Roxanne Parlour has something of an identity crisis : half boudoir-red lampshades and groovy garage-sale velour couches, half black boxy industrialism and neon lights. It’s an identity crisis that is parodied when taking the archaic elevator to the third floor. (Shouldn’t complain, don’t have to walk three flights each way to have a fag anymore.) When the doors roll open at the second floor the couple sharing the lift with me look vaguely alarmed until I point out that we are looking into a karaoke bar. Relief ensues and we progress to the band room without ado.
At ten thirty the first band The Frowning Clouds are just getting into it, melding dead simple 50s rock and roll riffs with lush overtones that seemed to draw more from late 60s, early 70s influences. Modern rockabilly, galloping drums, spiraling psychedelic guitar and steam train harmonica all get thrown in to create a totally pleasing, familiar and vaguely exciting sound.
Their mates must have gotten there early to smash some beers down, but by now their main priority was dancing in front of stage. They are having so much fun that vocalist, Zak, (NB: Young bands, why don’‘t you put your names on the net somewhere? Don’t you want people to know who you are?) ends up downing tools and jumping into the fray with them to get his own groove on. You can squint your eyes at these dudes and remember The Beatles, even though I suspect they’ve all got The Rolling Stones on vinyl – with swamp land drums and the fog machine creating an off-the-bayou mist around their knees, they really are something.
They scream to a hoe-down halt with whooping and cheering ringing in their ears. Considering these alleged teenagers are so green that they had to borrow half the Ooga Booga’s gear they sound like they’re been here before – not in a ‘been done’ way, in an old soul way. Could be one to watch. Could be one to die out with the other revivalist bands that sprout persistently. Either way, I am fucking loving old school rock and roll lately (perhaps as a result of the over saturation of Aussie hip hop and electro-rock pop, whatever the fuck it is that keeps permeating into my head). I wanted to give these fellows a little cuddle afterwards and say, ‘Thank yoooooo.’
Conversely, The Ooga Boogas don’t do a great deal for me. Yes, rock and roll, so one box ticked, but I wonder if the vocalist actually wanted to be the vocalist, or if he just drew the short straw. Looking somewhat uncomfortable, the bearded front man does a bit of singing but leans toward shouting, spoken word lyrics for the most part, bringing to mind Violent Femmes frontman Gordon Gano. He (The Oogas dude, not Gordon) relaxes a great deal when jamming out with the rest of the band – a regular occurrence that is sometimes too long and too uninteresting to be really called a jam. After I recover from the incessant [read: fucking annoying] feedback of their second number their grasp of surf guitar, tight neat rock and good drum fills and a Doors-lite vibe has me nearly endeared. As the gig progresses they wander all over our musical history, picking up bits as they go ( B52s, Roy Orbison) and I concede they are good, if unoriginal. I learn later that these blokes are in other bands as well (most notably, Eddy Current Suppression Ring) and am glad I didn’t know that before I saw them. I might have had an inflated idea about what to expect.
Off they lope and I set up camp next to a stack of gear beside stage: black boxes with chrome corners, hard cover guitar cases and a couple of drum bags, like cherries, on top. The Vasco Era – Sid O’Neil (vox, guitar), *Ted O’Neil*l (bass) and Michael Fitzgerald (drums) are casually fluffing around on stage getting their shit together.
Ted, very smart in a shirt and vest, disappears with Michael at some point leaving a jovial Sid to finish tuning, a task punctuated by happy swilling of his longneck. A few people cram in front of me and when a smashing rock song starts I think, ‘Fuck these guys rock.’ Realising the song is Get Free The Vines , a warmer that the DJ has dropped on for us, I fume ‘call yourself a music writer’ for the millionth time this week.
Sid speaks. ‘Hullo everyone,’ in a slightly fractured, sweet and totally sexy voice. Someone’s scrawled “Roxanne’s Rox” on the back of his white wife-beater singlet and he is gorgeous – like something out of The Outsiders . I’m a little bit in love with him. There, I said it. Get off my back.
Dedicating a song ‘to Donovan’ Sid literally belts out a tune. Dylan-esque, extraordinarily powerful, beautiful. Joined briefly by a shadowed harmonica, all instrumentation is halted for an a’capella peak. Out of nowhere Michael and Ted materialize and together the trio rip the room a new one. It’s fucking awesome. Sid releases a wall of roar – not quite Barnesy, you understand, not quite Nic Cester – something else altogether and it’s brilliant. Playing guitar one-handed he gives his Melbourne Bitter longneck some attention, all three attacking some more punk focused rock; Ted thrashing around like a man possessed. The enamoured crowd screamed the chorus to When We something something (as introduced by Sid): a truly raw, absolutely smashing showstopper, the maniacal band playing their fucking hearts out.
Changing tack dramatically they follow with Dock Of The Bay – Sid’s vocals a benchmark in blues, and total sex into the bargain. Sid then beckons a reclining Michael and Ted with some dirty, grungy riffs. I am reminded of Park Life by Blur, except when the crowd chimes in for the chorus, it isn’t. Ted and Michael are practically violent in their delivery and I muse that there must be nights when they have physically damaged themselves. Michael punishes the cymbals as though he’s whipping them for insubordination. When he and Ted bolt from the stage half way through a song you wonder whether they were prevented from having a quick wee by the locked door they tried to run through, or whether they were just trying to blow off some steam.
Maybe it was a diversion to take my eyes off Sid. A third guitarist pops up to accompany the boys and the vibe on stage hits fever pitch again, all four having a fucking cracking time. Ted slips in a wardrobe change, Sid pulls out an electric lap steel and proceeds to change the way I will look at lap steels for ever more. I have visions of your Ben Harper, crooning away under a palm tree and now I have Sid shredding feedback onto it, he’s insane and madly electric, sounding like a wounded, whiskey soaked heart. They all climax into a roaring finale, Michael leaping off his stool to attack Sid in a full bear hug. I’m stunned. They start loading out as if oblivious to the effect they’ve just had on everyone and I race home to update my Facebook status to ‘Melanie loves Sid O’Neil today’. It was Dave Grohl last week, but this is real.
