To be honest I was doubtful about this. 25 years after the height of their magnificence and without their lead singer, Jello Biafra, one of the most important US punk bands ever were doing a gig in Stourbridge at the Rock Cafe 2000. Jez had seen a flyer and suggested we all go. Once this had turned out to not be a joke I signed up. What the hell, if it’s good then it’s good and if it’s terrible then it might be terrible in a good way. Add to this that the six of us were all both too young to remember it the first time and too old to have parents who did and the whole thing started to take on levels of irony I usually shy away from. I’m not even a fan in the real sense - sure, I like their stuff a lot but all I own is the greatest hits CD. In fact I don’t even own that having mp3′d it from a mate.

The venue was in an industrial estate under what looked like a Dominos Pizza warehouse. “It’s in a fucking industrial estate!” someone said, and yes, that was kinda laughable. But I started thinking how perfect it was. If you’re going to see a seminal punk band you really want it to be in a total dive part of town. And so we went in.

I was immediately struck with a strange sense of nostalgia as I realised I hadn’t been to somewhere like this for a good five years. Here were the beautiful freaks and weirdoes, the losers with attitude, the people who’s definition comes from not really having a definition other than a big fuck you to the rest of society. And a love of black clothing. Oh, and a fondness for loud aggressive dissonant ROCK.

The support band were good. Of course I can’t remember their name and memories of their music has been somewhat crushed by what followed, but they put on a solid display of OI!, speedy ska-punk with a message. Had they been headlining they could have pulled it off no problem but they weren’t and despite their efforts they failed to fill the dance floor. Such is the lot of the support but it did seem a little portentous. Was the crowd really that apathetic? Were we just going to stand around drinking our beers and clapping politely when the main act arrived? Of course not.

As they filed onto the stage there wasn’t a whoop of recognition, probably because no-one recognised them, but the guitarists looked a bit old and the singer greeted us with an American accent so it was probably them. The first couple of songs I didn’t recognise but Let’s Lynch The Landlord got everyone going and the mosh pit started filling. As the intro to Holiday in Cambodia kicked in the place went wild and stayed that way for the rest of the evening.

Musically they were spot on and after 20 years you’d expect that. But it wasn’t just a note-perfect rendition of their greatest hits - there was enough noodling (for want of a better word) to prove they weren’t a tribute to their earlier selves. Ironically it was Biafra-replacement Jeff Penalty’s performance that made it work. While his sneers and yelps channeled the authenticity of the original recordings he was no ersatz copy, taking the songs he loved and making them his own. Of course you could argue this is punk and it’s not the technical proficiency of the musicians that matter, more their attitude, in which case Penalty had attitude in buckets and was pouring it all over the audience.

At the end I felt cleansed in a way only possible when you’re soaked in the sweat of 50 other people. A punk gig is a glorious thing of friendly violence where you can jump and shove as much as you like in the knowledge that should you fall someone will help you up and throw you back. I hadn’t done this for years and I should have done, repeatedly.

Tom, Jez and Phil - tonight you were FUCKING PUNK ROCK!