Venue: Valley Fiesta, Fortitude Valley
Date: October 24, 2009
Acts: Butcher Birds, SixFtHick, Vegas Kings
Jo Nilson’s mildly exasperated “Wake up Fortitude Valley!” is Butcher Birds‘ sole protest against a somnolent late-afternoon crowd too full of sun (and, presumably, booze) to bestir themselves and get into the tunes. Instead, the songs do the talking as the band powers through a set replete with cuts from new long-player Set My Bones.
The confidence is well placed: The Gate, Millions and Blood Message pitch a thumping, crunching bottom-end against fuzzing guitars and the sleek vocals of Stacey Coleman in the most toothsome fashion. Hook-laden fuzz becomes visceral, punk anger when Donovan Miller briefly steals vocals duties for Amp. Even if the punters are a little introverted today, the broad smiles of the Butcher Birds as they conclude with a screeching, dissonant cover of The Amps’ Tipp City shows at least four people in the Valley are keen to cut loose.
Blessed darkness. A comforting, gossamer veil anomymises our communal shame as the Corbett brothers preside over sickening rites of swamp-rock. They spew misanthropic hate — thickly congealed inside sleazy riffs groaning with self-destructive potential — expiating life’s sins in convulsive waves of self-abuse that we may be spared. Weak humans, we succumb; we embrace the sweating, pummelling debauchery. The Floor Is The Limit. Living the Dogshit Blues, we howl bereft. The Shitbird Has Landed, and it is us. Venally, we pursue White Light, Wet Heat. Its indisputable transience is irrelevant. Then, the ultimate abasement, all-too-willing Ashtray for refuse as the masters mark, abuse and, finally, discard us.
After a typically brutal rendition of Hail, Pete Collins announces there won’t be any Train tonight — his right hand has gone numb. Benjamin Dougherty, in typically dry fashion, observes: “I think you’re just going to have to man up a bit there, Collins.” They play it anyway. Still, it’s a moment near the end of their set where Collins moves across stage to point out Dougherty’s machine-precision fretwork with a stubby finger that’s defining — if Vegas Kings played their grimy speed blues any faster, their guitars would burst into flame.