Blue and green record exploding into shards

Kunt and the Gang

Kunt and The Gang! What a name for a band. It was about two years ago that a friend showed me Kunt’s MySpace page, giggling like an excited schoolchild. Web anthem and social commentary ‘Use My Arse’ was an excellent introduction to Kunt’s work, encapsulating the clever (and hugely offensive) lyric work that makes his music so addictive.

Kunt and the Gang is one man, presumably because his mates all think he’s unhinged. With all the makings of a sex criminal, it is probably for the best that his market existed almost entirely online. At least that’s what I thought. He plays live my friends; he plays live!

It was a week before his show in the Winchester Railway that a friend of a friend casually mentioned the planned local (ish) gig date, and I can’t remember ever being so excited about a gig. At the start of the week, there were three of us going, but by the time I had played some of my favourite Kunt tunes to the pub rabble, we had two car loads eagerly anticipating Saturday night. What’s more, I managed to avoid driving duty. Boo yeah!

Saturday arrives and we turn up at the Railway rather early, such is our enthusiasm and my paranoia about missing a rare South-of-London date by the Gang. First on are some breakneck dance troop called Gay Death Probe. Perfect music for an early hours festival wind-down, but a bit much at 9pm after far too few alcohols.

Retiring to the back of the room I find myself standing next to a tall lanky chap with huge hair wearing a retro England football shirt. ‘Tis Mr. Kunt! Embarrassingly I get all star-struck, and have a good old drink before asking whether or not he’ll play ‘Soapy Tit Wank’, the genius tune about fancying girls off TV soaps. Apparently, the high turnover of soap characters has dated the song since it was first written, and a re-write is required if it is ever to be played again. We decide that the only characters who last long enough to make it worthwhile are the old ones, so a soap MILF tune is the only answer. You heard it here first!

More idle banter leads to the genius line of ‘there’s nothing wrong with being a wank fan’, and a discussion about dying onstage. It’s only happened to him a couple of times, and unsurprisingly Kunt actually enjoys shocking unsuspecting punters. ‘If you come to a Kunt and the Gang show you have to expect some filth,’ he quite rightly states, but I think he’s safe for tonight. A beaming female fan stumbles up to him and shouts: ‘You’re rude you are’, to which he replies ‘I haven’t done anything yet!’ He then disappears to ‘get his shit together’, popping into the bogs with nothing but a big duffle bag full of who-knows-what.

Emerging to the opening bars of Gary Glitter’s ‘I’m the Leader of the Gang’, Kunt strides onto the stage in white long johns, a green glittery jacket and huge Y-fronts housing an ominous bulge. After a few lines of ‘d’ya wanna be in my gang’, the backing track for ‘Have a Wank’ begins. Kunt doesn’t play any instruments, it’s sort of like a karaoke show by a poet with Tourette’s. The chorus of ‘Have a Wank’ coincides with the whipping out of a huge fake penis out of the Y-fronts, which he furiously beats every now and then. Looking across the crowd I see shock and delight, with thankfully no sign of disgust or outrage. There’s nothing like a moaning protester to ruin your evening.

For the next forty minutes or so (I lose all track of time) Kunt sings songs about realising his conquest is a minor, having naughty thoughts about Carol Vorderman, having a ‘Gentleman’s Wash’, and various other subjects of the toilet humour variety. The highlight in terms of onstage antics is ‘Wanking Over a Pornographic Polaroid of an Ex-Girlfriend Who Died’, during which he furiously beats his stuffed member and wails inconsolably into the microphone.

‘That’s a grower that one’ he comments after singing a song about having a semi-on, before asking for requests (a totally pointless exercise considering the backing tracks are arranged so that he can press a single button to start the next). I drunkenly shout ‘Soapy Tit Wash’, then realise my mistake and recoil. It’s too late, as he has heard and has a bit of a dig at my inebriated slur. Deserved!

The justification of the term ‘gang’ in the total comes in the form of a hand puppet with Kunt’s face on it, with whom he performs duets on such classic hits as ‘Fred and Rose’ (probably the most tasteless reference in the set, although it’s a toss-up between that and ‘going for a swim in Barrymore’s pool’).

If you hate cheap humour or are sensitive to casual swearing, Kunt and the Gang certainly aren’t for you. If, however, you like rude, crude performers whose only intention is to entertain for the duration of the set, you can’t go wrong with Kunt.

Oh, and The Limes headlined. They were alright.

Guest article from Matt S.

Written by Guest Writers on

Between 2003 and 2009, [the-mag] had regular contributors from music correspondents covering their local scene. You'll find them all in the guest writers section. The specific writer is mentioned at the bottom of each article.

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