In the early eighties, JoBoxers were a Bernie Rhodes helmed amalgamation of ex Subway Sect members and an American rockabilly singer, put together because they all wanted to tour (Sect leader Vic Godard apparently didn’t) and take a more pop route (again, wouldn’t have thought Vic was keen.) Inspired by Dexy’s, funk, On The Waterfront, swing and rock‘n’roll in equal measure, first single “Boxerbeat” was a barnstorming introduction in 83, which, combined with a strong image of braces and baker boy caps, meant the band were quickly competing with Duran and Spandau in the upper reaches of the chart. Its follow up “Just Got Lucky” was even bigger, especially in the States, but by 1986 it was pretty much all over, subsequent releases not quite hitting the same heights. Members went on to acting, West End shows, session work and the type of bands that are respected rather than big, such as Earl Brutus.
In 2020, somewhat out of the blue, a reunion tour was announced but was obviously put on the covid backburner. So here we are for the rescheduled dates in 2022, and on a somewhat muggy evening in Guildford’s Holroyd Arms “Suburbs” venue, JoBoxers played their first gig in over 35 years. If the band had any concerns about ring rustiness and wanted to make their first reunion appearance away from the capital out in sleepy Surrey they needn’t have worried as this was a fabulous performance, charismatic frontman Dig Wayne in fine form and the players all looking sharp and sounding like they’d more than put the hours in. Opener “Johnny Friendly” set the tone for a tight and disciplined show that had the place rocking within seconds. There’s a consistent swing to a lot of the material too, which makes dancing easy, even for me. The show closed with “Boxerbeat” (cue loads of one liners about mishearing it in 83 as “The Butterbean” or “Lobotomy” etc, yeah haha etc) but it’s a great, fun song and their treatment of it tonight left the place on a real high.
The Holroyd Arms was a new venue for me-pretty much a pub back room with friendly staff and punters, it’s often seemed to have a fair amount of punk and mod revival type stuff on, and the clientele kind of reflected this-a fair few Fred Perry’s and monkey boots were in evidence amongst the chaps but some sharply dressed modernist/almost hipsterish types too-maybe this somewhat reflects the 79-83 Dexy’s vibe of the band-JoBoxers are like the Dexy’s of that era with a dash of funk and swing thrown in. If you like the sound of that kind of stuff go and see them on this brief tour, as it was foot stomping, fun and surprisingly fresh. Great stuff, and I might even go see them again.
JoBoxers, Guildford Holroyd Arms, 23/6/22
Nick, this is fabulous. I’m so tempted by this. I saw a tweet yesterday that promoted me to re tell one of my most told 80s stories. So glad you had a good night👊
Thanks Dave, and love that tweet from yesterday. Can you get to the 100 Club or the Covent Garden shows? It’ll be well worth the trip up town and I doubt they’ll ever do it again…
Minor Eighties stars? Guildford Venues? Surely this is an excuse to repost my 2016 review of Owen “My Favourite Waste of Time” Paul at The Boileroom:
Skipping from the wings as his band competently embark on Where The Streets Have No Name, Owen Paul effortlessly commands the eight square feet of stage between the Gents and the fruit machine. His stadium-hewn hand gestures, conspiratorial winks and hello-out-there horizon scans are as mesmerising to those in the back row as they are to those in the front, and the two rows in between. Comparisons with the young Bono are inevitable, as in, Jesus, this guy thinks he’s the young Bono.
Owen’s toured with all the greats – Mike and The Mechanics, to name but two – but tonight it’s all about him, busting a generous gut at Guildford’s premier and only rock venue in front of 80 people, 50 of whom, like me, came for the support band and were too polite to leave before he came on. The man can certainly sing but something’s made him think we want to hear him talk too. After the third rambling monologue – a sweet but generally poorly-received riff on one elderly fan’s bladder function – the less starstruck of us are starting to form the suspicion that perhaps there hadn’t been enough time to rehearse a full set. But I think it’s something more than that – it’s about putting off the moment when he has to sing THAT song, so we can all go home, and, like a Glaswegian Cinderella after midnight, he goes back to being a 53-year-old in sweaty jeans and smudged mascara, heaving unsold Greatest Hit CDs into the bass player’s Sprinter.
Not that we stayed long enough to hear the wonderful one hit. As the chat dragged the gaps between songs ever wider, we found ourselves wondering if the evening might be better concluded round at The Drummond, and we joined the trickle at the doors, which became a torrent and left a drought. I wonder if Owen felt the cold blast every time the door opened for another escape. If he did, it didn’t show. What a pro.
The audience:
The Jumbotron screen beside the stage shows not Owen’s intriguing candyfloss bouffant but Tom Hanks in Big, a film about the dangers of getting everything you wish for when you’re too young to appreciate it. Did Owen peak with 1986’s My Favourite Waste of Time, his first and to date only hit? Absolutely not, not in the eyes of the dinner-lady-chic-clad Paulines yearning to connect across the two-foot void between them and their hero. To them he’s the same star he was for two heady months thirty years ago, and it’s for them that he’s Bono-ing the boards tonight, not us smirking cynics at the bar.
It made me think…
I didn’t go there to see Owen, but I’ll admit to a real respect for the mileage he’s eked out of the ounce of fuel he was given, and for the craft of a singer who knows how to deliver a show. The most famous person in any room can still be a star, however small the room and however fast it is emptying, and perhaps has a duty to act like one for the benefit of those who want nothing more than to stand in the beam of the starlight, however dim.