67 Special @ The Annandale,(23/08/07)

Mon 27th Aug, 2007 in Gig Reviews

When 67 Special played Candy’s Apartment (Kings Cross) earlier this year your reviewer was a stranger to this Melbourne band, and I was quickly dead-impressed by their sass’n’spunk. Since then I’ve become quite the fan – downloading their videos for Sold Your Little Sister For A Red Motor Car and Killer Bees from iTunes, and spinning their fine new album Devil May Care on high rotation – and I’m delighted to tell you that they’ve only improved in the interim. Who would have thought it possible?

The Spesh lit up the room from the very start, launching into their highly contagious single Killer Bees, dishy frontman Ash Santilla’s hair quickly going from angel-smooth-blonde to devilish dark wet strands. In fact, by the end of the night a fine halo of mist followed his every move, kind of like that which surrounds a champion horse that’s just won a hard-fought race. To mix my metaphors utterly, there’s a raw evangelical fervour about the way the band – and Santilla particularly – attacks their sets, eyes staring manically through that raggedy hair, hand upraised and pontificating, as if to say, ‘Hold on, I’ve got something urgent to impart to you, something you need to hear’.

Much has been made of 67 Special’s citing of blues icon Muddy Waters in their new single, Shot At The Sun, but if you’re expecting old-school blues here, you’ll be largely disappointed (except for the luscious acoustic track, So Help Us All) – this is hard and fast rhythmic pub rock, heart’n’soul stuff, although the lonely night-train wail of the blues is never really far away. The heat coming off the stage, Santilla’s shirt glued to his torso, drummer Ben Dexter sheened with hard-yakka sweat… here’s the cicada-tick-hum of Southern summer, where even at noon shadows lurk, and there’s something wicked dwelling in the nearby swamp. Beneath the bounce and harmonies of the odd Britppop influence ( Gavin Campbell’s not just a great bassist, but carries a mean tune) there’s a dirty-nasty edge that’s not even dispelled by Louis Macklin’s Sunday-go-to-meetin’ soulful keyboards. A long jam toward the end of the set is saved from self-indulgence by the addition of Bryan Dochstader’s brilliant guitar licks, both he and frontman Santilla show ponying at front of stage, I guess to remind us all that we’re not at Sunday School anymore. As if we needed reminding.

67 Special play dirty, sexy, sweaty music that you can jump around to and sing to and get off on. They’re not nice boys these ones, not at all. In fact, I’m sure there are some little Southern towns they’d get run out of on a rail, having deflowered all the local virgins, romanced the mothers and wives, and drunk all the moonshine (I’m just assuming… it’s a vibe I get). But there’s no nevermind… so long as they’re putting on shows like this one, they’re welcome in my hometown any time.