Deconstruction 2002, London

United Kingdom | by Andrew Future, John Bownas, Sara Bowrey | 03 June 2002

If Heaven is a half pipe, then for one day only Finsbury Park plays host to the roving Valhalla of the Deconstruction Tour. Ice-cream vans, Red Bull skate ramps, it's PUNK RAWWWKKK aplenty. The gates to Odin's raucous and noisome halls open punctually at Midday, but please respect the neighbours and don't make too much trouble when you leave. Remember the © for Carling and we'll all be happy.

Twenty-first century punks. Mobile phone-wielding-super-short-spikey-hairers. After the dark and sweaty debacle of last year's Deconstruction, the soap haired-baggy-trousered-Converse clan get back outside to celebrate as Mother Sun runs around shining and occasionally having a quick slash. Although it didn't quite require the same Ambre Solaire factor as in Stratford two years ago, after last year's Cell Block H debacle inside the Docklands Arena it was nice to have the transition made back to a grass-roots version of the Carling Weekend's Vans Warped rock day.

Slap-bang in the middle of North London, and with tickets costing no more than a bag of cider and a night at Shepherds Bush Empire, this punk-fest is accessible to the Nth degree. (Where 'N' is the number of fourteen year olds allowed out on a Monday afternoon, added to the amount of grissly churlish old men who wish they were still fourteen, multiplied by people who haven't realised Lost Prophets are shit.)  It couldn't be more fitting that as Liz celebrates 50 years on the throne, Deconstruction helps punk celebrate it's very own jubilee with a mish-mosh of current contenders for 2002's taking back the spiky multi-hued hair, single chorded dysfunction that swept our shores 25 years ago.

Although set in the heartland of original punk territory, this isn't a day for taking a trip down punk's memory lane. It isn't about kids who were in their heyday in '77 coming back for another stumble around the block. The longest-serving of today's acts only hark back to the mid-80's - and whilst Dicky and his magnificent seven (AKA Mighty Mighty Bosstones) may display a laudable degree of narcissism, their ska-core offerings are more Two-Tone on speed than devil take the hindmost punk in it's truest sense. Watching the besuited Octet prepare themselves for battle on the backstage ramp it was team handshakes all round, and shoes being self-consciously rubbed shiny on the backs of well-pressed trousers.

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