The Bronx / The Ghost of a Thousand @ White Rabbit, Plymouth 26.06.10

‘Left for Dead’ thunders through the packed out room and bodies pile up, ¬and collective carnage ensues, and with added vocals during the set from Exeter’s The Computers, the short set creates an ecstatic atmosphere. It’s an exciting sight as the audience gladly smash into one another, grinning wildly as flesh bruises and feet ache desperately.

Of course, despite their ability to work the mob into a vehement frenzy with fists and feet swinging high into the air – and thanks to Matt Caughthran’s later antics, the broken ceiling - it is Los Angeles punk rock heroes The Bronx the riotous crowd is here to witness this evening. Seemingly making up for lost British summers of the past, the temperature in Plymouth’s White Rabbit is reaching unearthly levels, although making little difference to the headline band, who storm through hits past and present, much to the satisfaction of the wildly ecstatic audience.

This blissful ecstasy is evidently shared by Caughthran, as he leaps into the crowd with an excitedly bemused smile stretching across his face while the crowd grab and pull at him, clenching the microphone and screeching lyrics maniacally; the intense blasts of joy over the ballsy riffs of ‘Shitty Future’ ring out and sweat, spit and booze flies from body to body. ‘Rape Zombie’ inspires and intense reaction and a surge of unrivalled energy as flailing arms meet and blood is spilt.

Conductors of the chaotic masses, The Bronx force their way through the remainder of the intoxicating set, and ‘Knifeman’ erupts. Inspiring the biggest sing along of the evening and literally bringing the roof down thanks to Caughthran’s climbing and clambering antics, the room is united one more, before the show is brought to a close by the feverish couplet of ‘History’s Stranglers’ and ‘Heart Attack American’. Leaving the stage, graciously thanking the drained crowd, The Bronx end their final English date triumphantly. Rising temperatures or not, it’s clear The Bronx are the hottest group on earth in the eyes of Plymouth’s spectators. Pass us the aftersun.