The Stranglers, a lifelong love affair with The Men in Black. Full disclosure, this one’s personal. I’ve been a Stranglers fan for their entire career. From that first mind-blowing encounter with their albums as a kid, their music has been ingrained in my DNA.
Some experiences never leave you.
Walking into the venue, the crowd’s energy was already simmering, a sea of aging Punks clad in black, their battle-worn band tees a testament to decades of devotion. The anticipation for the Stranglers was palpable, though the choice of support act left many scratching their heads.
Merryn Jeann, a singer-songwriter from Mullumbimby, Australia, took the stage with a dreamy, delicate sound that was more suited to an Indie Folk festival than a Punk Rock gig.
With a voice like spun sugar and an arsenal of self-penned tunes, she delivered an earnest performance, yet the audience remained largely disengaged.
Her latest album Dog Beach offers an intriguing blend of Pop, Grunge, Rock, and Folk, but her music struggled to find its footing in a crowd eager for snarling bass lines and razor-sharp riffs.
A song about ice cream, complete with a childlike chorus, felt particularly out of place, drawing polite, bemused applause rather than true enthusiasm. The lyrical oddity of lines like I’ve got big balls bouncing round my chest left some attendees more confused than captivated.
A tough gig, no doubt, and perhaps an ill-advised booking.
After an unexpected pre-show blast of Rosanna by Toto (really, who made that call?), the lights dropped, and the atmosphere shifted.
The Stranglers strode onto the stage, launching straight into Toiler on the Sea from my all-time favourite album Black and White. I knew we were in for a ride. And what a ride it was!
The Stranglers sounded phenomenal. Tight, raw, and dripping with that unmistakable mix of menace and melody.
With Jean-Jacques Burnel, the last remaining original member at the helm, the band tore through a setlist spanning their illustrious career.
Peaches, Duchess, Skin Deep, and, of course, Golden Brown all made their rightful appearances, each met with fervent singalongs.
The latter, an anomaly in the Punk world with its elegant harpsichord melody, stood out as a bittersweet highlight, reminding fans of the band’s ability to defy genre expectations.
What followed was a career-spanning masterclass. Iconic album cuts from their incendiary early years sat comfortably alongside their biggest singles, with some newer material thrown in to remind us they’re still a force to be reckoned with.
The crowd was locked in, swept up in a setlist that celebrated both nostalgia and evolution.
I should probably admit to my very extensive experience with this band. As a gig-hungry teenager, The Stranglers were the live act for me. I saw them countless times in the UK and New Zealand, but one show stands above the rest. 1996 Mountain Rock Festival in Palmerston North.
My own band, Hangar 18, was on the bill that day, which meant full AAA access. Meeting the band, chatting to Jet, Dave and JJ with them pre-show, and then watching from the side of the stage with a privileged few, it was the stuff of dreams.
By a remarkable twist of fate and fortune, my daughters’ names, Jett and Raven, carry an unexpected connection to The Stranglers. The story behind how these names were chosen is a long one, but regardless, I couldn’t be prouder to be their dad.
Tonight was tinged with nostalgia and remembrance, as Burnel dedicated a song to the late Jet Black and Dave Greenfield.
Their absence was felt, particularly in the keyboard work of Toby Hounsham – while a solid player—could never fully replicate Greenfield’s iconic flourishes.
Drummer Jim Macaulay, holding the beat since 2018, delivered with precision, but the void left by the originals was undeniable.
Then came The Raven, a storming performance that encapsulated everything great about The Stranglers. Technical brilliance, brooding atmosphere, and a sense of controlled menace.
As Burnel prowled the stage, still exuding the same black-clad cool he had in the band’s heyday, it was impossible not to be swept up in the moment. His signature slow-motion kung fu kicks may have been more measured than in the ‘70s, but they still carried the same swagger.
Baz Warne, now a 26-year veteran in the band, proved yet again why he was the right man to step into Hugh Cornwell’s shoes. His snarling vocals and razor-sharp guitar work were on full display, seamlessly bridging past and present.
Though some fans still long for the sneering cynicism of Cornwell, Warne has cemented himself as an integral part of The Stranglers’ ongoing story.
As the final chords rang out and the crowd—now a little older, a little greyer, but no less passionate—spilled into the night, one thing was clear. The Stranglers are still a force to be reckoned with.
Time may march on, but for these Punk survivors, the fire still burns. And for those of us who’ve followed them for decades, nights like this serve as a reminder of why we fell in love with The Stranglers in the first place. Long live the Men in Black.
Paul Marshall
Photography by Greg Haver
The Stranglers
Merryn Jeann
