Graphic by Henry Barraclough
For a brief, incandescent moment from 1976 to 1978, The Arteries were the most dangerous band in Britain.
Composed of frontman Colin “Rancor” Davies, drummer Johnny “Hoof” Brandon, and twin guitar-bass duo Benjamin “Stitch” and Mark “Stench” Wright, The Arteries got their big break after filling in for an ailing Sex Pistols on Donahue. In the middle of their performance, Rancor produced papers from his jacket pocket and read out the home addresses of the network’s executives, suggesting viewers “pop ‘round for tea.” The resulting panic led to a parliamentary bill, informally known as “The Arteries Rule.”
It all came crashing down in 1978, when the band broke up mid-performance on stage at the Hammersmith Odeon. Rancor stared out at the audience for an uncomfortable moment, and said, “You’re all just consumers. You’re consuming us. We’re over ourselves.”
The Arteries are now embarking on a reunion tour called “The Reckoning.” The inaugural concert at Royal Albert Hall begins with a short film tracing the “journey of reconciliation” the band has been on for the last forty years.
The band opens with their first-ever single, “Anarchy in the WG,” a reference to the West Green council flat where Rancor grew up. However, instead of the snarling, “I am an anti-Christ, I am an anarchist,” Rancor now sings, “I was like an anti-Christ, and for that, I apologise. I’ve seen the light.” The chorus has become: “Anarchy? No thank you, I’ve got a 401k. I’ve got a mortgage now, I’ve got a plan.”
After an hour of reworked classics, The Arteries finally arrive at the song that defined them: “Burn It Down.”
Rancor struts across the stage, singing with genuine rock-star conviction: “BP’s building a greener scene. Carbon neutral, that’s the plan, let’s build a future, man to man.”
Behind them, a massive high-definition screen displays a sleek animation of a lush green tree growing out of the top of an offshore oil rig, while the BP logo pulses gently in the corner.
After the show, Rancor lounges on the leather sofa with his feet up on the coffee table. The dressing room is spacious, clean, and stocked with premium bottled water, organic berries, and a cheese board that looks like it costs more than most people spend on groceries in a month. “The young me would have called me a ‘a fuckin’ kook.’ He wouldn’t understand that I’m…buying in.”
How’d you define that?
Rancor leans forward. “Buying in is using your platform, using your access, to have real conversations with the people who actually run the world. I can’t do jack shit from a squat in Hackney…but from the boardroom? That’s where you can actually sit down with the people in power and find common ground.”
Outside the Royal Albert Hall, the night air is cool and true believers gather in small, tight knots near the steps. A grizzled man named Terry—who claims to have been at the Hammersmith show in ‘78— smokes a cigarette with trembling hands.
“They didn’t just sell out; that’s when you cash a cheeky check knowing you’re a hypocrite and you hate yourself for it. That’s almost respectable—at least there’s a part of you that’s still honest. But The Arteries are genuinely believing in their own bullshit. And the worst part? The absolute worst part?” Terry takes a long drag, exhales slowly, watches the smoke disappear into the night sky. “They actually fucking like it. Just look at the bastards. Now that they’ve joined the system they once screamed at, they’ve never been more at peace.”
