Date: September 18,2009
Venue: The Step Inn
Acts: The Nation Blue, SixFtHick, Dick Nasty, No Anchor
I was not well for this gig. Felt iffy to start with and got worse as the evening went on — ultimately I bailed quite early in the headliner’s set. It’s frustrating, as the sweaty, close-crowded punters appeared to be working their way toward some sort of meltdown. It’s annoying as The Nation Blue’s gritty rock ethos has a lot going for it. And it’s disappointing, as it shows in the poorer-than-usual quality of the few shots of the band I selected. Maybe next time.
Had better luck with the supports. Particularly so for SixFtHick as the Corbett brothers take their pent-up ferocity onto the sticky dance floor. They chaotically surge left then right — narrow spaces suddenly gaping as wide-eyed punters stumble out of their way. It’s hard to not take a step back when Ben is fully in your face — clawing at his chest like he wants to escape his own skin and screaming the lyrics to, say, The Floor Is The Limit. It’s hard to not be a little wary of Geoff’s animalistic fury as he belts out Retirement Party. But, at the same time, there’s a ritualistic element to their schtick. They’re not feral animals; the fury is controlled. And that’s why I sometimes wonder whether the duo hopes for a more involved response on the occasions when they dissolve the traditional distance between band and punter.
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.