferring to flee the other way. “Fuck it”, I thought, Meryl Streek’s in town. A couple of eerily empty trains to Tottenham Court Road it was. With time to kill, a swift half in a crowded Spoons was in order, with the peculiar addition of a heated staff vs. customer argument over a plastic cup brimming with pound coins. I didn’t want to hang around, so I took myself to The Lower Third.

While I was on my own, and most other times would probably have sacked off a solo excursion, there were a few pulling factors: I’d never been to The Lower Third, it’s the epicentre of London’s guitar world, Denmark Street, and of course, it was an opportunity to watch the most crucial artist coming out of Ireland right now. The venue itself was impressive; it looked tiny from the outside, but there were two shows going on there, and ours was fittingly downstairs.

Although it felt like I could well be walking down to Martin Vanger’s basement, with the grey concrete stairs and silence a little odd, any brief fear of entrapment was quickly allayed as the din of rock started shaking the structure. “Fuck me”, I thought, “Who is this?” It was the support band Aerial Salad, a Mancunian power trio with a robust and anthemic sound. It turns out they’re actually on the same label as Streek, Venn Records, and they are definitely ones to look out for. It’s not often you see a band that seem so primed for the major leagues. After the show, I had a brief conversation with their bassist. I still cannot believe he doesn’t use a Sans Amp; the tone was incredible. The same can be said for the ‘vibe’ itself.

Imagine going to a gig in London where no one was a prat. While you might say chance is a fine thing, and a fine thing indeed, that was in order last night. I struck up a conversation with a couple of Streek fans who had just caught the last few seconds on Aerial Salad and another who was also on his own and had trekked in from a satellite town to catch Streek tearing it up. The latter told me he’d already caught him in the summer and that we were in for a treat. With that, it was time for a cigarette, and during this brief moment of equilibrium before the reckoning, it became immediately apparent how dedicated Streek’s fanbase is and why punk gigs will always be the best. There was no posturing here, just people there for the music and the expungement of fury.

Fag quickly huffed; it was back inside for a pint and to find a spot in a room that had quickly diminished in size as people readied themselves for the imminent righteous onslaught. Perched at the bar, the room’s lights dimmed to a striking tar black hue, and the introduction of the first track on Songs for the Deceased – the aptly named ‘The Beginning’ – rang through the PA, with that atmospheric, hypnotic riff and the samples ripped from the media making his statement clear for those in the room who were perhaps there by chance.

Swinging a bright white light around and stomping about the stage locked in some visceral, sort of wrath-inducing state, the hooded force up there, donning a cap and Harrington jacket, was the image of you and me; this was no mere artist. Meryl Streek had arrived, and his very real tales and palpable sentiment were about to whip his acolytes into a stupor.

Playing tracks from Songs for the Deceased and 2022’s debut 796, Streek played for just over an hour, and it went by in a flash. In both the moments of scathing anger such as ‘Bertie’ from the latest record – the takedown of the controversial Bertie Ahern – and the more transcendental reflections such as ‘If This Is Life’, the audience were transfixed. Some felt it so fully that their limbs gave way to spirited shapes of unfettered abandon you only see at punk shows. Fittingly, Cal Graham of The Chisel even got up on stage for his verse in ‘Dogs’, adding a bit of extra bite. He and Streek together were a sight to behold, a sonic haymaker.

You might well doubt the live potential of a vocalist who plays along to music without a band, but that is hands down the best show I have been to in years. Streek’s biting, coarse Dublin delivery was more forceful than on the record, and his convergence of electronic textures and punk instrumentation had an even more raw effect in such a space; with the audience’s reaction feeding off of his energy, emboldening him further.

I’ve been to shows where people beat the shit out of each other to muscular beatdowns, but when Streek got down with the mic into the crowd, who formed a circle around him, I’d never seen anything like it. With the epileptic lights flashing rapidly, his sermon reaching fever pitch, and the wrath emanating from him, the eyes of the audience were telling of his effect. Like a bull about to escape Pamplona and wreak havoc in the stands, as the lights flickered graphically, you could see the whites of people’s eyes. There was one pair that were particularly revealing; it was a look I have never seen before. The eyes were open, dilated, almost emotionless, a mix of primal fear and utter awe. I imagine that will be a state seen when the Ivory Tower is finally pulled down.

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