The Damned have never really been an arena band. Half the time, they’re barely a band at all — more a loose collective of misfits glued together by a shared love of noise, chaos, and the sheer joy of doing whatever the hell they want. Their shows often feel like they’re teetering on the brink of collapse, as if they’re making it all up on the spot.

And yet, somehow, it always works.

So on Saturday 11th April, around 22,000 mostly ageing music fans shuffled — carefully, and often with medical aids — into the “concrete shithole” (Captain’s words) that is Wembley Arena. They came for a celebration of 50 years of The Damned, and they got exactly that: noise, nostalgia, and a night that belonged entirely to them.

The evening opened with three support acts, each with their own connection to The Damned’s legacy. While more people may know Tainted Love, Love Will Tear Us Apart, or Blue Monday than Smash It Up, this was unmistakably The Damned’s night — and the guests felt like part of the family.

The Courettes

The Courettes kicked things off with a blast of White Stripes‑esque, 60s‑tinged garage‑punk. For a two‑piece — and an actual married couple, Flávia and Martin Couri — they made an impressive amount of noise. Rat Scabies clearly approves: he was spotted behind the sound desk, enjoying their set, which even included a cover of Robyn’s Dancing On My Own. On a bill full of established names, they held their own with ease.

Peter Hook & The Light

Next came Peter Hook & The Light, trading in the unmistakable sound of Joy Division. Hooky may now resemble a Harley‑riding car mechanic, but those iconic basslines remain untouchable, and they were all present tonight. With a second bassist carrying much of the rhythmic weight while Hook took on vocals, the set felt tight, warm, and full of affection. Hook shared a story about hearing punk on the radio, heading to his local record shop, and being handed New Rose. A perfect full‑circle moment.

Marc Almond

Marc Almond might seem an outlier on a rock‑heavy lineup, but Soft Cell were always alternative at heart. Backed by The Loveless, he delivered a glam‑soaked mix of originals and covers, his voice still as strong and otherworldly as ever. He seemed genuinely thrilled to be part of The Damned’s 50th anniversary — and very much a fan.

The lights dropped. Excitement surged. A revolving “Damned Pictures” B‑movie logo filled the giant screen, followed by an AI‑styled narrator with an RP accent — the kind who used to introduce grainy black‑and‑white horror films promising to “make your blood run cold.”

As he repeated “The Damned, The Damned, The Damned” and vanished cackling, the band strode onstage and launched straight into Street of Dreams from 1985’s Phantasmagoria.

What followed was a run of 11 tracks from the band’s more melodic, bouncy catalogue — less of the furious punk, more of the gothic, theatrical, and eccentric corners of their discography. They closed the first half with Smash It Up parts 1 & 2 before surprising the crowd by walking off.

“We’ll be back in 10 minutes,” came the half‑apology. With two members now over 70 — and an audience not far behind — nobody begrudged them a breather. It probably satisfied HSE regulations too.

The break began with the iconic Pearl & Dean theme — “Ba‑ba‑ba‑ba‑ba‑ba‑ba…” — before descending into a glorious montage of naff old adverts. Henry Cooper in a bath. Joan Collins spilling her drink. A model seductively fellating a Flake and Benny Hill being… Benny Hill.

Then came The Young Ones, with the band’s appearance on the show segueing perfectly into Nasty, which they performed as the clip played behind them.

With Captain and Dave returning in fresh outfits, the second half ramped up the pace. Love Song, Second Time Around, a brief breather for Fan Club, then straight into Ignite with an extended audience sing‑along. Disco Man — a fan favourite and the third non‑album track of the night — proved once again that The Damned have never cared about doing things the traditional way.

Neat Neat Neat followed, then a shortened Curtain Call, which morphed into a drum solo that became the intro to New Rose.

And then… goodbye. They’ve said it before, but this one felt different. Playing New Rose — their DIY debut single — to what was presumably their biggest headline crowd in 50 years carried real emotional weight. You could feel it in the room.

If this is the last time this lineup plays London, they went out in style. They filled that soulless arena with love, memories, and mischief. As Captain put it: “It may be a concrete shithole, but tonight it’s OUR concrete shithole.”

They may be underachieving misfits, but they’re our underachieving misfits. And they’re not dead yet.

Words and Pictures by Rich Dunn.