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Ah rock ‘n roll: they’ve tried to disown you and put you in a corner, spread rumours that you were dead – but you fight hardest when you’re down, don’t you? You’re like the cornered mongrel (a rather large and monstrous one), growling and snapping at your assailants as they try and try to bring you down, but you only get wilder and nastier. You truly are an unstoppable feral beast.
On Sunday they tried to block that celebration of you – the Cherry Rock ‘08 festival with a liquor licensing issue. This was like a kick in the shins to you, wasn’t it? The festival that wishfully attempts to get your favourite bastard child AC/DC to come together once again and perform at the street that bears their name. To move out of AC/DC Lane would’ve broken a lesser creature, but not you, o’ rock. You rolled – you rolled right onto Bourke Street to stomp through The Palace and rattle the Ding Dong Lounge.
While some dressed in their Sunday best and proceeded to their respective churches, mosques and synagogues to pray for forgiveness, the rock ‘n roll minions congregated at their relocated altars. The different sects were well represented, as identified by their clothing – from the assorted t-shirts ( Motorhead, The Ramones, Clutch and even Johnny Cash ), to the leather and silk retro revivals – all gathered as one, in unholy communion. Towards the end of their night they colluded to create a sea of middle fingers, raised to the heavens in reverence to rock and in defiance of everything that stands in its way.
The headline act The Supersuckers that presided over that salutary gesture, continued in rebellious fashion. “We are now officially out of time, but we say ‘fuck it’ to that,” twanged Eddie Spaghetti, the handlebar-mustachioed cowboy of a frontman. The Supersuckers continued to churn out a selection of hits like Pretty Fucked Up and Born With a Tail as beers spilled onto the sticky floor, inebriated punters swayed and boogied, and a man in a glittery, sequined Elvis suit surfed the crowd.
James Young, the Master of Ceremonies, started off the first half of the event in a shiny gold suit at the Ding Dong Lounge. Midway through the second act at The Palace, he appeared in the sparkly purple Elvis costume complete with cape and flairs. His introductions and announcements were no less conspicuous than his attire, as he presented The Supersuckers as “The best rock ‘n roll band in the world” and The Raveonettes as “the coolest band in the world”. Among other bold appellations, he also presented Melbourne with the honour of “the capital of rock ‘n roll”. As brazen as his statements seem, his faith is hard to doubt – as the shiny gold suit or the Elvis costume was constantly in the thick of the action, dancing away in the middle of the throbbing crowd.
There were some intense performances – none more ferocious than the unmitigated violence of 6FT Hick, whose two singers were careening blurs of energy that went from pugilistic posturing onto ridiculous blink-and-you’ll miss moments. One of them starts off wearing a singlet, look away for a second and then he’s bare bodied, a strand of saliva dripping from his mouth to his chest. Oh, now he’s kissing a lady’s hand and then brutally ramming his face into her fist while the other singer does a series of scissor kicks and windmills, while the shirtless one is climbing the stack of speakers to perform gyrating pelvic thrusts. Oh, and there goes the other one, launching himself into the crowd: a haze of flying hair, bruises, booze (on one occasion it poured from a boot into a punter’s open mouth), blood and dirty, virulent rock.
More crazy antics came from The Hitmen, who possessed a singer with jerky, flailing moves that were a cross between Ian Curtis and Peter Garret. He also had a penchant for setting off on little journeys into the crowd, the wire connecting his microphone drawn out over the heads of the people behind him as he waded through the masses.
The Devilrock Four had the unenviable task of opening proceedings at The Palace, while stragglers making the journey across from Ding Dong Lounge were still filing in. Undeterred by the adversity, they fired up a Zeppelin-esque set of unbridled rockin’, armed with stratospheric riffs and infectious attitude they transported The Palace back to the heady days of Jimmy Page and Tony Iommi. The quality continued with the slightly punkier sounds of X, who kicked off with a fat bass line reminiscent of London Calling by The Clash. The Exploders then brought more bluesy rock to the party.
The low point of the festival came from The Galvatrons. This much-hyped band from Geelong sounded utterly unconvincing, seemingly lacking the ability to play their instruments with any conviction. They projected a bunch of vague fuzzed-out noises and melodramatic vocals that sounded a bit like Duran Duran with some watery distortion and synth. When the frontman goes down on his knees for a solo, playing a three note arpeggio and raising a clenched fist as if he just outshined Hendrix, one comes to realize that The Galvatrons are absolute bollocks. If only they paid as much attention to their music as they did to their looks and their indie-rock posturing.
One band that went a long way in obliterating the sour taste left by The Galvatrons were Hell City Glamours, who absolutely tore into a set of sleazy rock. From the tight low-end to the brilliant guitar histrionics played at a million-miles-per-hour, it was raw, carnal rock brimming with the strippers, coke (read: cocaine) and bourbon influenced proclivities of Motley Crue and LA Guns. This tattooed crew might be from Sydney, but credit must be given where credit is due – the ‘Rock ‘n Roll Motherfucker’ emblazoned on their singer-guitarist’s singlet is not to be taken lightly, for they truly embody the spirit of their music.
The more introspective Raveonettes followed the stomping, boot-scoot-while-you-headbang rock of Legends of Motorsport, and were an excellent counterpoint to the flamboyant excesses of the other bands on the bill. With the stage drowned in blue light, the three members of the band set about creating moody textures through reverb-drenched guitar and washes of synth. Hits from their latest release Lust, Lust, Lust spilled out with all the nuances intact, while older songs were revived and a Stereolab cover elegantly reinterpreted.
As the official festival closing time approached and disappeared, the crowd played along with The Supersuckers’ “patent-pending fake encore”. When the band played their last notes and James Young completed the last body-surf that detached the cape from his Elvis costume, you smiled didn’t you?
Earlier in the day you revealed your vicious fangs and snarled in defiance and in rabid exultation of victory – but as Cherry Rock ’08 wound down, the revelation of those sharp canines came with contentment, did they not? And as your disciples slowly headed to their homes battered, bruised, but in their minds blissful, you grew stronger.
For you know now rock ‘n roll, that whatever happens you are very much alive in those people. And it is those people who are very likely to celebrate you once more with Cherry Rock ‘09.
