LIVE REVIEW: Dead Poet Society, Ready The Prince, Scala, London, 20/03/2024
Photo Credit: Kevin O’Sullivan
With fantastic third album FISSION coming out at the start of the year — and the tour, announced back in September, selling out pretty much across the board shortly after — Dead Poet Society were ready. The question was — were London?
First up, though, came Canadian trio Ready The Prince. With a good handful of the fanatical New Rock Mafia fans present in the crowd — the society started by Ready The Prince and Canadian contemporaries and friends Cleopatrick — it’s always a pleasure seeing them over on our shores. And, with their debut international tour hitting London in May (tickets on sale now!), it was the perfect opportunity for Stephen, Stefan and Daniel to show off what they’re made of.
“Get that fucking pit open,” lead singer Stephen DeCiantis wasted no time in voicing his intentions for the night — messy, loud, and joyfully sweaty. With the crowd and stage alike erupting into chaos from the first few notes of openers ?ji and Razorblade, it didn’t seem a tall ask.
A mix of their older tracks — PB&J, Torn Up and Pray in particular, all of which had a delightfully surprising number of voices singing the words back from the crowd — went hand in hand with newer tracks from the band’s debut album Book of ?ji, released back in September; from the slower, more contemplative, Before I’m Gone or the vitriolic, hardcore-esque Sabertooth, every era of Ready The Prince’s evolution over the past five years got its moment in the spotlight.
A brilliant set from a brilliant band, even if a phone dropped in the pit got the better of the interaction during the perplexed Stephen’s attempt at taking a photo. 9/10
A little while later, and it was time for the main event. The tension and anticipation rose dramatically with the sudden emergence of bassist Dylan Brenner, looking like whichever of the Franco brothers is less problematic, as he blasted a warning siren of a bass line across the room. Take cover everyone: Dead Poet Society had arrived. And, as Will and the two Jacks followed in his wake, breaking into Hard To Be God — the tumultuous climax seeing vocalist Jack Underkofler diving onto the sweaty Scala crowd — the warning seemed pretty deserved.
Running in Circles saw a room screeching along, although the band may have missed a trick in not making some eponymous pits, and I hope you hate me. led into a drawn out second of silence, the crowd readying their poor, abused necks for some headbanging; HURT even saw the band pause mid-performance to get a poor girl sheltering at the barrier pulled out of the crushing crowd — although any excuse to hear the anxiety-inducing, rapid fire questioning a second time is never a bad thing.
.AmericanBlood. and Tipping Point, meanwhile, slowed the tempo a little; the former, a fan favourite from -!-, got a nice sing along going, while the latter gave the rest of the band a few minutes of reprieve, Jack tacking the gentle track solo.
After congratulating the United Kingdom on being the second most miserable country, pipped at the post by Uzbekistan — we couldn’t even win that! — it was back to the bass-ics, with the deceptively ferocious 81 TONNES and the surprisingly tender I Never Loved Myself Like I Loved You, before, suddenly, it was time for the older stuff. Pre-FISSION was always brilliant, but always felt a little too… interchangeable? The contrast between the two, however, was night and day. Breaking into the foreboding .SALT., mosh pits catapulting instantaneously into head bangs, the four give credence to their hypnotic, bass-heavy riffs that made them so iconic, while the delightful, drone-esque falsetto of Jack left the crowd mesmerised. Similarly, the almost prison-bluesy LoAir could be felt reverberating through the entirety of the stupidly sold out Scala, the sinister, silky pick slide staccato of the guitar sending shivers down spines left and right — helped by Jack’s hauntingly fantastical vocals. Newcomer Uto more than held its own within the foursome of heavyweights, all polish and sleekness; .CoDA. felt almost drowned out by the shouts of the exhausted fans. And, without any water present to be given out by the security for most of the night, exhausted was right — it didn’t end up being just the one fan being carried out of the crowd, whether from being crushed or just being close to collapsing.
This was the ‘end’, although no one present was under any assumptions that they wouldn’t be coming back. What they came back with, though, was a surprise: a phenomenal cover of a phenomenal song, by one of the best bands to come out of the UK in the past few decades. Which song? Well, with the ridiculous instrumental talent on display, and Jack’s incredible, piercing vocals, only one song could jump to mind — Hysteria. They did it justice, and then some.
It felt almost a shame to not spend the rest of the night seeing the band’s unique covers of classics but, alas, the night was almost to a close.
First up, the surprisingly garage-rock-esque My Condition, which ended up as one of the biggest departures of the night, and a welcome shift of pace. And, of course, .intoodeep. Blending elements of just about everything that had made the night so good — from the various genres of the set blending together, the raucous pits or riotous singing along, to Dylan’s impression of a human Beyblade, spinning across the stage like a man possessed — there couldn’t have been a better song to cap the night off.
Yet, there was one last surprise. Emerging back on stage, with a mystery bag in tow, Jack proceeded to grace the audience with objects thrown into the crowd. But what? Drum sticks? Guitar picks? Setlists? Nope. What else but a bag of bread, slices thrown haphazardly into the crowd. Although — what sort of slices? Wholewheat? Brown? It’s just too tricky to know for sure.
Either way, Dead Poet Society made sure to accompany some lasting memories of the gig with a more unique, if not quite as long lasting, set of one of a kind mementos from the show. Between the brilliance of the set and the originality of the edible souvenirs, Dead Poet Society provided one hell of a show. 10/10
Written By: James O’Sullivan
