What it is, roight, (as the Chain are fond of saying) is this: for lads who go on about how much they smokes draw all the time, you wouldn't fucking knows it when they're on stage.

The enormous Newport crew (15 tonight, rising to 20 at some points) storm the Astoria more like an aerobics class in yoof detention centre, chavved up to their eyeballs in their leisure-wear finery, and don't stop flinging themselves around like loons for the whole set. It’s their third successive night at the Astoria, and also the final night of their 'an ounce don't come for free' tour, and they look well chuffed about it too.

Everybody knows what the GLC score is by now: they're the Beastie Boys on too much Sunny Delight; they're The Darkness of rap; they deliver tongue-in-cheek rhymes about sticking tinfoil on your head and pretending to be a robot, going to the roller-disco, twatting about with your mates and smoking cheap skanky draw; they're 80s nostalgia for people who were too young to actually remember the Dukes of Hazard; they are to real music what Elizabeth Duke is to Argos. And right now, this is their moment.

It barely matters that they don’t even have their own decks to spice up their live sound, because they have a plan: shout like mentalists and crank up their bedroom break-dancing moves all the way to 11, to take our minds off the crappy backing tape. And it works too. Adam Hussein, DCI Burnside, Mr Love-eggs and the rest of the Chain are as unstoppable as an obese kid in Woolworth's Pick'n'Mix as they pile through their repertoire of rap parody and general draw-related nonsense: 'Self Suicide', '21 Ounces', 'Guns Don't Kill People…', 'Half Man Half Machine', 'Soap Bar', and a crowd-favourite 'Your Mother's Got A Penis'.

What you lose in humorous detail (the ‘Speak’n’Spell’ voices on ‘Half Man Half Machine’, for instance) you gain in football chant camaraderie. And fuck me, if one or two of them can’t actually dance.

There is also a fair amount of stuff not on their Greatest Hits debut album. Of these, a particular highlight is 'Shit To Me': (“J-lo means shit to me; P-diddy means shit to me...”). Very satisfying to hear 2000 people screaming 'fuck you, alicia keys!' – and like the best stand-up comedy, also kind of true: what better response could there be to the over-polished bling-twattery of most American rap. If you're really so street, the Chain are saying, how come you never sing about going to Poundstretcher or going home for your tea, huh?

Are GLC going to move beyond their more puerile material and musical steals to make it beyond their 15 minutes of fame? Who knows. And the last night of the tour isn't really the time to be asking those kinds of questions. You can hear us cheer from Bristol Zoo to B&Q. Safe as fuck. You knows it.
(4/5)

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