Just who are the Flaming Stars?

What’s leftover from a night hanging with Max Décharné, Joe and Huck Whitney, Mark Hosking and Paul Dempsey? A warped beer coaster with the band’s web address on it. Pleasant memories of chatting about our all-time favorite bands. The busted strings guitarist Huck discarded in the course of the performance. The taste of Vodka-Red Bull on ice. Three pages of scribbled notes.

I’m not sure which was better, really: the ninety minutes of music or the hours we spent in the pub afterwards. One thing’s clear, though: Our after-show chinwag helped me understand what makes this band so damn good. These Londoners were teenagers when the Ramones landed in the UK and the Pistols were pissing off the Queen. Décharné told me that when the band decided to cover the Buzzcocks’ classic “What Do I Get?” for one of their John Peel sessions, it was as easy as flicking a switch. The topic was PUNK, and what it used to be, and what it has turned into, and even before we ever discussed it, the word was blinking in my mind as the band played a show I can only describe as wonderfully intense. To me, THIS is punk. Not the energetic but somehow squeaky-clean power chord rock that often passes for punk nowadays. These guys have ATTITUDE. And it’s genuine. They have the courage to go onstage drunk and see what happens. (Thanks, Max, for providing me with that handy band philosophy.)

They get away with it because the material Max and his mates write is uniformly strong. So even when strings start popping and kick drum pedals are falling apart, something good remains. Keyboards straight from the nearest haunted house, a mud-spattered bassline, or Smokin’ Joe flying over his low-slung drum kit like a Keith Moon disciple. During a set that contained versions of classic singles like “The Face On The Barroom Floor,” “New Hope For The Dead,” and “You Don’t Always Want What You Get,” I found myself reminded of the Jazz Butcher Conspiracy, Jonathan Richman & the Modern Lovers, The Stranglers, Richard Hell and Iggy Pop. A convenient frame of reference maybe. But the Flaming Stars are the Flaming Stars, and last night’s show proved they should be on the short list for admission to that pantheon of legends.

Hardboiled Hollywood : The Origins Of The Great Crime Films MAX DECHARNE
There are a million stories in the naked city, unfortunately most of them arrive fully clothed on the rare occasions they make it onto the cinema screen, so their nakedness won't offend our delicate sensibilities.
Criminals, for the most part, are ugly animalistic thugs who commit crimes for the most selfish reasons. Their supposed "charisma" would be considerably lessened if they didn't have a gun in their hand. Of course, you really wouldn't want to spend any time with these dopes so Hollywood dresses them up into more complicated, more photogenic anti-heroes. Decharne ploughs through dozens of tattered pulp novels to trace classic flicks including Get Carter, LA Confidential, Point Blank, Psycho, etc back to their gritty source. Full of "unauthorised cash withdrawals" and people dying of "lead poisoning", this tome thankfully eschews the pompous subtext and strained metaphors of most film books, leaving what any good detective wants: just the facts, ma'am.