That this year is the 40th anniversary of 1977, the year punk rock went mainstream, shouldn’t obscure the pub rock foundations underpinning much of what was supposedly new. The Clash’s Joe Strummer had fronted pub circuit regulars The 101’ers. In 1976, the Sex Pistols regularly played West London pub The Nashville Rooms. The Damned came together after Brian James and Rat Scabies scouted the audience at a Nashville Pistols/101’ers show for potential members of the band they intended forming.

This is, in many ways, an underwhelming evening, but the fault does not primarily lie with The Psychedelic Furs. Things start well with support act Lene Lovich who gives a lively performance, in a black’n’red ensemble with striped sleeves and a gigantic, beribboned, plaited wig/hair/hat confabulation which has something of Big Chief Sitting Bull about it. Despite not playing her only Top 10 hit, 1979’s “Lucky Number”, she whoops and theatricalises while her band delivers a suitably punchy new wave racket.

The Psychedelic Furs aren’t going to get away with not playing the hits, especially as this round of gigs is entitled the Singles Tour. The curious thing is that they didn’t really have any big hits. Despite a hefty and deserved reputation, based on their grittily swooning first three albums, and moments from the fourth, they only had two bona fide Top 40 singles. One of these, “Pretty in Pink”, they dispose of early in the set, almost throwing it away. Like Simple Minds with “Don’t You (Forget About Me)”, they allegedly have a tricky relationship with the song, due to its Hollywood recontextualisation by writer/director John Hughes (in the 1986 film of the same name: at least The Psychedelic Furs wrote their most famous song; Simple Minds, whose song was used in Hughes’ The Breakfast Club, did not).

All but one band member wear shades throughout - it was ever thus

Ostensibly reformed since the Millennium, this band has not been very active, until now. In concert, they're a six-piece, very much fronted by the two brothers, Richard and Tim Butler, who kickstarted the group during the Seventies punk era, although Sax player Mars Williams is also a big presence, showboating hither and yon. Most members wear hussar-style military coats with lines of closely set brass buttons, although Richard Butler, the frontman, soon takes his off to reveal what appears to be a dotted black pyjama top with white piping around the lapels. All but one band member wear shades throughout. It was ever thus.

Their set runs in the approximate chronological order of their single releases. This is not necessarily a good thing, as they begin with their richest material, cuts such as “Danger”, “Mr Jones” and, especially, “Love My Way”, which closed with a wolfish howl from its singer; then things slowly bog down in later, lesser fare, although they save their other hit, “Heaven”, until the end, before an encore of first album gold. The big problem, though, is the sound.

The Psychedelic Furs’ music is nuanced. It always had a heartfelt, frowning subtlety, with its rock sensibility more in line with Roxy Music or David Bowie than, say, The Damned, and yet the sound from the stage tonight is a smudged, indistinct blur of distortion, with the singing inaudibly fudged way down in the mix. It’s crappy. Putting all my cards on the table, I should mention there are also a few very irritating gig-goers who somewhat spoil my enjoyment. I grow heartily sick of precious, stock still, middle-aged once-were's who regard rock gigs as standardised church ceremonies they’re super-entitled to watch, unhindered by anything lively, social or rock’n’roll.

The Psychedelic Furs appear to be having a ball. Their set-list could do with tweaking but if you say you’re going to play the singles then you have to play the singles! There are rumours of a new album, their first in over a quarter of century, and the band seem invigorated. It bodes well. As for tonight, the difference between what they played and what we heard very much undermined this show.

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Overleaf: watch The Psychedelic Furs perform "Love My Way"

With the wind behind them, the San Francisco-founded band Deerhoof are one of the greatest live experiences you can have.

TV Tube Heart, the debut album from The Radiators From Space, was issued on 21 October 1977, a week before the Sex Pistols’ Never Mind the Bollocks. Each was a punk rock album and one, inevitably, has been subjected to greater historical analysis and many more reissues than the other. Of course, Johnny Rotten and co’s first and only long-player was significant but the other band’s album was important too.

As a live phenomenon Gogol Bordello are unstoppable, a crowd-whipping Balkan-punk storm that sweeps venues away with them. For some years this blinded me to their recorded output. Their albums sent shivers up my spine, a tinctured version of their explosive performances, and I was unable to understand why, despite their wildness, rock’n’roll attitude, and ability to rip out a solid tune, their success remained of the cult variety. Listening to Seekers and Finders, things are clearer.

Frontman Eugene Hutz has the charisma and zip of Joe Strummer, with whom his artistry has much in common, but he doesn’t have the Clash singer’s ability to distill a lyric down to something potent and epithetic, nor does he muster anywhere near as much musical range. The title track of Seekers and Finders, which features New York alt-folker Regina Spektor, opens with the couplet, “Not all horses are gonna need blinders/Not all seekers will be finders,” and it’s a good summation of where Gogol Bordello’s wordage is at. Meanwhile most of the album adheres to a raucous barroom accordion/fiddle/guitar hoedown imprint.

Enough negativity and criticism, though. If you like Gogol Bordello, and I do, there’s juice here. “Saboteur Blues” is intended as a take-down of René Descartes, an ode to living in the moment, and is firin’ gypsy hard rock; “If I Ever Get Home Before Dark” has a stumbling-drunk-down-a-late-night-alley charm, and “Still That Way” has something of the Stones about it, albeit via a terrace anthem chorus. Seekers and Finders, their seventh studio album, finds Gogol Bordello’s galloping strut firmly intact, from open to close.

However, over a decade since their international breakthrough, they remain a killer festival act no closer to wider appreciation or capable of achieving it. They could do with some sort of overhaul to bring surprise and freshness back. Then again, just as I finished this review, I checked the one I wrote for their last album, four years ago, and it says practically the same thing.

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Overleaf: Listen to "Saboteur Blues" by Gogol Bordello

At the start of 2016 shouty Essex bedroom musician Jordan Cardy – AKA Rat Boy – was on all those media tastemaker lists of stars about to imminently explode. Maybe he’s been in major label development hell since. His debut album’s been a long time coming and, commercially, it will possibly need that lost initial momentum. But that’s for the streaming public to decide. In the meantime, SCUM is a bouncy, youthful, over-excited Labrador of a thing, distortion-amped, loud, flicking the Vs, and generally bringing the kind of party where crockery gets smashed.

The obvious comparison is Jamie T’s geezer-ish social commentary pop-rock, but Rat Boy’s musical mash-up owes less to late-Seventies artists such as The Clash or Ian Dury. Instead, names that spring to mind include Rizzle Kicks, late Nineties Fatboy Slim and the Ritalin pop mania of the late Lil’ Chris, but with buzz-saw guitars, iffy hip hop MCing, and the everything-turned-up-to-11 production style of The Go! Team in their early ‘00s prime. It deliberately crashes at the ears, in other words, with goofy Americanised skits hamming up the irritant factor, even when poking obvious fun at Donald Trump.

Many songs offer basic, pissed-off commentary on how crappy the lot of the working man can be, but aggravating nursery rhyme tunes, such as on “Everyday”, reduce the appeal. Happily, there are also tasty cuts, notably the sneering punk of “Knock Knock”, and the fired-up skank of the title track and “Left For Dead”. The latter’s portrayal of loan shark hell boasts welcome lyrical bite (“What happens when you don’t pay your fees?/You get the shit kicked out of you by common thieves”).

There’s not much light and shade on SCUM but this album isn’t about that. Like Slaves, it’s noisy, energised, mosh-pit fuel for teenagers and early 20-somethings, with occasional bursts of musical promise. On that basis it’s a partial success.

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Overleaf: watch the video for "Revolution" by Rat Boy

Mark E Smith’s wit and the ever-changing, ever-suffering line-up behind him have established The Fall as one of the most seminal post-punk bands in Britain. From their classic 1976 debut Live at the Witch Trials to 2015’s acclaimed Sub-Lingual Tablet, they’ve regularly churned out record after record of blisteringly off-kilter and innovative jams and in true Fall fashion, New Facts Emerge both continues and contradicts this legacy.

Production gloss and deliberation are not notions immediately springing to mind while pondering the 1976-era Ramones. Even so, this new edition of their second album, the ever-wonderful Leave Home, reveals that careful consideration was given to how they presented themselves on record.

Duff McKagan is a survivor. He’s a bass player too, from the fledgling Seattle punk/proto-grunge outfit 10 Minute Warning to the stadium-filling behemoth of Guns N’ Roses, but if you were judging by the narrative weight of this 2015 documentary, you’d have to conclude that he’s mostly survivor.

If there’s a downside to the resurgence of vinyl, it’s that all that’s left in most charity shops these days is James Galway and his cursed flute and Max Bygraves medley albums. Then again, there’s always new stuff coming in so it’s down to everybody to get in there quick, before the local record shops hoover up all the gems. And there it is. Many small towns now have local record shops again. That’s surely something to celebrate.