Vengaboys are back in town…

In December, during a discussion of music, a colleague lowered his voice, leaned in close to me conspiratorialy and confessed that he would be going to see the Vengaboys at their upcoming tour.

‘But my wife is making me take her!’ he added quickly.

I replied proudly that I needed no excuse, and updated him with the latest rumour that I had heard from reputable sources: that the Vengabus, quite literally, would be coming, stopping at each of the destinations of the tour along with the band. I professed that I would be disappointed if I did not get to go inside – or at least see and be photographed standing by – the Vengabus during the Vengaboys’ Australian tour.

Vengaboys,
Corner Hotel, January 12, 2012

When I arrived at the Corner, I met some people who had purchased ‘VIP’ tickets, apparently from some kind of agency, which included a ticket to the venue from the CBD in the ‘Vengabus’ which apparently allowed them to BYO alcohol before meeting the driver at Young and Jackson’s, and I realised that everyone had been duped.  Vengabus, indeed.  It sounded like little more than some party bus operator making a quick buck.  So I wasn’t disappointed that I didn’t get to see this ‘Vengabus.’

My colleague had given me a piece of gossip of his own.  He’d told me that the support band would be a local group called ‘The Herbs,’ a Spice Girls tribute show.  It was disappointing for me to hear that because I’m not such a Spice Girls fan, and I could think of plenty of local original supports who would have fit perfectly.  Never the less, I was pleasantly surprised to see that The Herbs, complete with sequinned outfits, brought their own style to the songs.  Their covers sounded a bit like how members of the Strokes, Killers and Mars Volta might if they decided to meet in a garage to jam over Spiceworld on mute.  Unfortunately the group’s set was first delayed, and ultimately cut short by what they described as technical difficulties.  Personally, I thought they could have continued without the defective bass drum, but it seemed like the majority of the audience would much have preferred the piped Hits Of The ’90s compilations being played over the PA.

After a little pushing and shoving from people in sailor hats telling me adamently that they actually are a Vengaboy, the rarely-closed Corner curtain opened and the real Vengaboys appeared on stage in trademark costume.  Real, that is, insomuch as this is what we know the Vengaboys to be today – apparently the lead singer is the only remaining member, certainly the boys have been replaced, and was that a replacement backup girl singer too?

As the group broke immediately into song and barely choreographed dance, I wondered suspisciously whether they were lipsynching.  Certainly, they were doing little more than singing along to album versions of their songs.  But as the applause from the first song died down, and Kim stode to the front of the stage to greet the audience - ‘Hello, party people!’ – and leaned forward to reveal dangerous amounts of cleavage, before announcing ‘This is Captain Kim speaking.  Welcome aboard Venga Airways…’ I either convinced myself that they were really singing, or that it didn’t matter if they were only lipsynching.  Everyone was here to dance to the hits.  And they tore through them, barely a word spoken between songs, just how I like it.  If not for the groping on stage, it might have looked like a show for children, with dance-along chants of Up And Down.

It was a fun show, but it left me feeling a little disappointed.  One disappointment was caused by myself.  For some reason, I felt compelled to jump up on stage – something which I have never done.  I was quickly dragged away by security staff, but it nevertheless left me feeling like I’d ruined part of the night for everyone.  Secondly, the merchandise seemed to only come in large sizes.  And finally, my main concern was that the band played for such a short time.  It had been little more than half and hour when they marched off stage, though they immediately returned for a bizare encore, playing Shalala Lala and Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom!, which they had already played during the main set.  Whilst I can admit that this was better than playing an overlong set, there were still a few singles that were missed.  Cheeka Bow Bow could have, if nothing else, been used as a reintroduction before the encore, and Forever As One would have broken the dance set up nicely.

That said, these were minor concerns, and I left feeling satisfied that I’d been given what I paid for.  Dancing like an ugly drunk punk to We Like To Party is as fun now as it was in high school.

Originally published in Buzz Magazine.

Misfits…

Considering the proliferation of Misfits t-shirts that exist in outfits no matter where one is, it was a surprise to find tickets still available for sale at the door of the HiFi Bar only hours before the band were due on stage.

Misfits,
The HiFi Bar, Melbourne, December 3, 2011

Apparently the night’s support bands had been chosen via an online poll, and set times listed Bellusira, Hatchet Dawn and a group called Electrik Dynamite, playing in that order.  I hadn’t heard of Electrik Dynamite, but the set times seemed a little confused, given the strong following Hatchet Dawn have in Melbourne, and that they seem a perfect match for the headliner.  That said, Electrik Dynamite quickly won my affection immediately by unashamedly wearing their own merchandise and by having a dedicated keyboard axe player.  They played a catchy 80s-style hard rock that would fit perfectly on the soundtrack to a horror movie house party, and jumped around the stage with an enviable energy.

Electrik Dynamite’s set seemed like it was over before it had really had a chance to get started, and as soon as they left the stage the dance floor started filling with a varied crowd vying for prime viewing position.  It was a longer than usual stretch waiting for the stage to be set for the Misfits, with much talk of the double-bass drum set up.  It was the first time I have been in an audience who have felt compelled to cheer for a roadie simply because he picked up an instrument.  It was not undeserved, though, with the roadie playing a few chords on Jerry Only’s customised bass guitar, complete with a cyclops skull on the headstock, and he received another round of applause as he finished the test and lowered the guitar respectfully to its podium.

The audience reaction wasn’t matched until the Misfits themselves emerged on stage, coated in their trademark make-up, Jerry clad in a spiked vest, Dez Cadena wearing a full length leather jacket that I decided I wanted when I saw the skeleton motif printed on the back.  They launched into a string of unfamiliar songs from their current album, which sounded great – and allayed the fear I always have seeing old bands that they might suck – but it wasn’t until they dove into classics like Bullet and Static Age that the audience really went wild.

And it really was the dream crowd.  A sad truth is that an audience can make or break an otherwise admirable live show.  It only takes a little bit of consistent shoving or macho posturing to cast a shadow over a perfect performance.  Luckily, everyone had come out on this night to show the performance the respect it deserved, and ensured everyone felt truly a part of the experience.  The crowd surged and pulsed at just the right moments, never more evident than when Jerry teased into the microphone ‘I want your skulls…,’ to be answered in unison:  ‘I need your skulls!’

Other highlights included American Psycho and more crowd participation with Dig Up Her Bones, and after a brief break, the band returned to the stage for an encore that slowed down only enough to slide in a delicious rendition of Saturday Night.  It was a set and an encore sadly devoid of any of the covers from the Project 1950 album, but for a band with over thirty years of history, it was a good selection of songs (although I doubt anyone would have complained if I Turned Into A Martian had been slipped in somewhere.)

If anyone was waiting for a second encore, Jerry Only made clear that it was not forthcoming in the most exciting way short of smashing his guitar into pieces against the stage.  In a single, dynamic gesture, he ripped the strings from his guitar as the other members of the band tossed drum sticks and guitar picks into the audience on their way backstage.  As the ominous strains of horror music soundtracks rose over the PA, Jerry jumped off the stage, bypassing the screaming young vixens spilling tattooed cleavage over the barrier in front of the stage and stalked directly to the woman standing in front of me.

An older woman, perhaps in her mid-fifties, she had seemed a little out of place throughout the show – not due to her age, because she was far from alone in that bracket – but because she was wearing a sensible red blouse and conservative slacks, a plain handbag draped over one shoulder that was sure to contain anything she might need for an emergency.  Nowhere to be found were the extremes of make-up, spiked hair, and costumes that were de rigueur that evening.  Nevertheless, she’d been jumping and pounding her fists in the air throughout the night.  Jerry stopped in front of her, and flashed a rare smile, then gave the woman a hug and a kiss, to much deserved applause from even the girls who had been begging for cleavage signatures.

As the scary music continued, so did Jerry, prowling around the whole venue, posing for photos and shaking hands for as long as it took.  Meanwhile, his antics encouraged members of other bands to do the same, and, as I browsed the merchandise stand – surprisingly devoid of the iconic skull-motif t-shirts – an elaborate member of Hatchet Dawn handed me an autographed poster.  I was still reeling from an unexpectedly passionate kiss from Jerry Only and the gig itself, so may have thanked him more ferociously than was called for.

Good Charlotte play Weezer…

Whilst I could barely contain my excitement upon returning from the ticket booth, everyone I boasted to about the latest tickets to be added to the line-up adorning my fridge door refused to believe that the tickets were legitimate.  My boss, in particular, mentioned numerous times how absurd he thought it that Good Charlotte were to be performing a Weezer tribute show.  Amongst his list of concerns was his belief – which I did not disagree with – that there are likely to be very few Weezer fans who are also Good Charlotte fans.  But, I countered, as a fan of both, this was one of those rare dreamGigs.

Good Charlotte play Weezer’s ‘Blue Album,’
The JD Set at The Forum, Melbourne, November 10, 2011

Amy Meredith opened the evening, and although I didn’t see a lot of their set due to the unforgivably long queues for entrance, what I did get to hear sounded good.  The band seem to have come a long way since their self-titled EP (better known as the Dingley Rock City CD) and have found a more consistent sound.  They’ve gained a British indie-rock vibe at some point during their journey, and stylish new hair for Christian, but none of that is any cause for complaint.

In between bands, a DJ played a set that featured every song I always wished I could hear in a night club but never did, including songs by Fountains Of Wayne, Avril, and Rancid.  Meanwhile, a girl wearing spoons as jewellery confessed to me that she was looking forward to hearing Only In Dreams while an older woman who I had asked to hold my drink professed her love for me, Amy Meredith, Good Charlotte, whoever Weezer are, and AC/DC.  Needless to say, the corporate sponsorship meant that Jack Daniels cocktails were reasonably priced.

When Good Charlotte emerged on stage it was without fanfare, and the uproarious applause died down quickly as they broke immediately into My Name Is Jonas.  It was immediately apparent that it was quite a flat rendition, and highlighted the fact that many of the audience didn’t realise that this would be a tribute show and were unfamiliar with the material.  Indeed, Joel Madden himself would later observe that ‘There are… what?  Five people here who know The Blue Album?’  I joined that particular subset of five at the front and centre of the stage, where other audience members expressed their dissatisfaction at the fact that anyone should be singing or dancing.  A girl with whom my body had come into contact called me a jerk, and I asked if she knew how to do a concert.  Perhaps not the most articulate response, but I was satisfied when she stomped her foot on the floor and shrieked ‘What does that even mean!?’

Luckily the band seemed to get more into spirit of the event by the end of the song, and by the slow-build that is The World Has Turned, they were sounding pretty good and I – along with the few other Weezer fans in the room – were enjoying ourselves.  Most of the songs didn’t deviate too far from their source material, but Benji and Joel did do some interesting adlibs over the conversations of Undone… which the bulk of the audience seemed to enjoy.  It kind of highlighted how an album tribute gig like this can be problematic.  Weezer’s debut is without a doubt a fantastic album, but, like any album, it has its own lulls and peaks.  It was great to hear the songs, but the ‘tribute’ portion of the night might have been better received had it been presented as ‘Good Charlotte playing the hits of Weezer.’  Because the audience was so quiet during the Weezer component of the night, Joel was able to respond to my admittedly ludicrous requests for songs from other Weezer albums, like I Want You To and Island In The Sun, before silencing me with a fantastic rendition of Say It Ain’t So.

And with the closing of the Weezer tribute, Good Charlotte took a brief break and returned for what the majority of the crowd really wanted – a solid set of the band’s own singles.  Opening strongly with The Anthem, I was surprised to hear so many of the recent poppier songs from Cardiology included on a night like this.  Nevertheless, it was a varied set that seemed to please, and – whilst there were favourite singles omitted – crowd favourites like Riot Girl and Motivation Proclamation were played to perfection amongst the radio hits.

Good Charlotte playing Weezer was an interesting experiment, but it looks like my boss was right.  Judging by the packed theatre’s silence during Weezer, it didn’t exactly pay off.  But the full Good Charlotte set seemed to please everyone, whether they’d been bopping at the front to the Weezer covers or not, and it was a rare treat to see a band who frequent stadiums playing in one of Melbourne’s finest music venues.

Winter Soundwave…

‘Goodnight, Springton.  There will be no encore…’
- Spinal Tap – The Simpsons

It would perhaps be to risk committing slander to refer to the organisers of Soundwave Revolution as irresponsible, however, the fact remains that as late as the Monday before the show, statements were still being submitted to the press referring to the replacement Counter Revolution show for Melbourne as taking place at ‘Festival Hall and surrounds.’

Counter Revolution,
Festival Hall, Melbourne, September 30, 2011

I’d been kind of relieved when the originally announced Soundwave Revolution had been cancelled.  Whilst the line up had promised some appealing elements, I was concerned by the casual negligence of the event ads to mention the name of the venue.  When a racetrack in Melton was finally announced, I quickly discovered that Melton appears to have only one motel which was already booked out.  As September dawned, this was downgraded to the Counter Revolution ‘mini-festival’ at Sidney Myer Music Bowl and later to Festival Hall and its alleged surrounds, and was boasting ‘No clashes!’ which should have alerted everyone to the fact that this was no longer a festival at all.

Meanwhile, speculation with friends was rife regarding what these surrounds might be.  There were suggestions of the Carron or Spencer Hotels, and even North Melbourne Station, but I had less optimism.  I suggested that there would be no surrounds included at all.  If the owners of the terrace houses in neighbouring blocks complain to police when noise and activity are confined to within Festival Hall, imagine the outrage if it were to spill into their streets.

Sure enough, as I left the Carron and headed down Rosslyn Street, there was little sign of life other than a guy spray painting promotional stencils onto the street for The Getaway Plan’s new single.

Inside Festival Hall, it was already quite crowded at eleven o’clock.  I was given a cushy job that allowed an unobstructed view of the precedings:  finally making use of my ill-begotten RSA licence and issuing ‘Proof Of Age’ wristbands upon presentation of ID to those who wanted to drink.

The venue seemed to have filled very early for a fourteen hour event – which had apparently caught the cloakroom girls off-guard – but it was still very sparsely populated inside, and peculiarly cold.  The stage had been divided down the middle by a row of Marshalls, so that a band could be performing on one side of the amps whilst the stage was being set up on the other side for the next band.  It meant that there were no breaks between bands which was novel, but also raised some kind of compatibility issue with the lighting set up.  The half-quantity of lights only seemed able to cast the bands in a dim, sporadic glow, so it felt a bit like watching a Nirvana or Prodigy video.  Alesana were the first band anyone seemed interested in watching, and I guess for the people who rushed to the front of the stage the lighting wouldn’t have been such a concern.

My wristbands were a surprisingly sought-after attraction, with the expected allocation being claimed by the end of Alesana’s set.  When the stylish red and white checked design wristbands had run out, somebody quickly replenished my stock with an alternative.  These ones were emblazoned with the advice ‘Drink responsibly’ and a drawing of a Martini.  The combination of elements in the design made me crave a drink, like those television commercials with the Olympian who I went to school with.  Drinking responsibly seemed like a fine idea, but I still had around twelve hours of work ahead of me.

The efficiency of the stage set up was evident as the vastly superior yet obviously less popular Go Radio started playing Living End-esque riffs immediately as Alesana stepped off stage.  A girl with a Butterfree tattoo stumbled up to me, acting drunker than she really was.  Wordlessly, she presented her wrist to me, and when I asked to see her ID, she laughed maniacally to the point that she fell on the floor, spilling twenty dollar bills everywhere and suddenly becoming more sober.  I collected a few and handed them to her as she stood up, and she laughed some more, and found her licence.  I checked the age and picture and wrapped a wristband on her, and she thanked me with a kiss and stumbled away just as she’d arrived.  Meanwhile, the band’s cover of Adele’s Rolling In The Deep didn’t seem to elicit the response the band had hoped for.

Hellogoodbye – who I had been looking forward to seeing – also didn’t attract the audience that they perhaps deserved.  Their intriguingly-produced bubble-rock translated very well to the live arena, although the signing tables proved a much greater attraction to the bulk of the patrons, despite the apparently not outrageousness of having to purchase an additional ticket to visit, and another for each band.  My viewing of Hellogoodbye’s impressive set was occasionally interrupted by girls crying after their meeting with The Damned Things at the signing table.  I was surprised to see that they were the first of the singing draw card bands, especially since their set which followed wasn’t anything special, though I guess many of those were probably fans of band members’ main projects like Anthrax, or perhaps more likely, Fall Out Boy.

As per usual, I didn’t really get the hype surrounding Funeral For A Friend.  Even though their opening strains had audience members running from the stands and bars to get to the floor, other than some appealing album covers, I just can’t manage to find much of interest in the band’s sound or live shows, even after seeing them play so many times in the past.  They were followed by Set Your Goals, a band I hadn’t heard before.  I quite enjoyed their dual vocal, Good Charlotte sound.  It was during their set that a whole bunch of people decided they needed wristbands and a queue started to form.  I noticed that lots of the wrists were adorned with cuts of various severity.  I had almost identical conversations with several patrons.

‘You’re asking me for ID?  I’m, like, the oldest person here!’

After a brief and uninteresting debate, they would present their ID, which invariably showed a birth-year of 1992 0r 1993, and be given a wristband.  A couple of people felt like arguing because they had not brought ID, and made various demands which I did not meet, since I didn’t consider them important.  As an all-ages show, they were already inside and welcome to stay.  As far as I was concerned their ability to drink was entirely unimportant.

This Providence arrived and threatened to steal the show.  With a faintly Japanese sound and a flamboyant front man, their live sound would probably best slot in somewhere between My Chemical Romance and Yves Klein Blue, but with soft songs that proved reminiscent of Coheed And Cambria.  Although I hadn’t heard This Providence’s music before, their powerful set has inspired me to ensure that I listen to more of it in future.  Although the audience seemed to enjoy their set, it was clear most of them were just filling the time until Story Of The Year came on.  Never have I seen as many t-shirts that read ‘Blitz Kids Never Die’ as I did during Story Of They Year’s set which was fine, but nothing really revolutionary or otherwise memorable.

A pleasant surprise, though not of particular interest to the majority of the audience, were Face To Face in what I guess is their first Australian tour since their reformation.  Their somehow more serious sounding punk rock, drawing close to ska sounds, were amongst the best musical moments of the whole day, though few in the audience seemed to notice, I guess due to a lack of on-stage gimmicks, and a solid looking guy approached me, bringing his wrist slowly up towards me, and peering at me from beneath the brim if his hat.

‘Have you got some ID to show me?’ I asked him, meeting his gaze sideways.

He continued to glare at me from beneath the hat and slowly shook his head, the edges of his lips turning up in a vicious looking scowl.

‘Then you can’t have a wristband.’

Still wordlessly, he finally looked away, as though trying to barely contain some incredible rage, and finally flipped a drivers licence to me.  His age checked out and I gave him a wristband and he left without a sound.

Yellowcard were next up, and effortlessly drew the largest audience of the day, despite my consideration of the group as little more than a support act.  I guess that’s just because my previous experience of the band has been at such.  From the moment the trademark violin appeared on stage, the screaming was constant, and I have to admit that the band seems to have improved with age.  A rendition of Five Becomes Four was particularly enjoyable, and I caught myself singing along before it was through.  The peculiarly highly billed Young Guns followed, but their performance was largely ignored with the intermittent view of Brendon Urie as movement at the signing table caused the surrounding curtains to part slightly proving too big an attraction to ignore for the many who had missed out on the tickets for Panic! At The Disco’s signing, which was sold out by the time I arrived.  A few people asked me where to buy tickets, but by that point, the promoters in charge of the signing had left.

Meanwhile another of the event organisers was appalled when I refused to give a wristband to a pair of guys allegedly involved in the show in some way.  After a brief argument he told me to fuck off, before himself leaving, allowing me free time to watch a set which proved to be overly expletive-laden by All Time Low.  I was certain that at one point the band referred to the audience as ‘Sydney,’ and after the song, Alex Gaskarth, his band-mates laughing behind him, apologised for calling the crowd ‘Brisbane.’  I wondered if this was some kind of joke.  When they were playing, the group sounded okay – particularly a song towards the end that opened with drum machine that caught me off guard, like when I’m Your Daddy comes on during the first listen to Weezer’s Raditude, and you wonder if the sound is a joke or parody, but then it gets bumped up a notch on Can’t Stop Partying and everyone knew it was serious, but I liked it – but they just spent too much time on banter and innuendo.  Late in the set the band seemed to be joking amongst themselves when they proclaimed ‘Craig from D.R.U.G.S. is backstage fellashying himself.’  Presumably he meant ‘fellating.’

Whatever he meant, it didn’t seem to be true, because D.R.U.G.S. themselves appeared impatiently waiting on the opposite side of the stage for All Time Low to finish what turned out to be the only set to run overtime in an otherwise impeccably maintained schedule.  D.R.U.G.S. brought a darker and more layered sound to the day, which was a nice change, and it was good to see keyboards on stage, and more were being set up on the opposite side in preparation for Panic! At The Disco.  When Panic! finally emerged after D.R.U.G.S., it was perhaps to a smaller than expected audience.  It seemed that around half of the audience of the peak of the day had already filtered out after Yellowcard finished, but they missed a fine set from Panic!, who played hit after hit and sounded pitch-perfect, deviating from the formula only for a Darkness cover.

My suspicions turned out to be wrong.  I’d thought that after the initially appealing Soundwave Revolution line up, the Counter Revolution bill read like a series of side-stages.  Even though the show could hardly be called a festival, it was still a good day of music, and ran surprisingly smoothly.  Were it not for the public scandal that came before, Counter Revolution could have existed as a stand-alone rock show.  As it is, I think it provided what it set out to, and can be proud of that.

Regurgitator at the Hi-Fi…

A lot of people write comments praising the virtues and energy of being a part of the audience at a live show.

‘Nothing beats it,’ they often say.

Maybe so, but what about when the audience sucks?  It is undoubtedly exciting to drive into a show with the night’s headliner’s album blaring from the stereo wondering which songs they will play, how they’ll sound live, and imagining the hits performed on stage whilst in the midst of a room packed with the like-minded, all jumping, waving, and pulsing at just the right moments.  So often lately though, this isn’t what eventuates, and an audience of alleged fans suddenly devolves into a beast focused on little more than elbowing its way as high and forward as possible.

So it was refreshing to walk into a steadily-filling Hi-Fi Bar to see the floor starting to fill with people actually dancing to little more than the piped music filling the air between sets.

Regurgitator,
The Hi-Fi Bar, Melbourne, August 26, 2011

Boys Boys Boys! came out and were perfect for those already on the floor to keep going with.  It turns out they are a Perth group and they encouraged the dancing with their own choreographed moves.  The three front-women wore matching sequinned outfits whilst the boys in the band played a kind of pop-rock that reminded me a little of The Harpoons.

They were followed by a solo act calling himself Disasteradio, who seemed to keep much of the audience in hysterics, and I suppose I can understand it.  I mean, I get it, he’s fat.  I just didn’t think it was all that funny.  His kind of laptop electroclash is getting to be kind of run-of-the-mill lately, and there was little to set himself aside from anyone else, a fact highlighted by his vocals mixed beyond comprehension.  But I guess he provided an acceptable routine to while away the minutes before the headliner.

When Regurgitator emerged, they were clad in matching skeleton costumes – which is apparently still all the rage in the local performing industry – and backed, as promised, by animated footage.  The opened powerfully with their crude favourite I Will Lick Your Arsehole.  They continued on to power through a set focused mostly on the classics from their first three albums, which ensured everyone was happy.  I was glad to hear Blood And Spunk from the grossly underrated Love And Paranoia album, and the samples from the infamous new album were promising.  All Fake Everything covered a lot of ground and made me want to rush over to the merch stand to buy the much-hyped badge-format album (but it had sold out earlier) even though I couldn’t tell whether its introduction was paying tribute to, parodying, or just ripping off Procol Harum’s A Whiter Shade Of Pale.

Despite Polyester Girl getting tiring when it featured on pretty much every seasonal compilation in 1998, the night’s hyper-speed punkBeat rendition breathed new life into the song.  After an extended encore featuring The Song Formerly Known As and a Kong Foo Sing/Pop Porn medley, few would have been left with any doubt that Regurgitator are most certainly still around and, even better, still going strong, amidst so many local groups of their era calling it quits.

Secret Bogan Juice…

Which leads me to my next point.  As much as I love Triple J, and can find no other radio station that plays my favourite music, it is an unfortunate fact that it is also popular with a bogan element within the population.  Whilst this in itself has never been particularly concerning to me – Rosie Beaton has a gift for humouring the drunken masses for just long enough to get a song request out of them before they become too tiresome – it has become apparent that catering to this particular portion of the listener-ship has become a driving force in the music selection, and has led to a situation of high repetition.

A lot of people were critical of the results of Triple J’s recent listener poll of ‘The Hottest 100 Australian Albums of All Time,’ and some even more so after Richard Kingsmill released the top 101 – 200 album losers list.  Some felt that there were glaring omissions from the results, particularly when compared with the critics’ predictions, but this was always going to be the case in an opinion poll of a particular sect of the population.  A poll of the general population would probably have yielded some of the critically expected albums.  Whilst it doesn’t make it into my personal top ten, I think that Savage Garden’s debut should rank highly on such a list, if not at number one.  It has variety and creativity (to the point where songs were modified for commercial radio play) and was undeniably popular and successful.  I can certainly not think of another Australian album to have generated as many successful singles as the self-titled album, and struggle to think of too many from anywhere else to have generated many more.

Of course, I wouldn’t expect it to make it into a Triple J poll.  It is usually fairly easy to pick he songs that will be popular with the station’s request line and ‘Hottest 100′ polls.  When placing my bets, I usually just go with the latest song to feature a chorus that encourages the shouting of swear words (although I did lose this year when Cee Lo’s Fuck You! came in lower than I’d expected.)

A request show should ideally ensure variety, and Triple J’s implementation of theme nights does, to an extent, help encourage this, but it is inevitable that pub rock fans will call in every night asking to hear the latest dance song to find cross-over appeal.  The same song will be played due to popular demand ad-nauseum, and such has been the case since Pnau tapped into a market that hadn’t heard dance music since Sonic Animation released the allegedly funny Theophilus Thistler.  I even heard someone call the SuperRequest show last week asking to hear ‘the song that goes like this,’ before mumbling a tune into the phone, ala Machine Gun Fellatio’s Isaac Or Fuzz.  Remarkably, Rosie and her producer translated the call into Joe Goddard and Valentina’s Gabriel to the caller’s satisfaction, and mine, kind of.

So, what exactly is my complaint here?  Unlike others, I have no qualms with Hottest 100 results or Australian content levels.  My complaint is with the level of repetition that seems to have evolved into the station’s playlist over the past decade, which seems to exist right now to appease the aforementioned (and probably not minimal) section of the listener-base.  I like variety, and for a while I haven’t been getting it, but don’t know where else to turn.  Or maybe I’m just afraid of admitting that I might fit into the bogan category too.

I Predict A Riot…

Whilst constant renovations have left its exterior a shadow of its former self, the Metro is looking better than ever inside.  Ample viewing from all angles remain, and bars conveniently located right on the main floor ensure fans retain both hyration and prime viewing position, and I’m sure the bar-takings don’t suffer either.  Every child player wins a prize!

Kaiser Chiefs,
Metro Theatre, Melbourne, August 5, 2011

Tonight’s support acts have become well known in their own right.  Stonefield are the obvious choice for the ‘Best Up-And-Comer’ award, and have been widely reported in the music press as leading the charge for awards of the type.  Most stories highlight their youth, beauty, femininity and on-stage uniforms.  I also enjoyed their music.  Yes, it could be described as derivitive, but I’ve never had a problem with artists wearing their influences on their sleeves.  It would have been nice to have heard Stonefield play an up-beat Jimi Hendrix cover, but maybe they thought that it would have been too obvious, and played Whole Lotta Love instead, which seemed to please the surprisingly visible pub-rock sector of the audience.

Next up was Papa Vs Pretty, which was nice because I have been wanting to hear more from this band.  I hope they have a long and illustrious career, because I enjoy their songs.  Again, the band’s influences are apparent, but I love the fact that they jump from one style to another so suddenly.  One moment I am detecting shades of Augie March, then it’s a Queen-esque guitar solo, before switching to Radiohead mode for a while.  It’s a bit like a mix-tape I’d make, but with the novelty of being originals.  Even though they seem quite stylistically distinct from the headliner, they seemed like a good choice for support.

Kaiser Chiefs are an interesting band, but I am never sure whether or not I will like them live.  I resigned from my longest standing job a few years ago in order to watch the band, only to find that a string of miscommunication lead me to miss out anyway.  I think my concern lies with the fact that they are a boring-looking bunch of guys.  Typically pictured clad in shades of brown, their appearance doesn’t exactly scream ‘rockstar,’ and it is rare to hear stories of back-stage antics or outrageous rider demands from them.  Nevertheless, Employment and Off With Their Heads are two of my favourite albums, so I was pleased when the band launched straight into Everyday I Love You Less And Less and barely stopped for a breath from that point on.  My fears of boredom had been allayed by Ricky Wilson’s literally bouncy entrance and constant energy.  Without an instrument to pose with, he swung the microphone stand precariously around the stage, and performed all kinds of mime acts.

The audience right beneath the stage around me had been pretty tame and pleasant to begin with, aside from a few girls who had been chanting the same line of The Angry Mob since they’d arrived hours ago, but that all changed when the chorus to Never Miss A Beat started, and all of a sudden some giants appeared from nowhere and attempted to push everyone at the front of the stage out of their way.  Fists were pounding everwhere, and then the chorus was over and they died down, till the next chorus.  After the song, I heard one of the girls screaming at the giants ‘What are you even doing here if you don’t like the band!?’  The giant guys returned briefly later on, attempting to push their way to the front of the audience and claiming to be friends of the band and desperate to say hello.  When they made little progress, they went away, only to re-appear for the chorus of Ruby.  Behind me I could hear more jeering and saw unexpected slam dancing.  Maybe I was naïve, but I hadn’t expected the Kaiser Chiefs’ brand of sing-along pop to attract this bogan element.

After a false finish midway through I Predict A Riot, Ricky returned from the stage to crowd surf around the perimeter of the venue.  Whilst it tended to make the song drag on for a little too long, it was forgivable given the quality of the set and allowed for suitable build up to a big closing of the song, before a quick break between the main set and an encore that ended with a satisfyingly extended Oh My God that thankfully reunited the audience into a fluidly moving, perfectly timed, bouncing wave, perfect to close the show.

Having come directly from a work function, I’d used the cloak room, oddly, and thought that some of the hostility voice towards the attendents was a little unfounded, particularly considering – like everywhere else at the Metro – the queue snaked right by another bar, so I enjoyed a Southern Comfort cocktail whilst I waited the not too long time to retrieve my coat and school bag.

Punks In The Back…

A dedicated few had been braving the Melbourne Winter when I opened the Festy doors.  The first in the queue was a guy with an Afro clutching an Ol’ Dirty Bastard solo L.P.

‘You know,’ I mentioned to the man as I checked his ticket.  ‘I don’t think he’s going to sign that for you tonight.’

‘He might!’ the guy chimed optimistically, holding the record lovingly.  I wondered how dedicated some of these early arrivals really were

Wu-Tang Clan,
Festival Hall, Melbourne, August 6, 2011

Perhaps I am biased by both my years of concert-going experience, and also the judicious consideration I make into ticket purchase, but I don’t get why some people go to shows.  What kind of person, for example, goes to a concert not only without any form of I.D. (which is surprisingly widespread,) but also without a wallet or any means of financial transaction at all?  Who arrives, sans-ticket, expecting staff to recognise the attributes of a ticket holder simply by their mere presence?  Apparently the answer to these, and many other questions, is ‘a large contingent of Wu-Tang fans,’ and it seems like a larger contingent for this band than most others.

My theory as to why the proportion of disgruntled idiots in attendance was higher for this show than at any other comes down to, predictably, demographics:  Most of the audience have possibly only experienced live music in the format of New Years Eve at the R ‘n’ B club, and expected that every other live show anywhere would be run similarly.  So since the tickets clearly stated that doors opened at seven PM, many patrons read this as ‘No one goes out at seven o’clock.’  This suspicion was later confirmed when a patron who had asked me early in the night for set times returned in the show’s final minutes and expressed to me his dissatisfaction with the advice I’d earlier given him.

‘What d’ya mean “It’s almost finished?!”‘ he gasped.  ‘You told me before that they were only starting at 9.30!’

I agreed, since I had indeed relayed this information, and, whilst I acknowledged that I could not confirm the precise time when the band had taken to the stage, I explained that I believed it to have been roughly as per the previously discussed schedule.

‘But you didn’t tell me the Wu-Tang Clan themselves would be coming on then!  I mean, you did, but usually there’d be a DJ or someone would fuck around for a few hours then they come on at 11.30 or twelve right?  So they’ve been on all this time?  Fuck that!  How do I get a refund?’

I told him that he couldn’t get a refund from me, and would have to speak to the point of purchase or administration, but apparently this was an overly complicated and unreasonable, and after a little argument, the guy reluctantly entered and the stage emptied of everyone except for Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s son – Young Dirty Bastard – who stayed at the corner of the stage inviting girls up to shimmy around awkwardly with him, even after the music had ended and his microphone unceremoniously switched off.

The closing moments weren’t the only awkward scenes that were playing out inside Festy.  The opening assortment of DJs in the lead up to Wu-Tang Clan’s set seemed to play until the very moment the band started, with the audience apparently unaware that the main act was starting as Clan members trickled onto the stage one-by-one and without much ceremony, and seemingly just to hang out at first.  Add to this the fact that the sound quality seemed appalling (at least from my vantage point behind the stage, where the vocals were all but drowned out by heavy bass thuds) and the result was an obviously and clearly divided audience:

• Clan in the front, let your feet stomp: Directly in front of the stage, a sect of men who at first glance seemed like die-hard fans, but upon closer inspection were whooping at the mention of various random words on stage.  They broke into the Big Ups dance variously throughout the evening, and not always in time with the music.
• Niggers on the left, brag shit to death: Surrounding this group were overdressed girls, swaying disinterestedly and coupled with mostly tall guys wearing leather jackets over hoodies who glared at, pushed, or threatened anyone who glanced at or, worse, came into brief accidental contact with their accompanying lady.
• Hoods on the right, wild for the night: The seats seemed to tonight be divided between the underage – true fans, excited by every utterance from the stage and dancing in the aisles in their oversized WuWear – and those who insisted that they had been sold the wrong tickets demanding immediate access to a licensed bar and general admission.
• Punks in the back, come on and attract: The balcony seats had been sold in advance for a higher rate and billed as V.I.P tickets.  Usually these seats are reserved for the give-away tickets for members of the media and competition winners.  This area was only briefly filled to capacity as the patrons there completed writing their signature in black marker on the walls and started leaping over the balcony edge into the audience below.

Not included in this list are the wealth of patrons who spent a significant stretch of the evening outside the venue in the rain.  Their reasons for this were many.  Some found their entrance to the venue delayed by the increased security provisions.  Every patron was made to pass through a hand-held (and time-consuming) metal detector which failed to find too much of interest, and broke down repeatedly throughout the night, leaving the security contractors in some cases standing dumbfounded and refusing admission to anyone yet to pass the metal probe.  Items that staff denied admission to were the usual and expected large cameras and umbrellas, and were tonight also asking patrons to leave their permanent markers outside too.  I was surprised at how many people had brought textas with them, and also a little surprised with the highlight of security’s work:  a man was ordered to place his walking stick in the cloak room with the explanation that it could be used as a weapon.

Also remaining outside were the passengers in the assortment of unusual vehicles who came past my door.  First there was the Porsche that arrived claiming to be carrying the clan’s Spiritual Advisor, who may have identified himself as Thomas.  Next came a black Hummer limousine, which couldn’t find anywhere to park and pulled briefly over to let out a succession of models wearing hot-pants and brief black t-shirts who stood shivering outside my door, and asked to come in to distribute postcards for some event.  I don’t know what happened to them, but they didn’t come in, nor did they spend too long freezing in the cold.

Others opted to voluntarily remain outdoors when advised that the venue abided by the Victorian government’s anti-smoking regulations and that they would not be able to smoke inside.  They loitered around outside with those without tickets who circled the venue asking to come in with a variety of reasons, and rushed inside only when prompted by one of the few recognisable songs of the evening, C.R.E.A.M.

Other than that song, I didn’t hear too much familiar music from inside.  I think I might have caught bits and pieces of some songs from Enter The Wu-Tang, but couldn’t identify any of the other sounds.  After the weird ending, where the band kind of just left the stage without encore, leaving Young Dirty flirting with the audience, some of the exiting crowd seemed overjoyed, despite the absence of RZA and Method Man (who was apparently missing without a trace) while others complained about the lack of merchandise and the show in general.

Since I was staying to help prepare for the magic show the day after, I happened to have a brief encounter with members of the band, much to the horror of other staff.  I shared a few words with Young Dirty, who told me that I should speak to the rest of the band, who were still around signing autographs for fans.  Easily identifiable was Ghostface Killah, who shook my hand and asked me about my night, and told me I should speak to the rest of the band, and get a souvenir of some kind from Raekwon.  When I looked at the other members with uncertainty he asked what was wrong, and I had to admit that I didn’t know who was who.  Before he responded, I clarified my last statement – I said that on their album cover, they were wearing white masks, and that they looked different to in their video game.  He seemed to be amused by that response.

In conclusion, I am glad to have worked at this show, because I think if I had bought the tickets, I might have been disappointed.  Nevertheless, it was a rare treat to talk to the band, and a little odd, considering I am more used to them as deadly animated fighters than a bunch of friendly guys.

He’s not Jesus, but he has the same initials…

‘I’m so excited!’ a woman standing next to me beneath the front of the darkened stage felt compelled to explain to me.  ‘I haven’t been here in years!  I hate this place so much!  Last time I was here, I was watching My Chemical Romance, and I was pregnant, and my baby stopped moving!’

I’d been ignoring her, but this last comment peaked my interest.  ‘Really?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ she boasted, apparently proudly.  ‘But it was okay, and my baby is okay, but I called Festival Hall and the papers and told them I’d had a miscarriage. But the dickheads wouldn’t even give me any money!’

‘Really?’ I wondered aloud.  ‘So that was you?’

The girl shrieked excitedly that it was, but she didn’t seem to recognise me from the incident.  It seemed she believed that the hoax had somehow made her a kind of celebrity, and she kept repeating to me that she had faked the whole thing, yet still felt disgusted at the venue management for not paying her any kind of settlement money.  I told her that she had confirmed what I’d suspected at the time, and she asked what I meant.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ I asked.

She told me that she didn’t, and I explained that I remembered her clearly from that evening, and had enjoyed the show.  She told me that she had enjoyed it too, and only felt bitter because she hadn’t been able to make a profit.  I repeated my sentiment from the time, that I wondered what such a visibly pregnant woman was doing in the front of a mosh pit, and she seemed to become even more annoyed.

‘That isn’t the point!’ she shouted, grabbing someone who may have been a friend by the arm.  ‘The point is the music was too loud!’

She continued talking, I think, for a while, but I discontinued the listening I had been half-heartedly doing as a black curtain was raised above the stage where Belles Will Ring had just finished performing.  I didn’t really enjoy Belles Will Ring’s performance, however they can hardly be blamed for that, since I always confuse them with Broken Bells, who I prefer.  I had clearly not considered that it was probably unlikely that Broken Bells would be supporting Pulp.

Pulp,
Festival Hall, Melbourne, July 29, 2011

A low hum rose as the lights fell, and green letters were projected in a laser print onto the curtain.  It was the kind of theatrics I usually don’t go for, especially not when it went for as long as it did, but the fact that the lasers seemed to be speaking in the voice of Jarvis Cocker himself (whether that is truly the case or not) made the effect somewhat interesting.  But it started to get really exciting by the time the hum had grown to a steady guitar fuzz and the letters prompted Do you remember the first time? Well? Do you?

Suitably kitsch neon letters were illuminated one by one behind the curtain, which fell the second they completed spelling ‘Pulp,’ and gave us our first view of the band, and only meters away, Jarvis looking as excitedly awkawrd as he ever did.  As he strutted around the stage, I wondered if it is possible to practice awkwardness to the point of perfection, and concluded as things slowed down for Pencil Skirt that it is.

I was already impressed by Jarvis’s vintage heels when he requested a more modest pair of shoes be brought from somewhere off-stage, since it was irresponsible to be wearing such high heels ‘at my age.’  If the change of footwear allowed him to slink across the length of the stage during I Spy, then it was well worth while.  This Is Hardcore was, as anticipated, the set’s highlight, but was made only more exciting by Jarvis acting the lyrics out on stage, and all over amps and microphone stands, leaving few with any doubt about the lyrics’ meaning.

The sound mix was also impressive – somehow the usual Festival Hall trait of the drum beats being mixed louder than anything else and drowning out the singer was surprisingly absent.

Of course, with so extensive a back-catalogue there were songs that were left out, but the set included so many favourites that it wasn’t till playing an album in the car on the way home that anyone realised.  And isn’t that how a good gig should be?

Dann vs The ‘Gurge…

It was almost one year ago that I became embroiled in heated debate with Quan from Regurgitator over the merits of the physical nature of recorded music as compared to the benefits presented by digital distribution.  I valiantly built a case for the compact disc – possibly out of an ingrained sentimentality, but also the realisation that the decline of the medium also spelled the death of the printed Buzz Magazine, the future of which depended on the advertising revenue generated by the promotion of physical album sales – but faced enthusiastic rebuttal from Quan, who wondered why I would ‘want to adhere to a creative paradigm that’s been around for 80 or 90 years and just doesn’t seem appropriate nowadays.’

 The debate became quite heated, and, for a while at least, threatened to descend into the territory of an argument, but was luckily averted by the natural progression of the discussion to the possibility that the theoretical demise of the album could see the resurrection of another dwindling medium – the mix tape – and Quan and I remained friends.

 That said, I have no problem claiming a belated victory, with the announcement this week of Regurgitator’s forthcoming album SUPERHAPPYFUNTIMEFRIENDS.  Far be it from me to gloat, but I will briefly quote from the band’s enticingly re-designed webpage:  ‘…it seems the concept of the album was not without value still as it afforded the more focused structure and disciplined approach they seem to require.’

The entry on the site also mentions that Unit was voted number 13 in the industry voting of Triple J’s Hottest 100 Australian Album countdown, and, despite my victory today, I am happy to admit that Unit came number 10 in my own personal countdown – and that Love And Paranoia only just missed out too.

A sample of the new stuff is available here, along with the old new stuff.  In further good news, the band are touring, and tickets are going cheap for shows in Melbourne, Adelaide, Brisbane, Townsville and Bunbury. Love the Unit…