Skids | The Vapors
Electric Ballroom, London
30th January 2026
Forty-seven years ago this month, Richard Jobson kicked Skids into the national consciousness. Now LTW’s Phil Ross and Naomi Dryden-Smith head to Camden to see who’s dancing – and get brought back to earth with a bump.
I’m excited. I’ve seen Skids several times and it’s always a good show. But this time there’s a slight tinge of nerves as I step out of Camden Town tube at 2pm, well ahead of tonight’s gig at the Electric Ballroom. I recently reviewed of their documentary The Story of Skids: Scotland’s Number 1 Punk Band, and Louder Than War’s been invited to interview lead singer Richard Jobson. He asks me to collect some books he’s written before the soundcheck, welcoming me with a big toothy grin and a firm handshake at the stage door.
My first exposure to the band came when they performed Into The Valley on Top of the Pops in February 1979. I wasn’t yet fourteen, and the impression they made on me, and kids my age, was immeasurable. Beyond the thundering intro, skirling guitar and football-terrace chant, the high leg kick dance Jobson performed that evening became a phenomenon for a generation of teenage boys. Almost overnight it filled playgrounds and school discos, and later parties, well into our thirties and forties.
As Jobson explains in the documentary, he was extremely ill on the day of that TOTP appearance, suffering a severe epileptic episode. His close friend and bandmate Stuart Adamson nursed and coached him as the hour approached, and the resulting dance was not choreographed but pure combustion, an unplanned eruption of stress, adrenaline and excitement released into the nation’s unsuspecting living rooms.
In the decades since Skids and his next band The Armoury Show, Jobson has been a television presenter, poet, producer, writer and filmmaker. He’s generous with his time and attention, exuding charm and confidence with just a hint of cinematic menace.
When I arrive at the venue, he starts immediately to talk about Camden in the ’80s, with such natural televisual ease that we make a short film.
Check the link at the end for the film we made, with clips from the gig and a full version of Into The Valley.
This evening, we’re back at the Electric Ballroom as Hit The Ground Running heralds The Vapors onto the stage. It’s the first of a run of plucky songs from their 2025 album Wasp In A Jar, alongside Decompression, Forever & Ever, the wonderfully positive Together Again, and the wryly smiling Nothing Can Stop Us Now. Their assurance is rooted in the craft of catchy pop-rock, packed with strong hooks and smart arrangements. Woven throughout are well-loved songs from earlier albums, the outstanding Jimmie Jones, which would sit easily on Setting Sons, and of course the timeless Turning Japanese.
The crowd responds with appreciative nodding and bopping, pleasantly surprised by the fine blend of fresh cuts and vintage pop on offer. I catch hints of Alarm, Buzzcocks and, just for a moment, The Killers. All in all, it’s a damn fine set with a big, crunchy sound, driven by the guitar-hero energy of Danny Fenton, son and bandmate of singer Dave Fenton, who backs him on rhythm. With original member Steve Smith on bass and Michael Bowes on drums, it’s a tight line-up, closing with the touching Letter From Hiro before finishing on a pop high with News At Ten.
With our palates primed, the main course arrives, punching hard, dancing across the stage. “We’re so happy to be with you,” chants Jobson, with full-band backing vocals. In classic Skids style there’s just one guitarist, currently Connor Whyte, throwing out a huge, powerful sound: forceful and urgent, with searing upper ranges and grunting bottom end.
The crowd roars. Drummer Nick Hernandez double-kicks the unmistakable bass and the snare snaps to unleash the euphoric guitar melody that soars effortlessly above Out Of Town’s driving rhythm. The adrenaline rises in the room, and I remember that sense of escape – from school, from my post-war housing estate, perhaps to some Highland battlefield of historic Scotland. Perhaps it was a sense of freedom, a teenage freedom that the Masquerade/Out of Town single offered me. But I was still only fourteen, and I would have to wait.
For Jobson, his escape lay in his lyrics. Born into a hyper-masculine community in the long shadows of both 1745 and 1945, he navigated the complexities of sectarianism, patriotism and nationalism in all their forms. Still a teenager when the band formed, their early gigs often included matinee performances, much to Adamson’s frustration, and touring sometimes required him to have a chaperone.
Unable to partake in the drink-and-drugs culture because of his epilepsy, Jobson instead sharpened his pen in Dunfermline library, reading, writing, and honing his craft. The result was a remarkable canon of lyrics, forged in solitude, exploding out of Fife and resonating with a generation trapped in post-war Britain, hungry to be liberated by the bands they believed in.
That generation is well represented here tonight, and they know their part. “Come on, sing it,” he urges, and the room obliges in full throat. “Come and play Circus Games,” they roar back, as the guitar glides and groans atop the heaving mass of bodies, Jobson twisting, boxing, dancing, never stopping.
Nothing beats a good sing-song, and tonight’s set offers plenty of opportunity to participate. “Hurry on boys,” he calls, and we respond, punching the air like a punk hoedown, while the “whoah-oh-oh-oh” intro of A Woman in Winter hits the endorphin sweet spot dead on.
Jobson is an excellent entertainer, a well-rounded performer and a careful curator of songs, self-effacing anecdotes (and cinematic menace). He’s always respectful of the memory of the mighty Stuart Adamson, openly disparaging of music-industry creeps, and keen to remind us how U2 and Green Day covered their song.
But above all, he’s inclusive. “Sing along with me, please,” he beckons, with the comforting charm of an STV presenter, reverently announcing: “This is The Saints Are Coming.” The lull is deceptive, and soon in a crescendo of screeching guitar and drums, Jobson in full vein bulging mode, melds the room into one heaving mass of fists punching the air. “I say no matter how I try, I realise there’s no reply,” he screams repeatedly and hypnotically before the pounding beat comes to an abrupt stop. The final note of Whyte’s guitar hangs gently, echoing in the short silence before the roar of the crowd fills the Electric Ballroom once again.
It’s a magical moment, and the goosebumps have barely receded before bassist Pete Byrchmore steps forward and the unmistakable rumble of Into The Valley sends the room surging one more time. It’s the song where, for many of us, our journey with Skids began, but I notice that Jobson doesn’t mention his news about a certain invitation from a certain German band, though it may just surface in the video. Wink.
It’s also not lost on us that, anti-fascist as ever, Jobson, clad in a St. Pauli Fans Gegen Rechts (Against the Far Right) T-shirt, takes aim at American imperialism before launching into Working for the Yankee Dollar, an ironic sentiment that feels as poignant now as it ever did.
But as I make my way back to the tube, I’m struck with the realisation that Richard Jobson can kick higher than me – and he probably always could.
Watch out Germany, Jobo is coming, and he’s not scared to dance.
Watch Phil’s film with Richard
Info tours and merch: Skids Official
Buy: The Story of the Skids, Scotland’s No 1 Punk Band on Blueray
Check: The Vapors
~
Words by Phil Ross. More writing by Phil can be found at his Louder Than War author’s archive.
Photos by Naomi Dryden-Smith. Louder Than War | Facebook |Twitter | Instagram | portfolio
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