And the kids danced.

Bang! Kill The Director, out of a raw mix of subtle banter and general quiet. Bang! Lost In The Post, and suddenly we’re all screaming something about getting to ‘Santa’ or god knows what. And all of a sudden, from an empty stage we’re tossed into a minefield of sweaty, bobbing bodies chanting in perfect time, to repetitive screams and tongue-in-cheek hollerings of a man who strangely seems to need the microphone a full half a metre shorter than his already diminutive frame. Not to be beaten, his bass playing friend needs the microphone A FULL metre shorter. We’re left glaring wide-eyed at three guys, two of them looking like they’ve just descended from the highest point of cathedral Notre Dame to enter Indie reality and strangely didn’t have to get a haircut for the occasion.

And the kids danced, and so did I.

Within the space of two songs I was left in no doubt as to why I was there, I was satisfied. Shit, the crowd was satisfied and they’d only been on for 5 and a half minutes. Anthems man, no longer do anthems have to be ABOUT something they’ve just got to be loud, quick, easy and above all dementedly catchy, and you’re there. Teenagers and drunk indie-cum-jock-cum-I’m underground private school kids (depressingly this included people that somehow passed their Year 12 exams) are squirming around in the palm of your dance floor shaped hands.

The Wombats seem easy to understand, simple to enjoy, you don’t have to give anything to The Wombats, you just find yourself hedonistically taking and taking. Ignore the marsupial obsession (according to Murph they saw their first ever wombat only hours before the show), the fact that they will eventually appear on “Neighbours’, TWICE, and you’ve got something so naggingly simple it hurts. (You’d understand the whole “I love Australia without having seen it’ thing if you where a Scouser (Liverpudlian (from Liverpool)) Somehow this year the city is the European capital of culture. Hey, these guys did meet in an Art College). All it takes is a Norwegian bass player who is a little nuts, a drummer with a dash of style, a lead singer who can write killer hooks and one line chants. Add a careening sense of loser-fun and a very strange way of harmonising (punctuating each other between lines with next to no convergence unless it’s delectably rhythmic) and your dancing and singing and sweating and losing the controls that keep us socially acceptable.

On record, the band is stilted, esoteric in a way too obvious way, derivative without perfecting a copied sound, they hardly change across 42 minutes of spin time, there’s no crazy-arse instrumental virtuosity and worst, they’re not that funny. They just do what they do. There is no pretension, hell, they’re probably not very good, but take their charm, their songs, their anthems and put it in a totally packed out pub/club/alcohol dispensing venue and you’ve got gold.

Cart wheeling their way through an hour long set they covered all the ground they needed to. They played all of A Guide To…, a new, never been played before track and a B-Side or two. But I didn’t care. After the first ten minutes they could of played an indie reinterpretation of Toscini and I would of been giddily happy. The Shiny Brights opened it with heady aplomb, helping to produce the first lines of mosh sweat seen on the foreheads of expectant punters. One day they’ll break the shackles of having each of their songs serve only to start conversations in the crowd like ‘Man, who does that sound like?’ and ‘Dude, I’ve heard this song before’ and do something more than crank out juicy and cunningly enjoyable Dance floor Filler. They’re good, they’ve got good taste. They do bounce up and down a lot on stage though. No-one within the city limits that night had the hooks to compare with the Wombats anyway. So why try?

Yes the Wombats faded, their first two songs were their best, but they were off stage heading to Melbourne just over an hour after they had begun. The tornado was engrossing and any moment, I was forced by boredom to further study the guy next to me (No joke, from behind he had young, young hair, from in front his face was old, so old. I can’t really elucidate (and shouldn’t in this review) how freaky it is to see a man approaching pension age sporting a shiny, product induced schlock of spiky hair) I started dancing again straight away, carried on the momentum of those first few crazy songs, occasionally jolted back to the present by more anthems. And I won’t sell them short, anthems abounded, the pathetically awesome Let’s dance to Joy Division or the disjointed and paranoid My First Wedding and even the somewhat worrying School Uniforms came along at times just when things where starting to get all samey and juiced it back up again. Finishing with Backfire at the Disco. Happy, happy times.

So why do you go to see the Wombats? Their record didn’t excite me, what they’ve got to say even bores me and their marsupial obsession worries me. But the night was awesome. They packed out The Gov their set list was close to perfect and they’re simple. We need simple sometimes. They give you the gift of the dance, but not in that Michael Flatley kinda way. In that, my head won’t stop moving, shit I’m having way too good a time, oh my god, this is actually awesome kinda way.

Thanks fellas.