Watching Terra Surfa for the third time feels like an old Simpsons repeat on BBC2, when they only seemed to have rights to one or two seasons, and a few classic episodes seemed to circulate. You laughed at the old jokes, because they were still funny, but new nuances and in-jokes came up, and each time round it was slightly better than you remember it being. This live return after time away, time out, is like this, almost a comic convention, everyone coming along stoked about seeing things the way they remember, and things are. No new songs are played, the set seems to follow much the same pattern as it did, although the accent of the priest appears to have under gone a transformation, his new hibernian twang perhaps influenced by his pint of stout.
Lyrical references to Japan, a hate for yr lovers gyrate, and a bold attempt at covering the Flash Gordon theme mix with film riffs that surf on waves of black ink, a dark, spaghetti-surf menagerie of pastiche, wit and class. Blank, faceless 50s actors run around in my mind to this soundtrack of sunglasses, mobsters and suits that could kill. Instead of speeding off into the distance, songs slow down, lose their urgency and break into effortlessly cool hypnotic swathes, wild shrieking saxophones, rude honks from a ruder player, and humming organs, droning alongside dissonant slapping guitars, and growling vocals.
The audience quickly forgives a slightly baffling introduction as the tunes are brought out with eye twinkling jokes, grins and extended fight sequences between band members, which seem to condone fox hunting. The finale sees the audience participation, waving white rubber gloves with pictures of perverts on them that the band has handed out (I had Michael Barrymore on mine..), flagging down deviants and doing hand dances with them. Bizarre humour is balanced with carefully constructed tunes, home made crafts with songwriting craft, and the sing-a-longs are not lost in the gimmickery of six men in fancy dress playing surf music. Top drawer.