Downliners Sect – ‘Sect Maniacs: The Complete Sixties Sessions’ (Grapefruit Records)
There’s a particular kind of British R&B band who slip through the cracks because they never behaved the way the scene expected them to. Downliners Sect were that band. They were in the right rooms at the right time, surrounded by the right people, but they never looked like they were trying to impress anyone. They looked like a group who had wandered in from a pub car park, still arguing about who had lost the van keys. That refusal to play the game is exactly why they matter now.
The official history of mid‑Sixties British R&B tends to flatten everything into a tidy Mod narrative. Sharp suits. Sharp haircuts. Sharp elbows. A sense of humour so dry that you’re left with grit in your teeth. Even the genuinely great bands end up feeling embalmed by the mythology. Downliners Sect never fit that mould. They were too loose, too scruffy, too fond of Bo Diddley, too amused by their own chaos, and too happy to play in rooms that smelled like damp coats and spilt mild. They had far more in common with the American garage bands who would later be anthologised on ‘Nuggets’ than with anything happening in Carnaby Street.
The booklet for this new three‑disc anthology lays out the story in detail. The early gigs at Eel Pie Island. The residency at Studio 51. The mother‑as‑manager dynamic that would have sunk a less stubborn group. The aborted EP whose label literally vanished overnight. The Swedish chart success that made no sense to anyone. The constant sense that the Sect were always one step away from something big, only to trip over their own boots and land somewhere far more interesting.
What the booklet doesn’t say, and what feels almost bizarre by its absence, is the band’s influence on the next generation of British misfits. You can draw a straight line from Don Craine’s deerstalker and the Sect’s ramshackle swagger to Billy Childish and Thee Headcoats. The look, the humour, the refusal to tidy anything up, the sense that the whole thing might fall apart at any moment but that this is part of the charm. Childish didn’t just inherit the aesthetic; he inherited the attitude. The Sect were doing Medway before Medway knew it was a thing.
And through Childish, the lineage spreads everywhere. The Milkshakes. The Delmonas. The Buff Medways. Thee Mighty Caesars. The entire modern garage revival. Bands who understood that British R&B didn’t have to be polite or reverential. It could be grubby and funny and a bit unhinged. It could be played in pubs and basements and still feel like the most alive thing in the room. Downliners Sect weren’t ground zero, but they were close enough that you can feel the tremors.
Listening to the tracks collected here, you hear a band who were always slightly out of step with their surroundings. The debut album ‘The Sect’ is full of covers, but they’re played with a kind of cheerful disregard for the idea of fidelity. Their version of Chuck Berry’s ‘Too Much Monkey Business’ sounds like it’s being held together with string. ‘Cops and Robbers’ has the energy of a group who have been told they have ten minutes before the landlord wants the amps off. ‘Be A Sect Maniac’ feels like a manifesto disguised as a throwaway and has a title that would get you grounded if your mum found it in your bedroom. They played with a kind of cheerful abandon, more interested in the noise and the atmosphere than in any idea of polish, and that looseness is what gives the recordings their charm.
The non‑album singles and EP tracks are even better. The live recordings from Studio 51 have the kind of sweaty, rattling energy that makes you wish you had been there. ‘Beautiful Delilah’ and ‘Shame, Shame, Shame’ sound like they’re being played to a room full of people who have been dancing since lunchtime. ‘Nursery Rhyme’ is a reminder that the Sect always had a sense of humour that set them apart from their peers. While other bands were trying to look cool, the Sect were happy to look like they were having fun.
Then there’s ‘Little Egypt’, the song that made them stars in Sweden for reasons nobody has ever fully explained. It’s a perfect example of the Sect’s charm. A Leiber and Stoller novelty number played with absolute conviction. It shouldn’t work, but it does. It’s the sound of a band who don’t care whether the song is fashionable. They care whether it gets a reaction.
By the time you reach ‘The Country Sect’, the band have taken a left turn into country and folk material. It’s a strange move, but it makes sense if you think of the Sect as a group who were always more interested in following their own instincts than in chasing trends. The performances are rough but sincere. ‘Wreck of the Old ’97’ and ‘I Want My Baby Back’ show a band who were happy to stretch the definition of what British R&B could be.
‘The Rock Sect’s In’ brings things back to a more familiar place. Their version of ‘Hang On Sloopy’ has a kind of cheerful clatter that suits them. ‘Fortune Teller’ has a swagger that feels closer to the Seeds than to the Stones. Outside is one of their best originals, a reminder that they could write when they wanted to. The Swedish‑only versions included here are a gift for collectors, but they also show how the Sect’s sound travelled in unexpected ways.
What makes this box set worth investigating now isn’t just the music. It’s the way Downliners Sect open a door onto a version of British R&B that rarely gets talked about, a version that didn’t care about the Mod uniform or the right tailoring or the idea that you had to present yourself as a disciple of some imagined cool. Their instincts pulled them closer to the American garage bands who were hammering out three‑chord miracles in basements and VFW halls, and that sensibility still feels fresher than the more polished, more respectable strain of British R&B that usually gets the spotlight.
The Sect were never built for stardom, and that’s part of their charm. They were contrary by nature, happiest when they were following their own crooked path rather than trying to keep pace with whatever the scene was demanding. They could be chaotic, they could be scrappy, and they could be gloriously off‑message, but they left behind a catalogue that still crackles with life. You can hear the rooms they played in. You can picture the low ceilings and the condensation on the walls. You can feel the sense of a band who were playing for the people in front of them rather than for some imagined future audience.
Billy Childish understood that instinct immediately, and so did the bands who followed him. The Sect didn’t hand down a style so much as a way of carrying yourself, a refusal to tidy up the rough edges, a belief that personality mattered more than polish, and that’s the part that stuck. Listening to these tracks now, it’s obvious why. Downliners Sect weren’t trying to be the best musicians in the room; they were trying to be the most alive.
Daz Lawrence
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