Gig Review: The Deadshots
The Commandery Garden, Worcester
9th August 2026
There was something quintessentially English about our evening at The Commandery but I just couldn’t quite put my finger on it…
The understated stage sat modestly on the tree-lined, walled -garden at the rear of the historic building. The clear sky was a Turner-esque canvas of pristine blue. Camping chairs were positioned haphazardly – with a polite distance between each group – in front of the stage.
Affable and confident the self-styled ROCK-abillys, the Deadshots, entered the arena with one purpose: to entertain. Lead singer and sideshow barker, Matt Waterhouse, has a strong vocal presence and his 50s tinged voice is a notable asset to the well-primed outfit. Their guitarist imbues the music with a rocking buzz – with mischievous asides. The paperboy- hatted bassist wraps himself organically around his upright bass and locks into the drummer’s lead. The drummer is the pulsating heart of the band determined to kick up a dust-bowl storm even in the most sedate of floral surroundings. The Deadshot’s red-faced Britannia take on red-neck America’s musical outlaws was a garden-filling- sandal-stomping-hoe-down to behold…
This wasn’t enough for the two determined socialites behind us, who needed to talk enthusiastically throughout the opening songs and share photos. Of course, you can’t say anything, this is England and everything is just fine!
The Deadshots are not reliant on covers and standards, they have their own songs to perform. Can’t Dance and Crying Over You proved the band can write and perform their own rockabilly opuses. The involuntary foot-tapping of the reclined onlookers proved the catchiness of the home-grown songs. The reserved applause at the end of the songs acknowledged how much the Deadshots had impressed; as we know, it simply does not pay to gush too much in these situations.
The greatest compliment I can bestow on the Deadshots is they are reminiscent of a great 80s rockabilly band called The Rapids. Both bands employ a slightly rockier sound, with the Shot’s gold lead guitar chugging along nicely with some judicial power chords and note runs. The impish use of Sex-pistols guitar licks in certain songs is an inspired musical accoutrement.
Deadshots raucous version of Tear it Up would have ignited a field of psychobilly outlaws, instead the fevered foot-tapping continued unabated. Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues provoked smiles of recognition.
Arriving fashionably late, and oblivious, they set about constructing their own corner of a field in England. Garrulous and exceptional the latecomers eschewed the volume control and with all their own opinions intact continued to enthuse. Of course, we couldn’t say anything as they explored the subject of racism. The young dandy who exclaimed, “He was a racist,” brought forth much amusement from the party involved. All appeared to be just fine…even if a little tiddly.
The party with the Deadshots at the helm continued for the second half, however, not everyone noticed; as the conversation moved onto the literary greats such as Ken Follett.
With an admirable gusto and professional tenacity the Deadshots grabbed the second half the evening by the scruff of its M & S collar and ensured the evening belonged to them. Their own material was framed once more and the line, “…blood, sweat and beer” was being sung along to, as the second flute of prosecco eased the social whirl.
With Summertime Blues emanating from the speakers, welcomed dancers joined the affray. The blue and white polka dress joined in and the purple-haired jivers forgot where they were for a moment…
As we made our way out of the garden, we were asked if we had enjoyed our night out; Jo responded in the correct manner. As we attempted to cross the road a car horn sounded along the road and a shout went up. The Deadshots were still performing their version of Slow Down, which seemed to echo off all the houses. One of which no doubt contained someone writing a letter to the council to complain about the noise level. How very English.
By: Swilgate Scuttler