Where there’s Ned Collette there’s usually Henry Wagons – the two mates like to gig together despite their very different styles, taking turns at headlining according to the venue and audience. On this occasion at the Northcote Social Club Wagons supports (along with Dead Letter Chorus), playing to a rowdy, packed house, his fans almost squashing Ned’s more reserved but no less ardent admirers.
Wagons has a flagrant disregard for fashion. He thunders around the stage looking like Mike Moore in John McEnroe’s wardrobe. No matter – his big trumpet of a voice and exuberant band keep things rocking along. The place is heaving by the time Ned joins Henry on stage for their inspired cover of The Church’s classic Unguarded Moment, which perfectly suits Ned’s nasal, appropriately Steve Kilbey-esque voice and Wagons’ fruity baritone.
By the time Wagons signs off, we have a healthy crowd waiting for Ned Collette – an unusual thing for a guy whose last few gigs have echoed through half-filled pubs. Not that Ned cares. As always, he proceeds to play to suit himself rather than the audience, which can make his sets veer dangerously between beguiling and completely alienating.
A big problem is that a solo-billed gig with his trusty drummer and bassist seems to be a thoroughly inadequate showcase for the guy’s rich talents and his utterly absorbing studio output. At his best he recalls bits of the Go-Betweens, Paul Kelly and the Triffids and adds his own intriguing prog rock production to tracks like The Country with A Smile. But it just doesn’t translate to the stage – which is a damned shame, because anyone can scratch out a few extended, distorted power chords until the audience are screaming ‘kill it’, but not everyone can craft the kind of songs Ned is spoiling by doing these crazed solos. Songs layered with dreamy minor chords, harmonies, noir moog, slide guitars, violins and melancholy, intelligent words intoned by that distinctive voice – and unfortunately all but the last element is missing from this live set.
The friend I’ve brought along to convert to the joys of Ned obsession is left cold, and it’s painfully apparent as the folks drain out of the room at the end of the night, unloved, that she’s not the only one.
Ned could easily steal the mantle of ‘most important singer songwriter’ from Gareth Liddiard of the overhyped Drones, but he needs to show off what makes him different – not what makes him part of the po-faced herd of self-indulgent ‘serious musos’ out there. His recordings are essential listening, and they keep me skulking back to his gigs, dragging nonplussed friends whom I then have to convince by lending them his CDs, which will instantly convince anyone. Perhaps he could learn a little from Henry Wagons’ balls-out showmanship. Though it probably isn’t his style, it might get him the wider audience he truly deserves.
