LEAP OF FAITH

Reeling from illness and uncertain times, Skunk Anansie's future hung in the balance. But with new album The Painful Truth, they "stood on top of the cliff, held hands and jumped into the clouds".

- Polly Glass

It's Friday night at London's Roundhouse. Skunk Anansie have just launched into raging 2022 polemic Piggy, and Skin is sailing across the crowd on a massive pig. A snarling, nose-ringed inflatable that would frighten the hell out of Pink Floyd's porcine mascot, it's a darkly sardonic steed for the woman we're transfixed by. It's hard not to smile when she does. An otherworldly but very likeable punk queen at 57, she soars effortlessly through operatic notes, honeyed warmth and hard-rocker grit, flanked on stage by three of her best friends, all of them striking powerhouses in their own right.

For all the Orwellian visual swings and political punches (far-right extremism, social media trolls, inequality...), a Skunk Anansie show is one of the most fun rock-geared nights out you can have. It's also one of the most friendly. Mixing 90s megahits like Weak and Charlie Big Potato with fiery, fat-free new material (more on that shortly), they draw a far more diverse audience than most of their peers. There are men, women, teenagers, a few children with parents. At the front stands a guy with his hair in two enormous red spikes – old-school Camden punk chic at its least ironic - dancing with punters who look nothing like him.

“I saw him singing along to songs like Hedonism,” guitarist Ace tells us in the pub the next day. “You wouldn’t associate that with that kind of aggressive-looking crazy punk. But he’s singing a ballad and looking like he’s going to cry there.”

Even in the 90s, Skunk Anansie always had range in their political messaging. Boiling rage came with sing-your-heart-out choruses. Sharp, funny specificity was their secret weapon in anthems like Little Baby Swastikkka, where incisive imagery met the classic rock, punk, soul, jazz, pop and more of the band’s collective DNA.