Danko Jones @ The Gaelic Club, 27/05/2004

A not-quite-full Gaelic Club was blown away by the trio from Toronto with rabble-rousing attitude and energy to burn.

This was a gig that had been a long time coming. Danko Jones � the singer/guitarist and his identically named power trio � had been looking forward to touring Australia for months. Little did tonight�s punters know that they were about to be hit by The Canadian Sledgehammer Of Rock.

Walking onstage and kicking off with the thunderous We Sweat Blood, it was clear that the sharp-dressed men weren�t here to mess around. With a tongue that�d do Gene Simmons proud and some True Metal head shaking going on, Danko ripped into his riffs with jaw-dropping ferocity. The title track from the band�s last album seemed more imbued with bristling rage than in CD format. Rather, it was a defiant announcement of the dedication of the three guys on stage: leader Danko on vocals and guitar, JC on bass and Damon on drums. Yes, they were there to rock. And no, they wouldn't leave the stage until rocked was what you were.

There�s only one way to describe the group�s playing � fucking tight! That two-word descriptor was bantered around the Gaelic with some regularity, and while it�s true that metronymic rigidity does not, necessarily, a perfect gig make, it certainly helps in laying the musical punches where they need to go. There�s no wasted gestures here; everything sits together in a perfectly crafted way. Rhythm chord slashes make way for lightning-fast licks in a way that�d make you believe there were two guitarists playing. Vocals are strong, and never strained. Bass lines punctuate, rather than dominate. And drumming? Well, it�s been a long time since many gig-goers have seen a kit beaten as hard as Damon�s was this evening. It�s an old standby, but the three played as if they were one � sympathetic and muscular. The trio�s dedication to their performance comes across effortlessly in a live setting. With band members less on the ball, it all could�ve fallen into a screaming heap: but not here, and not with these guys.

There wasn�t a great deal of stage banter through the gig. That�s not to say that the band were sour � far from it. But they were more concerned with setting off another rocket of a song than with having a chinwag with the locals � at least while they were onstage. When Danko did talk to the crowd, though, it was certainly easy to see how he can hold European festivals in his hand. Like a grandstanding, rock version of � ahem � The Rock, he spent parts of the night baiting photographers (come closer to the stage and see exactly what you get to photograph!), geeing up the crowd (�Are there 8,000 people in here? That only sounds like 2,000!�) and generally playing the part of the shit-stirrer. An easy grin and a rock-n-roll outlook meant that Danko's mix of double-entendre banter and honest-to-God nice guyness had the crowd exactly where he wanted them.

Whipping through a set that was liberally sprinkled with older tunes � it�s refreshing to see a band that doesn�t do the standard here�s-our-new-album-in-its-entirety-plus-two-hits-at-the-end-if-you�re-good � the band ensured that their die-hard, longtime fans were kept as happy as those who�ve come to the Danko Jones fold through recent airplay of Dance. Danko�s tales of learning to play the blues (by getting himself a woman, natch) of being the lover man of prodigious proportions (not to mention the lovestruck man of Forget My Name) all sat nicely atop the chunky, devil�s horns-inducing riffery that saw the whole crowd moving. Simple enough to rock but smart enough to avoid being stupid, the playing was so energetic that it was impossible for the band�s enthusiasm not to rub off on those there to see the show.

Of course, big applause must also go to the band�s soundman, Corey, for ensuring that the mix on the night was clear and sharp. No dropped-out vocals or flabby drums: the tunes of the night kicked hard as befits a group of this stature.

The set proper came to an end with the not-yet-properly-recorded tune Bring On The Mountain (Become The Mountain), which saw Danko shuck off the ready-to-rockisms for some truly awesome spirit channelling, shaman-style. The tune speaks of the frontman making it to the top of a mountain, overcoming all those who�ve tried to put him down, and holding hands � and court � with departed luminaries such as Johnny Cash, Bon Scott, DeeDee and Joey Ramone, Joe Strummer, Barry White and Otis Redding. Ending with the sentiment that everyone�s sexy in heaven, it�s hard to decide whether it was future ideal or retrospective lament � but it was one of the most empowering tunes to ever make it into a set of dick-swingin� rock that�s been heard in recent years.

The band returned to the stage to perform three more tunes before bidding Sydney a fond farewell. The set had packed in seventeen songs but seemed to have ended in an instant, so mesmerising was the performance. This truly was a gig where you found yourself startled by how quickly you�d reached the end of it. (And was that a song dedication to the Hard-Ons, there at the end? Rock!)

The only disappointing thing about this Danko Jones gig was the audience. It wasn�t that that the audience wasn�t getting into the rock action � far from it � but rather that numbers were down for what should�ve been a sell-out show, given the vitality of the performance. While Danko�s stage presence is certainly enough to control wandering-off punters in a festival field somewhere � meaning that it�s more than up to the task of corralling a couple of hundred punters in a room in Sydney � those in the audience couldn�t help but wonder exactly how much more electric this show might�ve been in a venue the size of The Annandale, where the band�s in-your-face, high-testosterone rock would�ve been slammed straight into punters, rather than into a two-thirds (at best) full room.

Whinging over crowd turnouts aside � come on, Sydney! It was a Thursday night! Where were you? � it was clear that those lucky enough to get along to the Gaelic bore witness to some pretty damn special rock and roll this evening. Here�s hoping that � given the workaholic nature of Jones et al � that they�re back soon.

And this time, that they get the hanging-off-the-rafters crowds they deserve. Certainly, there can�t be many bands that work quite as hard as these guys do for their applause.

The set for the evening ran as follows:

We Sweat Blood
Way To My Heart
Samuel Sin
Dance
Play The Blues
Livin� In The City
Sugar Chocolate
Sound Of Love
Boogie Woogie
Forget My Name
Lovercall
Cadillac
Bring On The Mountain (Become The Mountain)
Encore: I Want You
Encore: Mango Kid
Encore: Get Outta Town

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.

Bugdust @ Bat And Ball Hotel, Sydney, 21/05/2004

Sometimes, there's just no justice. Why's a band this good playing to less than thirty people?

There's many a moment of clarity been experienced in venues serving alcohol. Usually they revolve around one's consumption of aforementioned liquids or behaviour after same. But not tonight. Tonight's razor-sharp observation more revolved around the deep philosophical question of why it is, exactly, a band as good as Bugdust are playing to fewer than thirty punters.

Having not seen The Crisps or AJ, the two supports of the evening, it's impossible to say how they fared in comparison to the headliners. But they would've had to pull some pretty stylish rock moves out of the roadcase in order to top the balls-out "ARE YOU READY TO ROCK?" show that this four-piece were packing. The band's played gigs with Pacifier, and it appears from tonight's show that everything they'd seen from that stage-sharing has been taken to heart. Like that band, the performance here is faultless, and full of classic rock moves. That doesn't mean it's pre-rehearsed, though. Indeed, when they take to the stage and launch into the first song, the four-piece adopt guitars-in-air poses, summoning down some fearsome rock energy in that exuberant, Bill-And-Ted kind of way. All closed-eye soloing and two-guys-one-microphone stances, they're riffling through the pantheon of performers' finest stage tricks, but unlike other bands, they've a refreshing honesty that carries it off. This is something that a brief chat with band members cements after the show - they're earnest, nice guys, who are enthused that people want to watch them. There's no rider-nitpicking arrogance here, just a dedication to the music - and it shows.

Musically? Finally, we have a band who's unashamed to use the cowbell! Bugdust's sound is strong and thick. There's overtones of early-era Iron Maiden (without the histrionics), The Hellacopters (those double-guitar leads are a killer), Black Sabbath and general Detroit rock in their sound, but it's constructed in a way that makes it sound their own. This evening's mix pretty much knackers their three-part vocal harmonies - what happened to the voice levels? - but the polish amid the rough is communicated clearly enough. There's stoner rock and acid freakout tinges to the tunes, but any idea of slacking is removed as soon as the guys open up and let rip. The drummer's shirt goes by the wayside as the tunes begin to cook, and it's impressive to note that the group stays locked in with one another, no matter how slow or heavy the tunes get. There's a tripping fluidity to the performance that's enthralling, and that's before you get to the bits that sound like they're improved versions of Master Of Puppets riffs. This is superb, head-nodding rock-and-roll mayhem; simplicity and tightness used to devastating effect. The evening's rendition of Set To Snap, from their four-track EP, obliterates the original, before ending with a bass player atop a bass drum, all fucked-amp glory and fist-in-air bravado. Class.

It's usually a pretty good indicator that a band you haven't seen before has their rock ducks in a row if you find you can play air guitar along with them on a first listening. The amount of phantom axe-wranglers in the Bat And Ball this evening was terrifying. So again, the question raises itself: how come Jet are playing festivals and Bugdust aren't? Why is it that something so good is happening in front of so few?

If the Muses exist, boys, then they're fuckin' with you. Your time will - if there's any justice - surely come. Rock needs more majesty - but just be sure to take those devil's horns with you on your travels.

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.

Dirty Dealings With Danko Jones

Danko Jones - guitarist and vocalist of the self-titled Canadian trio - spoke to us about dead rock stars, sleeping on amps and playing with Mick and Keef..

With the Australian leg of their tour to support the incendiary We Sweat Blood set to start burning through some lucky venues this week, it�s about time that you all sat down, shut up, and got a good dose of Danko. Danko Jones, that is. The Canadian three-piece�s mix of metal, sass and dedication to rock has been winning fans the world over � particularly in Europe � and so now it�s our turn to see what the fuss is all about. We spoke to the man himself, Danko Jones, in Stockholm. Our conversation took in writing to Chuck D, hanging out with Keith Richards, gravesites of the rock and famous and what happens when you annoy your record label too much.

�I spend a lot of my time off here,� says Danko of Stockholm. �We just came from France � we played three shows and before that, eight or nine shows in Germany. France is the hardest market to crack in Europe. They were packed � Paris was sold out � so it was really good. We just finished the tour. We�ve got a week off. Saturday, we go to Norway and play with Gluecifer and then Sunday we join The Bronx in the UK for two weeks of shows, then we�ve got four days off. Then we�re heading to Australia. Very excited!�

Breakneck tours schedules are something of a given in Danko�s world. His band � managed by bass player JC � has been on something of a marathon tour to support their newest disc. It�s best described by the singer/guitarist himself: �I left home March 29, I don�t get back home until September 6 � and I hope it�s later than that!�

Clearly, this is a driven performer. But what is he expecting of Australian fans? Subdued applause, or raucous, storming-the-stage enthusiasm? With mates in bands like The Hellacopters � themselves tourists so familiar with Australia�s venues that the bar staff probably could pour their drinks without asking � have the Canadian trio been forewarned about our crowds?

�We just played Germany and France with The Bronx. And The Bronx were just down in Australia not too long ago and they were saying that we�re gonna have a blast. We�re coming with no expectations � we�ll come to play. If there�s 50 people there, it�ll be fucking awesome. If there�s 500, then that�s so much better!� he enthuses. �But what I gather about Australia is that rock lives and breathes there. A lot of bands go on tour there, and it�s pretty far from everywhere else. In order to do that there has gotta be a pretty big incentive � so I�m guessing that there�s some real rock fans in Australia. A lot of live albums and concerts are taped in Australia. Maybe my eyes and ears are more in tune with Australia because we�re going there, but I�m noticing more and more that some heavy rock shit�s going down there.�

But what sort of Aussie tunesmanship has managed to make its way into Danko�s collection? What locals are doing us proud in the Northern Hemisphere's listening tastes?

�Radio Birdman. I just saw Powderfinger in Texas at South By South West. Other than that, I know what everyone knows about Australian music � the super-famous people. I�m not really familiar with the down rock scene over there. But I�m more than willing to get myself acquainted with it.�

Given the heavy AC/DC leanings of the band�s most recent output � and the ubiquity of the pilgrimage film Thunderstruck at the current time, it seems churlish not to ask if there�s a special trek to Bon Scott�s Fremantle grave in store for the trio.

�I didn�t know he was buried in Australia,� says Danko, enthusiastically. �That�s awesome! I mean, Angus Young lives in Holland, so I dunno how I didn�t know that. That�s cool. I would definitely go there. When we were in Ireland, I wanted to go to Phil Lynott�s grave, but the club we were playing was in the exact opposite end of town to where the gravesite was. But next time we�re in Dublin, I�m gonna go to Phil Lynott�s grave. If I can get a free moment and head on over to the graveyard, I�ll definitely make a journey out of that.�

It�s fitting that death�s mentioned here, as the band�s beginnings were so intensely focussed that they would have killed less hardy rockers. Danko Jones were a band that were so keen to hone their craft that they eschewed sales, recordings and � almost � any profit at all. Danko explains:

�Basically, we didn�t put anything out for two years. We just played. We just figured we wanted to build a reputation as a live band. We followed that route � the road less travelled. And we did it. For two years, we did tours with no merchandise, no t-shirts, no records. We slept on our amps, barely had enough money for the three of us to go into a motel room. We crashed on people�s couches endless nights.

�We wanted word to spread through word of mouth. The strongest marketing campaign anyone can have is word of mouth. Whether you�re inundated by multi-million dollar campaigns from record labels, you�re always gonna listen to who your friends tell you who should check out before you check out who the million-dollar campaigns tell you you should."

�We refused to do interviews for two years. I guess we were more like punk rock fucks. We were arrogant punk rockers, and we thought we could get away with it. And in a way, we did. People were like �Who do these guys think they are? They don�t want to do interviews, and they don�t want to do photo shoots or put out records � there must be something there.� And thankfully, there was, and that was the live show, which is what I think people kept wanting to come and see.

The hard slog around Canadian venues � which garnered feverish live reviews � did end up taking its toll, and the band eventually relented on its no-recording stance.

�Finally, we had to put out a record so we could play longer, farther, play more of the year. We wanted to see more of the world, so we put out an EP that had five songs on it and put out another EP a year and a half later. Then we compiled that and put it out as I�m Alive And On Fire � available on Bad Taste Records � which came out in 2001. It�s a collection of songs we�d had backlogged for a couple of years. Then, Born A Lion came out in 2002, and then we toured that extensively, then We Sweat Blood � and we�re in the middle of that record�s tour.�

It�s a tour, it seems, that�s been having results. The band played Europe
for three months last year, as well as some shows in Canada to prepare for another five months on the road in Europe and Australia. They�ve signed licensing deals in South Africa and have had a lot of interest from Brazil � but nowhere has the band�s rock dream been more fulfilled than when the band landed a support slot with The Rolling Stones on their 40 Licks tour� a tour that some thought wouldn�t sit well with Danko�s well-known impatience with corporate rock. After all, these days, the Stones are as big a corporate rock entity as you�ll find, right?

�Definitely! But I think the Rolling Stones also come from a grassroots sort of background. No matter how much sheen you put on some of these Stones, they don�t shine up. I mean, no matter how much sheen you put on Keith Richards, he�ll never look like part of a corporate band. I think that�s because the true essence of Keith Richards � who I think is the heart and soul of the Stones at this time � is blues and roots, that kind of thing. We�re not a blues-rock band, but I think he�s hip enough to keep his ear to the ground. Actually, we were in Germany last year, playing in a club in Cologne, when someone there told us they�d just read an interview with Keith Richards and he was asked which band was his favourite support on the 40 Licks tour, and he named The White Stripes and Danko Jones. That made my night, if not my week!

�The reason why we got on the Stones bill is, I think, because we�re nice guys. Our crew insists on working with us, people want us back because they worked with a band that was not only in control and responsible, but made things smooth because they were nice guys. We don�t screw around, and we don�t screw people over. When people meet us in a business setting, they realise that they�re working with a band that�s responsible, that�s punctual, and � I like to think � very professional and very nice. I think it was also the Stones recognising a really cool local band. There are other things � [Mick] Jagger was given a copy of Born A Lion at a birthday party.

�The Stones hang around Toronto to practise before any world tour. I think word had gotten around about our band. So when it came down choose a local band, we were in line, and they recognised us. I guess they liked what they heard � and they chose us. The story I�ve heard is that they chose us because they liked us � especially Jagger because he got two copies of Born A Lion � one at his birthday and one just before the show!�

So: rapturously received shows � on their own back and on a bill with one of rock�s biggest bands. Things couldn�t be going better for Danko Jones, right? So you�d think. But all through the band�s career, there�s been a problem: Danko�s not a huge fan of the record industry.

�I have a tendency to open my mouth too much! Many doors have been closed because of the way we do things � because we demand control of our band. Record companies don�t like that � they realise they can�t manipulate this band. The reason there�s so many new bands that you�ve never heard of, that don�t have a back-catalogue is because these are young bands that record labels know they can mould because they don�t have a voice and they�re na�ve. We�re not like that, so we don�t get a lot of attention from major labels because they know we�re just gonna be trouble down the line. Whereas if they were actually business-savvy, they�d realise the potential of this band and capitalise on that. But they�ve failed to do so.�

Add this outspoken nature to the thorny issue of downloading and you�ve got a sure-fire recipe for artist-label headbutting � as Danko was to find out.

�We got dropped from our label in Canada � Universal � because on February 22nd, I appeared on a nationally-televised panel on downloading. I was for downloading. And we didn�t tell our record company this.

�Three weeks and two days later, we got dropped. Discussions went from my pro-downloading stance to our relationship with our major label, and I disclosed a few things I was unhappy with. I think it�s an old story. I mean, how many stories and interviews have you read about bands complaining about their label? It�s old hat! But they didn�t like that.

The record they were working [We Sweat Blood] was five-and-a-half months old. It didn�t even get the twelve-month treatment. We got brushed. The second single for the album, Dance, was dropped. Basically, we signed an agreement that they would work our record, and as far as I�m concerned, they didn�t hold up their end of the deal. They dropped it cold.

�There�s a lot of problems with that label. The Canadian version of We Sweat Blood doesn�t have the Universal logo on the back of the record, because they forgot to put it on. The graphics department forgot to put the company�s logo on the back of the record! I mean, if that isn�t complete negligence, I don�t know what is.

�I always say this � part of it�s our fault, because we tour outside Canada constantly. And the official reason for us being dropped was that we didn�t play enough Canadian dates. So basically what they�re saying is that you get dropped if you�re a domestic act who goes international��

Unfortunately, the interview slot is coming to its intercontinental end, though there�s still so much more to say. But with the energetic � and damn friendly Danko � manages to fit in more information in the last thirty seconds than some manage to shoehorn in an entire press release:

�Sorry if I rambled on on downloading, but it�s just that I just sent a letter off to Chuck D about it, so it�s fresh on my mind. I�d just like to say that We Sweat Blood was written in five weeks, recorded in about two and a half weeks, mixed in ten days and we�re going on tour all the way.

�We�re gonna start working on the new record this [northern] summer, we�re hoping that it�ll be out by December this year or January/February of next year. We�re working on a DVD, and I�ve got a radio show in Stockholm called The Magical World Of Rock With Danko Jones � check it out at www.themagicalworldofrock.com � I�m doing spoken word gigs this [northern] summer in Europe� and I�m goin� to Australia, man! I�m fucking pumped!�

And with that, he�s gone. With an attitude and a work ethic like that, you better believe that Danko Jones sweats blood.

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.

Pixies - Wave Of Mutilation: Best Of Pixies

Best-of albums: sell-outs or essential overviews? Have the Pixies finally debased themselves? Are your long-held memories of college rock's favourite band about to be corrupted? This selection would seem to indicate not.

Pixies. Ah, the Pixies. A band who everyone professes to love, to be influenced by, and to own. A band born out of two Bostonian guitarist roommates, university, perversity and an inability to play. A band that was unlike anything else making music at the time that they came out. A band that lasted six years together but have a shadow longer than some of the dinosaur rockers still plying their trade. A band whose post-break-up releases (rarity compiles and best-ofs) are matched only by The Smiths in number.

And now they're back. Perhaps the plaudits about the soft bit/LOUD BIT so common in much alterna-rock originating with them hit home, maybe they want to prove Steve Albini wrong or maybe they really are in it for the money. But regardless, they're back on the road - though not, as of this writing, planning on hitting Australia. And so, there's a new best-of to pull in unwary ears. And for the uninitiated, it's bloody good.

First things first. The title of this selection is perhaps the most perfect that�s been applied to a career overview. If there's one thing that marks out Pixies tunes, it's a general undercurrent of violence. Musically, too, the songs arrive like something coastal - either in lapping waves or in storms you wouldn�t want to take your boat out in.

So what of the song selection? It's almost faultless. Well, for a newbie, at least - more experienced hands will undoubtedly carp at some selections and knowingly nod at others (the Neil Young cover Winterlong, say). But for someone who's not particularly knowledgeable about the group's work, it's a brilliant thing; a door cracked open into an extremely perverse - though literate - world. College rock? You betcha - and this is back when that appellation actually meant something.

There's a lot of leaning towards Doolittle and Surfer Rosa in the tune selection, but this is understandable, given that they're easily the most consistent (and hook-laden) discs of their oeuvre. Later albums get short shrift (Bossanova and Tromp Le Monde have three cuts each on this platter) while the Come On Pilgrim EP gets three look-ins. Some would argue that the filler-free Doolittle is all you need in terms of Pixies tunes, and this corralling of songs seems to underscore it - and perhaps encourage a new generation of fans to go out and snap that sucker up.

Still, most of the canonical Pixies tunes are all here, and what's astounding is that - no matter how often you've heard the songs - there's something more you can dig out of them. Black Francis's (or Frank Black's, or Charles Thompson's, if you prefer - they're all the same big bloke in a flanno) highly literate predilections - sex, death, faith, incest, self-examination, surrealist flicks, numerology, humanism and other philosophical (or biblical) peregrinations create a rich tapestry of reference that can be dug into at your leisure. Certainly, trying to understand what the hell he's going on about - even when he's not wailing on about attempted molestations in parking facilities (Bone Machine)or being the son of a motherfucker (Nimrod's Son) - is something that generally requires more time than the tunes take. But that's the appeal of the group; they championed intelligence over musical ability and content over popularity.

Musically, there's always more going on than you'd think, but one thing's certain: it never feels here like anything is done exclusively for the sake of the big riff, really. All despite the fact that the band came together with the aim of puncturing self-important posturing with the goal of creating "something great that says nothing". Also notable is the frequency with which what's heard communicates a frightening energy. Even in rearranged form - freed from the settings of their original albums - these songs have the ability to make the hair on the back of your neck rise up. There's a sublime combination of fragility and strength to most of the tunes; there's always the idea of something more going on; of a sadness versus joy tug-of-war, of violence trying to best rationality. Apathy versus action? Maybe.

Monkey Gone To Heaven's meditation on planet-wrecking and evolution, for example, begins with a narcotic, woozy dump of guitar, before near-silence jack-knifes into screamed explorations of the workings of the universe while strings play in the background. It's maybe the best-known example of the contending streams in the Pixies' work - primal scream versus chinstroking.

The band's straddling of rock, post-punk and pop is plainly obvious on this collection, and it�s curious how well they flow together. Full-scale head-kickers like Gouge Away or the motoring Holiday Song sit alongside perfect pop gems like the Kim Deal classic Gigantic. The happily faux-suicidal (Wave Of Mutilation, a surfy car-wreck ode!) nuzzle up to the amp-kickingly harsh (Vamos). Drug-hazed angel choirs support investigations into the nature of the self while snorkelling (Where Is My Mind?) while elsewhere, the band attempts to get into your pants again (Hey). Debaser, years on, is still one of the most exhilarating rallying calls recorded. Hollered vocals beckon listeners to embrace the strange and explore the different, debased, unexpected ways life can be lived. As a hymn for affirmative action for the blank generation, it's unsurpassed.

And then, of course, there's Here Comes Your Man, a tune that, for all its summery nature, has the ability to make grown men weep unrestrainedly. Seemingly an homage - though knowing its progenitors' mercurial temperament, probably not - to fabulously-constructed girl pop of the '50s and '60s, it features the most fabulously soul-piercing harmony wail that you're likely to hear. A dusty Kim Deal and a ragged Black Francis combine their vocal powers - and this is before the wordless vocalise that sits between chorus repetitions - and bring them to bear on a single word. It evokes the feel of scratched, washed-out home movies, of something lost, of something so beautiful it hurts. It's something that could well be used to describe the songs here as a whole: cracked, fucked and beautifully, lovingly realised.

This is affecting stuff.

(It's also worth noting that the record label has taken some care with this release - or at least, there's a real Pixies fan helming the quality control: it's been noticed that Hey is missing the big man's initial holler, so they've offered a shout-inclusive version for free downloads to all you gypped punters (remasters will include said shout) on this webpage. Rockin'.)

Ultimately, though, if you're already a Pixies fan, this isn't the album for you. If you've listened to them for any length of time, chances are that you'll already have most of the albums and another compile of their work won't exactly be essential - as their recent Complete B-Sides selection was, say. It's a much better-chosen best-of than the frequently-lambasted Death To The Pixies, though, perhaps because its flow allows the development - and increasing paucity of Kim Deal tunes! - of the band to be examined a bit more fulsomely than you�d expect. For hardcore fans, this disc will fulfil the role of a pretty nifty mix tape - albeit one with fancy packaging. You'll probably use it to debate the running order (more or less chronological) and give you excuses to pull out your albums.

The people who'll be best served by Wave Of Mutilation are those who've heard that Kurt Cobain quote about how Nirvana were only trying to appropriate Pixies tunes; those who heard Where Is My Mind? at the end of Fight Club and thought it sounded hazily cool; those who've had mates who'd chant the "...and if man is five, if man is five..." bit from Monkey Gone To Heaven at when they were pissed, but never understood it. The uninitiated. This release - assuming it's not solely released to accompany the DVD that's also just been released - is best pitched at newcomers to the band. And as an introduction, it's pretty much faultless. The range of the group - from spiky, arms-crossed fuck-off tunes to the most gloriously heartbroken pop to ever be laid down - is delineated over the length of the disc. And it's as impressive now as ever.

This is the best way to get into Pixies if you don't know their work too well. It's a tearily joyous almost-70-minute reminder of what music sounds like when it's fucked-up, ebullient, unashamed and new. Cherish it.

And if you do know their work well... what are you doing reading this? Go and fish out Surfer Rosa and Doolittle. And play 'em loud.

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.

Marky Ramone, The Spazzys @ Gaelic Club, 02/05/2004

A punk stalwart came to share his memories and experiences... and was rewarded with a cup of urine. Well done!

As the line to the door of the Gaelic snaked up Devnnshire street, a steady stream of ticketless would-be punters scoured the crowd on the off chance that a spare way into the club would present itself. The number of people trying to get in - hoping against hope! - was indicator enough that this was a gig of some note. Marky Ramone - Marc Bell to his parents - was in town to talk about his history, NYC, booze, pills and rock. While it was a spoken word evening, there were also plans afoot to perform a set of Ramones tunes - hence the clamour for tickets. Those that had managed to snaffle some were up for a memorable night, to say the least.

The evening kicked off with a typically energetic set from Melbournian three-piece The Spazzys, the first of two outings on the boards that they'd make this evening - the second would be as backing band for Marky. And while the band played with great enthusiasm and vigour - bassplayer Lucy's slew of Big Rock moves received a full work-out - the sound quality for their set was, unfortunately, less than optimal. Kat's vocals, especially, were drowned out by the rest of the band, though their sound as a whole seemed a lot muddier than it had on previous occasions. It's a shame, as whenever The Spazzys play, they put more into their performance - whether it's honesty, youth or just plain arse-shaking rock - than many other bands, so it was disappointing to hear them let down by the PA.

After a shortish set, they left the stage - leaving many punters with fingers crossed that their appearance later on would receive a mix they deserved. Next up, the Gaelic darkened - after a projector was installed centre-stage - and the screen on the back wall flickered into life. On it, footage of The Ramones was played. Switching between interviews, award acceptance speeches and oldschool performances to an insane record of the band's crowd evasion techniques while on tour - which largely consisted of drivers tear-arsing around and hoping they'd not mow down too many fans - the footage saw excitement in the room rise. Catcalls, slow-clapping and general amounts of "Woo! Yeah! MAAAAARRRRRRKY!" shouting filled the air.

Then, it was time. Clad in black, Marky entered. Gripping the projector's controls, he began recounting the story of his life, from geeky kid to punk superstar. Touching on key figures in the NY punk scene - Richard Hell, NY Dolls, The Voidoids, Wayne/Jayne County, Blondie and others - the wide-ranging tale took in poverty, single-mindedness, Keith Moon's drumming style, arrests in Japan and appearances on The Simpsons as Marky recounted his journey from suburban normalcy to musical notoriety over ninety minutes or so.

A technical hitch with the slide projector brought the talk to a halt for about ten minutes, in which time Marky took questions from the audience. An absence of roving mics through the crowd meant that he was largely restricted to answering queries that originated in the front couple of rows of the crowd - something that wasn't taken particularly well by the crowd in the Gaelic's upstairs section, who made their discontent pretty plain. Sadly, when an attempt to include anyone further than arm's length away was undertaken, the questions were rendered inaudible.

This sort of heckling interaction was a more vocal version of what had been bubbling through the crowd for the whole night. Perhaps it was the weird amalgam of spoken word show and live performance, but it seemed that a large portion of the audience had already made several trips to the bar, resulting in a fairly audible undertone of conversation the entire way through the show. Every time somebody's name was mentioned, a boozy cheer would go up from the audience - no matter if it was a memorial pause or a passing comment. Enthusiastic, sure, but ultimately, it meant the flow of the night was frequently stifled while Marky waited for some level of quiet to descend again so he could recapture the threads of conversation.

Of course, the hard-arsed nature that drove The Ramones onwards was still close to the surface - despite Marky's lack of leather jacket. There wasn't too much ill behaviour he'd tolerate. A fan down the front - who later showed his appreciation for such a great evening's entertainment by throwing cups of piss on the stage... what a gent! - wouldn't shut up. Marky had asked him before - nicely - to keep quiet and calm down. But it wasn't to be: increasingly incensed by his interruptions, the rocker leant down into the crowd and - with the aid of the term "Fuckface", silenced his opposition. He may not be 20 any more, but the threat of a Ramone arse-kicking still carries some weight.

Micturition-based distractions aside, the audience was enthralled by the collection of bravado- (or stupidity) filled tales. Marky was candid about his bouts with addiction (of all kinds) and always keen to salute those that've passed on as a result of such dalliances. "I ain't a preacher," he said, before giving the crowd license to do what they wanted, within reason. But bear in mind that this is a guy who's swallowed drugs thrown over a fence, and managed to survive rubber rooms and crashing his (unregistered) car through a furniture store after consuming enough alcohol to lay low a football team. There's probably a bit of wisdom passed on here!

Instead of coming across as an I-Was-There-And-You-Weren't kinda guy, Marky's generosity, honesty and general easy manner made the spoken word part of the evening a lot more enjoyable than it might've been with other artists. Rather than being an offhand discussion of well-known events with disdain for his fans, the night felt like a great conversation over a couple of beers. Yeah, the guy on stage has lived his life with some people who have become - as he has - legends. Yeah, he's been through some incredible things. But he carried with him the simplicity and the lack of pretentiousness that made the evening a pleasure.

After a second bout of questions, Marky left the stage for a short break. The members of The Spazzys took up their instruments - with the exception of drummer Alice, who was relegated to vocal duties while Marky took his place on a much larger kit, set up at the rear of the stage. The drum sound put out was bigger than ever, and when that familiar "One, Two, Free, Faw!" count-in began, the place went wild.

The set list for the set ran as follows:

I Just Want Something To Do
California Sun
Sheena Is A Punk Rocker
I Don't Care
I Wanna Be Sedated
Rockaway Beach
Rock'n'Roll High School
The KKK Took My Baby Away
It's A Wonderful World (as covered by Joey Ramone on his solo disc)
Chinese Rocks
Pinhead

As Pinhead came to a razor-sharp end, the band left the stage, though everyone knew that they'd be back to rectify the glaring omission from the performance: Blitzkrieg Bop. And as an encore, it was great. Hey-ho, let's go! Like the rest of the set - though it was prefaced with a big grin from Marky, and the admission that he loved everyone in the audience (perhaps with the exception of Mr Fuckface?) - the song kicked the crowd into overdrive. Thunderous drumming saw the moshpit spark up for a final two-minute all-out thrash, knowing that their time with a legend was almost over. And by the end, there was a sea of smiles.

Sure, there's no way anyone - a noble effort by drummer Alice aside - can ever replace Joey on vocals. Not really. Sure, the performance seemed like a Spazzys set with more solid drumming. But that was the point. Again and again, Marky had pointed out that the great thing about The Ramones was that anyone could play their kind of music. He seemed flattered at the relevance of the music he was a part of - and tonight, the crowd in the Gaelic Club showed their appreciation in that time-honoured way: by getting pissed and going absolutely apeshit.

Somewhere, The Ramones were smiling.

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.

Danko Jones - We Sweat Blood

Canada's greatest live act? Metal revivalists? Or one of the most positively-minded bands ever to earn a set of devil's horns? Danko Jones' latest release proves they're all three.

Danko Jones are the real deal. A band who gigged relentlessly through the Canadian scene for two years before laying anything to tape. A band whose label dumped them because of singer Danko's - yes, this is a three-piece that shares its leader's name, much as PJ Harvey did on early albums - outspoken views on filesharing and music downloading. A band who are managed by their drummer and play to crowds in Europe that most bands'd kill for. Keith Richards' favourite support (along with The White Stripes) for The Rolling Stones' last tour. The hardest-working band in rock? They're certainly front-line contenders for that honour. And all this - attitude, hard work and strength - comes out on their newest album, the fabulously-titled We Sweat Blood.

The disc's their third album, though in reality it's their second proper studio effort, following Born A Lion (the previous disc) and I'm Alive And On Fire, the collection of odds-and-ends that doubled as their debut full-lengther. It's also the product of main man Danko Jones getting back into metal, something he says he's not been listening to much of over the past five years. And as a metal homecoming, the reunion of an old headbanger and the devil's own music, it's brilliant. The sort of punky soul that the band exhibited on earlier EPs has been replaced by a pared-back beast that rocks with fists of steel - but one that also nails the mid-'70s swagger that made bands like AC/DC kings.

The cover of We Sweat Blood should telegraph exactly how metal this album is. On the back, a trio - red-eyed, shaven-headed (mostly) and wearing black leather wristbands stare out. (Inside, there's devil's horns, fittingly.) On the front, a stylish guitar-player - leather wristbands again - is seen in close-up. Blood drips from his hand as it knocks out a riff... just underneath a logo in a pointy metal font. The only thing missing off the rock-and-roll-all-nite checklist is a picture of Satan riding a motorbike. This is HARD ROCK, baby, and from the outset you're gonna know about it.

The band's packed touring schedule meant that We Sweat Blood was recorded quickly. It sounds like it - although that's not to infer that there's anything rushed or sloppy about it. Rather, it's a gripping example of what an incredibly focussed bunch of players can do when they're given studio time. The songs roar out of the speakers threatening to rip the listener's head off - which is exactly what Danko Jones claims he intended with this disc. They're uniformly strong, and the production is fearsomely crisp. There's no sense of booming spaces or of distance from the band - they're front-and-centre, and are loud. Theirs is a style of music that demands to be played at full volume - but the great part of this disc's construction is that you're always left thinking that it could be turned up a little bit more. There's no distorting of vocals, no overwhelming sense that it's too loud - just that it's too damn good.

Musically, the tunes are strong all the way through - though if a weak track had to be picked, it'd be Love Travel, which seems to get stuck in second and never quite take off. But in terms of greatness? I Love Living In The City, for example, begins with some funky Tone Loc-styled cowbell before moving into some seriously stratospheric riffing that's laid-back despite the tune's speed. It is, of course, topped by a vocal that mentions getting it on with your sister. I Want You is moshpit perfection with a brilliant harmonised chorus lead-in. The skittish riff on Heartbreak's A Blessing rocks like a supercharged boogie tune before jumping into a chorus with sledgehammer restraint: the band drop in and out, but when they come back, it's like a brick to the back of the head. Wait A Minute's jerkiness harks back to punk styles, while Hot Damn Woman even sounds dirty. But the killer track's the title one - a thumping lead that sounds like sped-up Black Sabbath, elasticised bass, corralling drums and a shouted chorus that's great in the evil, bigger-than-Jesus way that all good rock should aspire to be.

There is a touch of the "All right, Cleveland - are you ready to ROCK?" Steve Tylerism to Danko's vocals. But it never colours the music with any sort of campness or unintentional hilarity. It's not used all the way through - The Cross, for example, is a white-hot screamer of a track - but when this sort of knowing tone's used (on Dance, say), it's used to full effect. It's hard to know if Danko's taking the piss or if he's being entirely earnest when he sings, and that level of mystification adds an enjoyable confusion to the listening experience. This could all be about a character, or it could all be from the heart - but as it is with George Thorogood, you can't quite tell if that's a tongue in his cheek or if he really is happy to see you.

What's intriguing about the disc is the lyric writing. Previously, some critics have written the band off as nothing more than frat-boy rock - a sort of Canadian Andrew W.K. power trio - because of their lyrical content. And it's true, there's always been an element of Danko Jones' music that zeroes in on the seamy side of seduction. But there's never really a sense of exploitation found in the songs here. There's tunes that borrow from the blues' history of raving up sexuality and performance - Love Travel or Hot Damn Woman - but there's also songs of empowerment. Strut and Dance, say, are both positive songs of women of sexual strength. Forget My Name, rather than being a tune of ogling, is sweetened by the fact that it's a big, bad rock song about the singer's shaky-legged inability to communicate with the object of his desire. It speaks of a maturity that's not overtly indicated by the plethora of riffs on the album. It certainly goes against expectations, pleasantly so. This ain't just big dumb rock we're dealing with here - it's a new breed entirely: self-aware, but able to channel the best of the past, no matter how glam.

If you look around, if you dig inside the rocking sound and fists-in-the-air choruses, you'll find that the concepts of self-reliance (Heartbreak's A Blessing) and of having strength, of never giving up (We Sweat Blood) are central to Danko Jones. While it's got a twitch in the hips, this is a disc that's more aligned with the straight-edge mindset. Sure, you can be the loverman, and sure, there's a big part of the music here that's rooted in... well, rooting... but the concept of kicking arse and always moving forward is something that comes across here, writ large. It's just backed up - and occasionally overwhelmed - by riffs that'd make Angus Young envious.

The Australian edition of the album contains a bonus disc with three tracks on it. Boogie Woogie, I Like To Ball and Take Me Out On A Stretcher were all recorded during the We Sweat Blood sessions, and as such share the same hard-driving ethic that informs the rest of the album. They're all cut from the same cloth, lyrically - voyeurism, seediness and rapid-fire sleaze - but are reassuring as they don't come across as the sort of limp not-good-enough-for-release material that some bands foist on assorted territories as extra content. I Like To Ball, a cocked-eyebrow, stop/start powerhouse - the line "You can trust me - I'm a gentleman!" never sounded so deliciously vile - is probably the best of the three, though the machine-gun riffing of Take Me Out On A Stretcher is stupidly enjoyable. The album itself features some multimedia extras, too. If you've a PC that can handle it, you'll be treated to a video for I Want You and a photo gallery backed by the tune Lovercall from Born A Lion. Shots of festivals and fans with tattoos of the band's logo abound. The real joy of this part of the disc, though, is the interview with Danko, filmed at his home on the eve of the world tour in support of the album. There's a potted history, some air-guitar and plenty of footage of the band playing to huge audiences across Europe.

The scary thing about this footage is that you begin to realise - as strong and focussed as We Sweat Blood is - that the band is really a live beast. This is a reduced version. And yet, it still manages to beat most hard rock albums out there.

We Sweat Blood is, at heart, an album made by a band that gives until it hurts. Their sense of honesty - despite the occasional adoption of sleazy poses - their strength and lack of guile is what comes across most plainly when you listen. There's nothing but three blokes, playing together in a superbly tight fashion that borrows from some great, '70s-and-'80s-style riffarama - and they do it better than almost anyone you're likely to hear. If you've been looking for an arse-kicking, back-to-basics rock album with sneering to burn, then you've found it. We Sweat Blood is worthy of double devil's horns - and then some. Check out the band's site for some MP3s if you're cheap - but it's almost certain that this is a title you'll want your own copy of.

Why? 'Cause pissed-off air guitar's never been so much fun. Play this sucker loud.

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.

Tourettes @ Excelsior, 16/04/04

Darkly mesmerising, Tourettes - and the Sik FuKs - were out in force at the Excelsior. And woe betide any hecklers...

Late arrivals to the Excelsior this evening were certainly kicking themselves. Stuffed to the gills, the pub was heaving as the Sydney-based Tourettes kicked into their set with all the subtlety of a petrol tanker explosion. As more punters tried to move their way to the front of the band room, the Tourettes Army - otherwise known as the SiK FuKs - made their presence known. Moving as one, the mosh began, and a real sense of camaraderie pervaded; of community and single-mindedness (not only of dress) that's often missing from rock gigs.

The four piece's type of music is certainly dark, but it's plain to see why it engenders such a fervent respsonse from the band's fans. It's also easy to see why Tourettes aren't signed to a major as yet - the most notable big-name act (lame as the comparison may be) that sounds somewhat similar to Tourettes is Evanescence; although they're a severely emasculated version of the local powerhouse - a watered-down Diet Tourettes, if you like. The real thing communicates a crushingly heavy sound that somehow manages to remain unique, despite the overtones of industrial, metal and darkwave that pepper the tunes. And they have the king-hitting bonus of being fronted by perhaps the most enigmatically terrifying to ever wield a microphone: Michele Madden.

Tonight's gig at the Excelsior is - like Tourettes shows in general! - really just a case of Michele holding court for the duration. There's no question about the instrumental ability of the band - indeed, they're some of the strongest musicians playing this type of music you're likely to see - but as good as they are, there's no denying that the audience's attention will, for the most part, be commanded by the band's singer. With long hair flying, tattooed muscles tensed and a wild-eyed stare staking to the spot those punters brave enough to venture into the front rows, she's nothing short of enthralling.

Vocals summoned from the depths of the earth are flung at punters. In terms of emotiveness, there's nothing short of primal screaming that'd communicate pain, anger and general feelings of spiritual seasickness more effectively than the vocal lines that're given an airing tonight.

This is less a gig and more an encounter with some kind of caged, superbly literate beast. It's a live show that immerses - thanks to its dynamic leader - in a way that encourages both fear and respect. Tourettes ride a knife-edge between chaos and muscular assuredness in a way that few bands are able to - or have the balls to.

The great thing about a Tourettes performance is that there's no question of the crowd being there to see the band. To be honest, they'd be scared not to pay attention. Anyone who heckles - you have breath left to heckle with after this mosh? - is forced to run the gauntlet of Michele. Aside from the obvious fact that a muscled singer with a microphone is going to easily overpower an unamped dweeb with an attitude, those tonight that try their luck at smart-arsery are quickly undone with a reminder of exactly who paid to get in tonight, and who's taking the cash home - just before the band pummels the audience with another of their dark constructions.

As the crowd made its way out of the humid pub, the most telling testament to the intensely personal nature of Tourettes' music was made by vocalist Michele. For the past hour or so, she'd been all over the stage, prowling and intimidating. But at the end of the night, the image that remained was of a performer, glasses and beanie on, blending into the crowd and slipping away. Someone who'd channelled so much power, content to merge into the night and leave gobsmacked punters alone with memories of a performance stronger than most you're likely to see.

Somebody, please give Tourettes the acclaim they deserve. In a sea of mediocrity, there need to be more homegrown arsekickers.

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.

The Spazzys @ Hopetoun Hotel, 16/04/04

Paco mightn't love 'em, but this evening's Sydney crowd thought The Spazzys were more than just a bit of all right.

Tonight's gig at the Hopetoun - the official launch of The Spazzys' infectious (and nigh-on unavoidable, if you're a radio listener) single Paco Doesn't Love Me - saw the Sydney landmark packed to the rafters with punters eager to get a good gander at the punk girl group of the moment. Trips to the bar became a battle of epic proportions, and actually being able to see the stage throughout the gig was, for many, nothing but a dream. It was, to put none too fine a point on it, sardine-like. But the great thing about a show by the Melbournian three-piece is that they have the distinct ability to make you forget your worries - to forget that your hard-won beer's just been knocked all over the place by some dingus in a trucker cap, to forget that several members in the crowd look like they're about to explode in a fit of claustrophobia-induced psychosis - and to party. P-A-R-T-Y, in the way that only good, honest punk can.

In The Spazzys' set, there's no tinges of emo-wank, no overtones of anything other than three chords and slavish love of Ramones tunes. The songs have one speed setting - full bore - but that doesn't distract from the quality of the playing. The band is - as you have to be to pull off the kind of music they play - tight as the proverbial aquatic being's orifice. Most of the crowd can't see the band, all youthful enthusiasm in a leather wrapper, as they speed through their set, but it doesn't seem to hamper the reaction. Songs zip by every two minutes, and the strength that's led to the trio's constant string of support slots (playing as Marky Ramone's backing band must be a dream come true!) is readily on display. Whether it's the band's age, or the fact that they're totally immersed in their work, instrumental virtuosity replaced by honest-to-God love of what they do, one thing is simple: the band is kicking formidable amounts of arse with a crowd of punters of whom more than a few are only in attendance for the eye candy factor. Thumbs up!

The grin-factor's really kicked up a notch by the band's rapid-fire rendition of The Angels' (no, not the Doc Neeson variety) My Boyfriend's Back. It's the perfect encapsulation of their gig in just one tune: aware of the past, faithful to the spirit of the original - ain't no irony here - and yet embued with their own energy. This is a band unafraid to take on the classics (remember, these three have updated the most legendary punk shout-out of all time to "Second Verse! Different from the first!") and make them their own. And no matter how hard some might try to find fault with what The Spazzys do, it's simple - you can't. Watching them play is, quite simply, good clean fun. No, it ain't rocket science - but sometimes all you need is a buzzsaw guitar, a couple of chords and the heartfelt belief that you're rocking the fuck out.

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.

5.6.7.8s, The Holy Soul, The Booby Traps @ Annandale Hotel, 30/04/2004

The 5.6.7.8s destroy the Annandale on another of their Australian visits - but where's Quentin?

This was always going to be a big gig. Despite cancelling his Q&A session at the Opera House due to exhaustion, rumours persisted that Kill Bill director Quentin Tarantino would make an appearance at Japanese trio The 5.6.7.8s' Sydney gig. After all, he had put them in one of his films - surely a plus one on the door wouldn't be too much to ask?

But the Annandale's patrons - and with 400 payers, the venerable institution was absolutely heaving - were disappointed; the world's most successful fanboy was nowhere to be seen. In which case, he was the loser of the night: part from missing a sold-out performance by the headliners, he also missed out on one of the best-conceived local acts going - The Booby Traps.

On stage first, The Booby Traps warmed the place up with their knife-sharp take on miniskirt rock. The set tonight saw them approach their tunes with more enthusiasm than ever before; from the last couple of gigs the band's played, it seems they're slowly getting more au fait with playing live. Certainly, lead singer Carrie's voice tonight seemed to be pushing edges of strength that'd previously been a little more hidden away. What the quintet would benefit from, however, is a little of what The 5.6.7.8s have in abundance: a lack of selfconsciousness. Just rip it up and go! As good as these bearers of the Alice band rock flame are, if they all tore it up as much as their drummer Michelle did, they'd be an unstoppable combo, fuelled only by attitude and hairspray. Some of the band look slightly uncomfortable in the lights, but surely a look at the grins wreathed around the crowd should overcome any feelings of uncertainty? These guys are good - they just have to start believing it.

The Holy Soul put in their usual set of angsty, we'd-really-like-to-be-Joy-Division rock for the punters. Having stepped into a support slot at the Annandale often in recent months, the band appear comfortable playing on-stage - perhaps a little too comfortable. Indeed, the set seemed to be marked by a sense of the average - occasionally even plunging into the mundane. Sure, the songs the band plays have angst hard-coded into them, but they still reek of the quick study. Rather than being changed by the pain inherent in some of the tunes, it seemed a large part of the audience was left unmoved; for all the grinding onwards, for all the throbbed veins in the neck, there was no real emotion communicated. Perhaps it's easy criticism, but it seems that The Holy Soul mount the stage with nothing to say; that's why some of their tunes seem to have all the appeal and apparent plan of a seagull looking for a place to land. Certainly, tonight's lacklustre performance gave no indication of the talent that's been experienced at other gigs - their support slot for Bob Log III, for example, where they were revelatory - or the ocean of hype that currently surrounds them.

A hint, too: the cover of Swampland will, invariably, have ex-Scientists knocking on your door. And not with bouquets. Drop it and concentrate on your own stuff. It's said - reportedly attributed to Count Basie, a man who moved in a circuit where trading of tunes was much more common than today - that nobody should cover a tune unless they can make their own mark on it. It's just not happening here.

Finally, it was showtime. The three first ladies of beach-blanket axe-wrangling took the stage to a thunderous reception. And why the hell not? For the next hour-and-a-bit, they cranked out some hell-for-leather tunes that sounded like perfect '50s pop from Mars. Kill Bill-featured tunes I'm Blue and I Walk Like Jayne Mansfield made an appearance in a set packed with tasty, disposable numbers that always rested one notch below a snarl.

Formulaic? Sure. But the appeal of The 5.6.7.8s lies in the fact that they're so passionate about what they're doing. Their performance was marked by the fact that the trio seemed to be having just as good a time as the audience were. They're purveyors of great party songs: you know when the chord changes are coming, you know how the guitar solo will sound, and you know, somehow, when the backing ooh-oohs will sink in. But it doesn't matter because it's so good natured; something that's important and often overlooked in performance. They're having FUN! On stage! Unthinkable!

Despite the fact that they've been together for almost 20 years, The 5.6.7.8s' appeal - live, at least - rests on the fact that their playing exhibits a naive charm. You get the sense - despite the obvious ability of the band on their respective instruments - that there's a chance of it all going horribly wrong, that they only just picked up their respective axes last week. But it never fails, and never falters. Light and fluffy but with an iron hand on the tiller, The 5.6.7.8s destroyed the Annandale tonight - and did it with sweetness and a smile.

The end of the night saw the inimitable Jay Katz spinning the finest in chi-chi tunes - as he'd been doing all evening between sets. Tentatively, as the Annandale cleared, The 5.6.7.8s came onto the dance floor and proceeded to groove the night away - shyly, then with real release - with those lucky enough to be still sticking around. It seemed fair - the crowd had been moving non-stop while they were on stage; now it was time for the hardest-working beehive-worshipping babes in rock to get their own back.

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.