The Casanovas - The Casanovas
One of the hardest-working bands in the land survived lineup change and taping delays to release their debut. And it's one of the best - and dumbest - Oz Rock albums you're likely to hear.
You love AC/DC, don't you? Admit it. You do. You're thinking of a couple of Angus Young riffs right now, aren't you?
So is guitarist, vocalist and self-confessed Acca-Dacca enthusiast Tommy Boyce. But he's not only admitting his love � he's shouting it from the rooftops with his two partners in crime (Damo Campbell on vocals and bass and ex-The Onyas drummer Jaws) � who, together, make up the Melbournian trio of raunch-merchants The Casanovas. Their debut album � after a string of smaller releases � is filled with the sort of sly-grin shenanigans and fabulous fret-busting riffage that makes those elders of Oz Rock so damn enjoyable.
There's an element of the naughty to The Casanovas that seems to be missing from many bands. The band exists in that special place that most rock bands have since eschewed, unless they're somehow connected to David Lee Roth or KISS � the Oo-Er Missus Fun Zone. Big, dumb rock? Hell yes. After all, AC/DC were tough as hell, but there's also a large element of behind-the-hand sniggering going on almost all the way through. (You have heard Big Balls, right? Come on!) The songs on this album exist in a wonderfully fun place. It's like they've been bodily lifted from a risqu� '80s movie � and this is by no means a denigration of their achievement. This is the sort of album that you'd play on the way to the beach with the windows down, whistling and playing steering-wheel drums. It's got a sort of naughty innocence - or ignorance? - floating throughout that remains miraculously good natured for the length of the disc, and it's one that endears the group to you. Yeah, they've only got one song, give or take - but it's a bloody good one, and they rip through it well enough to ensure it stays interesting. It's one of those discs with perfectly-timed intervals to allow the armchair guitarist to stick their crotch out and go �Uhhhhhh!� in Big Rock Mode; in other words, it�s eminently, wonderfully enjoyable.
Livin' In The City is probably the finest example on the album of the bad-boy-with-attitude storytelling The Casanovas purvey. Of course, the tale about getting out of a hick slum to move to the big city to try coke and get a shag is bookended with some fantastically plain living lyrics:
So I got a place
I wasn�t lonely
I ordered pizza
With pepperoni
Fabulous. Na�ve first experiences in the big, bad city distilled down to a pizza box: there�s honesty amongst the twelve-bar raunch, and that�s what appeals so greatly about this disc. It�s not pretending to be anything grandiose or life changing. But it is some of the most honest rock you�ll hear � and that�s without mentioning that this is a bunch of blokes that can pull off that Twisted Sister vocal doubling/falsetto thing and get it right (Break Your Heart). A rarity, that.
Of all the tunes on the album, there's only one real weak one - Here's To It - but even this isn't too bad an imposition on the ears. It's a substantially rockin' tune (with some wonderful slide guitar) but pales in comparison to some of the absolute fist-pumpers that it sits alongside. It�s the only real misstep � and that�s only because the chorus doesn�t live up to the opening riff�s promise � of an album of tight rock that�s mindful of the big names of Oz pub rock�s glory days without becoming too slavishly forelock-tugging. Heartbeat has hints of the You Am I (at their most beat-drummed) to it, Strange Dreams is almost a Hoodoo Gurus number, while tracks like Shake It and Runnin� So Late are so perfectly formed that they fairly beg to be included in the chase scene of a caper flick. So strong are the rhythms, so meshed the trio�s playing and so fluid � though not ostentatious � the guitar soloing that there�s just no way you�ll be able to stop involuntary bodily rocking-out movements while this album�s on. Fact.
Clocking in at 37 minutes, there's no room for filler on this album. Each of the ten songs on disc is pretty solid, presumably as a result of the extended recording period taken to get 'em down, coupled with the amount of touring that the band have undertaken. Sharing stages with The Datsuns and The Living End - not to mention Rose Tattoo - would force any group to tighten up, but in the case of The Casanovas, this would seem an impossible task. They're about as tight as bands come: the playing on The Casanovas sounds devoid of screw-ups, but somehow this is managed without sacrificing the great feel that the band�s rocking out, sneaker-clad in the same room, replete with devil�s horns and rock tongue action. Sure, there's nothing original really going on here. But that's fine. There's nothing original going on on Jet records, either. But there's a lot more fun � and a lot less pilfered riffs � on The Casanovas than there are on most retro-rock big things' discs. And they've even got the common decency not to screw up the party with any of those wussy ballads.
Well done, those men
This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.
You love AC/DC, don't you? Admit it. You do. You're thinking of a couple of Angus Young riffs right now, aren't you?
So is guitarist, vocalist and self-confessed Acca-Dacca enthusiast Tommy Boyce. But he's not only admitting his love � he's shouting it from the rooftops with his two partners in crime (Damo Campbell on vocals and bass and ex-The Onyas drummer Jaws) � who, together, make up the Melbournian trio of raunch-merchants The Casanovas. Their debut album � after a string of smaller releases � is filled with the sort of sly-grin shenanigans and fabulous fret-busting riffage that makes those elders of Oz Rock so damn enjoyable.
There's an element of the naughty to The Casanovas that seems to be missing from many bands. The band exists in that special place that most rock bands have since eschewed, unless they're somehow connected to David Lee Roth or KISS � the Oo-Er Missus Fun Zone. Big, dumb rock? Hell yes. After all, AC/DC were tough as hell, but there's also a large element of behind-the-hand sniggering going on almost all the way through. (You have heard Big Balls, right? Come on!) The songs on this album exist in a wonderfully fun place. It's like they've been bodily lifted from a risqu� '80s movie � and this is by no means a denigration of their achievement. This is the sort of album that you'd play on the way to the beach with the windows down, whistling and playing steering-wheel drums. It's got a sort of naughty innocence - or ignorance? - floating throughout that remains miraculously good natured for the length of the disc, and it's one that endears the group to you. Yeah, they've only got one song, give or take - but it's a bloody good one, and they rip through it well enough to ensure it stays interesting. It's one of those discs with perfectly-timed intervals to allow the armchair guitarist to stick their crotch out and go �Uhhhhhh!� in Big Rock Mode; in other words, it�s eminently, wonderfully enjoyable.
Livin' In The City is probably the finest example on the album of the bad-boy-with-attitude storytelling The Casanovas purvey. Of course, the tale about getting out of a hick slum to move to the big city to try coke and get a shag is bookended with some fantastically plain living lyrics:
So I got a place
I wasn�t lonely
I ordered pizza
With pepperoni
Fabulous. Na�ve first experiences in the big, bad city distilled down to a pizza box: there�s honesty amongst the twelve-bar raunch, and that�s what appeals so greatly about this disc. It�s not pretending to be anything grandiose or life changing. But it is some of the most honest rock you�ll hear � and that�s without mentioning that this is a bunch of blokes that can pull off that Twisted Sister vocal doubling/falsetto thing and get it right (Break Your Heart). A rarity, that.
Of all the tunes on the album, there's only one real weak one - Here's To It - but even this isn't too bad an imposition on the ears. It's a substantially rockin' tune (with some wonderful slide guitar) but pales in comparison to some of the absolute fist-pumpers that it sits alongside. It�s the only real misstep � and that�s only because the chorus doesn�t live up to the opening riff�s promise � of an album of tight rock that�s mindful of the big names of Oz pub rock�s glory days without becoming too slavishly forelock-tugging. Heartbeat has hints of the You Am I (at their most beat-drummed) to it, Strange Dreams is almost a Hoodoo Gurus number, while tracks like Shake It and Runnin� So Late are so perfectly formed that they fairly beg to be included in the chase scene of a caper flick. So strong are the rhythms, so meshed the trio�s playing and so fluid � though not ostentatious � the guitar soloing that there�s just no way you�ll be able to stop involuntary bodily rocking-out movements while this album�s on. Fact.
Clocking in at 37 minutes, there's no room for filler on this album. Each of the ten songs on disc is pretty solid, presumably as a result of the extended recording period taken to get 'em down, coupled with the amount of touring that the band have undertaken. Sharing stages with The Datsuns and The Living End - not to mention Rose Tattoo - would force any group to tighten up, but in the case of The Casanovas, this would seem an impossible task. They're about as tight as bands come: the playing on The Casanovas sounds devoid of screw-ups, but somehow this is managed without sacrificing the great feel that the band�s rocking out, sneaker-clad in the same room, replete with devil�s horns and rock tongue action. Sure, there's nothing original really going on here. But that's fine. There's nothing original going on on Jet records, either. But there's a lot more fun � and a lot less pilfered riffs � on The Casanovas than there are on most retro-rock big things' discs. And they've even got the common decency not to screw up the party with any of those wussy ballads.
Well done, those men
This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.
Labels: album reviews
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