Swansea

CRASS ARE probably the most popular group in the country but in relation to the general music business they're an enigma. Their records, up to the relative sophistication of 'Penis Envy', had been a rush of shock tactic anger driven by a sound so basic and crude as to be, to these ears at least, totally unlistenable.

I wondered how many wearers of Crass-emblazoned leather jackets really wanted nothing more than an anti-fashion radical group to adopt. Did Crass' communal way of life and rantings really get through to young minds?

St Phillips' Community Centre has a small-sized hall with a high but tiny stage looking like a hole that has been chiselled out of the wall. On a damp afternoon, a grouping of youthful Crass fans, some can only be seven or eight, begin to line the outside of the building. Rain spatters down.

As the Crass equipment and various group members arrive, the young faithful ring the van and mild mania ensures. At least, intense stares which display immense amounts of respect.

A banter with the organiser reveals the bash to be in aid of the Welsh Republican Movement although, despite his excited chatter and hand-drawn notices of the 'Burn A Cottage' kind, the scene could be anywhere in the UK. The line of bodies lengthens until opening time when around 500 file inside.

The first group, Living Legends, play an odd, uninviting brand of pantomime punk. Each song proceeds at a pedestrian pace and one, ‘The Pope's A Dope', features a walking caricature of the Vatican boss. Their grossness and the immature antics of the singer aggravates the more volatile sections of the crowd. The shaven heads of the local football fraternity bellow their rallying cry and seek rival mobs. After Living Legends there is an unsteady calm.

A lively and interesting set from Dirt diverts attention from the inter tribal tensions but towards the latter part a fisticuffs begins and rapidly the warring factions roll and jostle the width of the hall. There is no overspill space, just one small exit door to escape the confrontation. A few dozen marauders and many trapped onlookers. Dirt abandon the stage and the house lights go on. This could be very ugly.

Members of Crass, unable to physically stop the fighting, mount the stage. Stave Ignorant screams: “Think what you're doing big boys, you're just like my old man, calm down."

Right now the evening totters on the brink of complete chaos. As the organiser anxiously tries to quell the flying fists a collection of punks, real punks, the ones who can think for themselves, assemble stage front and start an impassioned unison yell of “Fight war not wars”.

Crass take the cue and an impromptu music-backed chant ensues. The violent few at the back of the hall are now ignored and fizzle out of their fracas as Crass explode into what is more than likely the most urgent and energised set of their entire existence.

I stand and shake with the degree of emotion being transmitted. My earlier thoughts and criticisms have no place here. Comments from outside are wholly irrelevant to Crass and their audience. It is as if they can tap the national grid and switch the high voltage into a crackling line of communication.

You can sit back and whinge about unrefined playing, you can cite Phil's constant barrage of two-inch-speaker-on-overload guitar, Pete's predictable plucking, Stave's uncultured shout, but it doesn't matter. Never before have I witnessed such a complete lack of divisions between 'performer' and 'audience'.

Crass's only link to the general norms of musicality is in the use of guitars and drums as a platform to convey their doctrine. Their sound is a big speeding vehicle of idea transfer. This coupled with the provocative and often frightening videos and projections makes the impact total and impossible to ignore.

Crass deal in the exchange of information. On stage they impart their feelings with a shattering efficiency. Off stage they are open and friendly on a person to person level. They don't give interviews but this is an attitude not rooted in any 'Ha ha, look where we got without you' revenge motive. They simply don't need the usual 'journalist'/'star' ascribed role playing bullshit or the sometimes dictator like spoutings of the press.

After the gig, photographer Steve asks Pete Wright if he minds him taking a pic. "I'd rather you took photos of the other people here. It's their gig as much as ours," he says, and he's right. There is a positive feeling of unity and achievement. To the false machismo displayed by the rucking element he bears no malice. “It's an extension of the playground. They'll grow out of it."

Tonight, Crass turned a virtual nightmare situation into a virtual celebration. Given the smallness of the venue and the comparative low key nature of the event, their actions are hardly going to be lauded world wide but as for the people there I doubt many of them will ever forget it.

I know I won't.