The Jim Rockfords‘ rockabilly-blues stylings trod a fine line between chrome and grime. Bulldog-like frontman Junio Hickey’s voice isn’t the most memorable, but his harmonica interludes add verve to the pacey guitar-bass attack. Anyone who can take their eyes off bassist Kylie Lovejoys’s heart-stamped, black denim pants has no pulse.
No pretensions to subtlety or decorum, SixFtHick hammer-blast The Zoo from go to woah with sleazy antics and gritty canepunk. Ben Corbett dribbles spittle across his nipples and thrashes on the floor in ecstasy while brother and hard-roaring staight man Geoff incites the close-pressed crowd to frenzy. Amidst this mania, it’s easy to overlook “backing” trio bassist Tony Giacca, guitarist Dan Baebler and surnameless drummer Fred, but their ramrod rhythms on The Floor Is The Limit, Subject To Change, Dogshit Blues (and more) are as essential to SixFtHick as the Corbetts’ deranged on-stage machismo. Read more
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.
Date: October 12, 2009
Venue: The Zoo, Brisbane
Acts: No Anchor
Frankly, I feel totally ashamed for Brisbane that there were no more than 50 or 60 punters present to see No Anchor the other night. Shame, Brisbane, shame! I mean, if you like your sound brutal and unrelenting — and attendances for Slayer and Megadeth the other week indicates there’s a few thousand around who fit that bill – you should have a shrine to Ian Rogers and Alex Gillies. So, yes, it’s “just” a bass and a drumkit. No, there’s no guitar solos to have wet dreams about. But I guarantee that Steam, a crushing 13-minute opus that’s as thick as 30-week-old engine oil is just as suitable for enthusiastic, mindlessly aggressive headbanging as Angel of Death ever was.
And it’s not like the gig was exorbitantly priced — cover was a grand total of $8. A whole 10 cents more than a chicken kebab!
But no, every walking, talking, breathing turd in Brisbane would rather piss their money up against the wall at the fucking Big Douche Out. Cunts the lot of them.
Life — in the form of work — having gone rather haywire with a succession of shitty deadlines during August and much of early September, it’s taken a while for me to finish this set of photos. Which means that by inevitable corollary, the details of the night are really quite hazy. Annoying.
The Gallant use their support slot to debut a few new tunes they’ve been recording in their spare time. Initially, I come away with the sense that they might be moving to a less effects-laden sound. It feels more direct and aggressive — not least courtesy of James See’s inches-short-of-spitting-on-the-crowd vocal delivery. But, later, listening to their new three-track promo sampler, I’m left unsure. End Of The World still brims with clockwork electro-style drumming and Who-vian noises while One Call Away spends most of its poignant life as a gentle, slow-tempo ballad before spiralling to a crescendo of crashing cymbals and stabbing synths near the end. Both of which make the more straight-down-the-line guitar rock of Table For One all the more intriguing. Shed of much of The Gallant’s natural tendency to complexity, the lovelorn tune is one of their catchiest efforts yet.
The soulful raggedness of Kiwi songstress Kimbra belies her diminutive physical presence alone at the centre of the sprawling Hi-Fi stage. There’s something Jeff Buckley-esque about the way she spins restrained jazz-inflected guitar for her throbbing voice to warp itself around. It works. Beautifully. Still, hundreds of pig-ignorant punters would rather shout over her and line up for over-priced beer. Even one astonishing a-capella moment where she abandons guitar to loops her own vocals into a multi-octave beat-boxed melody draws not much more than polite interest.
The pop-rock charm of Hungry Kids of Hungary is as undeniable as it is irrepressible. In some ways, they seem to take a lot of their cues from fellow locals The Boat People — lots of melodic guitar hooks and sweet male harmonies. Sure, songs like Scattered Diamonds are pure indie fairy floss, but, by the same token, hating on them feels like going around kicking puppies for fun.
It’s an awful long time since I’ve seen Bertie Blackman play a gig. Probably 2004 at the Rev supporting the aforementioned Boaties. I vaguely remember a strongly guitar-based rock shtick — a little in the vein of Mia Dyson, but sans the twang. How things change: tonight Blackman is full of electronic influences and dance beats. At one point she even ditches the guitar completely. It’s a strong performance without ever being wholly engrossing — and the venue can take some blame here. Fact is that when the Hi-Fi fills up — like tonight — there’s really nowhere to get away from the crowd and for this little black duck the overwhelming crush got a little bit unnerving toward the end of the night.
Frankly, I feel totally ashamed for Brisbane that there were no more than 50 or 60 punters present to see No Anchor the other night. Shame, Brisbane, shame! I mean, if you like your sound brutal and unrelenting — and attendances for Slayer and Megadeth the other week indicates there’s a few thousand around who fit that bill – you should have a shrine to Ian Rogers and Alex Gillies. So, yes, it’s “just” a bass and a drumkit. No, there’s no guitar solos to have wet dreams about. But I guarantee that Steam, a crushing 13-minute opus that’s as thick as 30-week-old engine oil is just as suitable for enthusiastic, mindlessly aggressive headbanging as Angel of Death ever was.
And it’s not like the gig was exorbitantly priced — cover was a grand total of $8. A whole 10 cents more than a chicken kebab!
But no, every walking, talking, breathing turd in Brisbane would rather piss their money up against the wall at the fucking Big Douche Out. Cunts the lot of them.