Hoodoo Gurus, The Fauves, Evenand The Frowning Clouds @ TheEspy, Melbourne (21/11/08)

Mon 24th Nov, 2008 in Gig Reviews

Local boys The Frowning Clouds must be doing something right to have pulled a gig on this bill. When I saw them supporting The Vasco Era once I thought they might be one to watch, and here they are. They’re all 60s/70s jangles and faux psychedelia: the vocalist has certainly got the voice for it and the vast majority of them have the hair for it. Unfortunately for their acoustics, the front half of the Gershwin Room is empty but The Frowning Clouds still put on an energetic and believable show. They’re not breaking any new ground and for some reason I find it endearing that the vocalist and one of the guitarists keep changing places. Bit rough to start, but they pull it together beautifully in the end with the guitarist giving up his guitar for a go on the harp. Rollicking drums keep everything lucid under beer bottle slide and all-out rocking-out from the whole crew. They might be young but they know their shit.

Whilst waiting patiently to be admitted to the Gershwin Room, the – œMayor of Melbourne’ Wally Kempton has been running up stairs, down stairs, in doors, out doors, into the bar, out of the box office, running the hand through the hair. Now that the bass is strapped on he looks a little less anxious. Ash Naylor and Matt Cotter have no apparent worries. I’ve said it before: I have a special place in my heart for three-piece rock bands who sound bigger. Anyways, Even are the kings of it, smashing straight into the brilliant rock they are known for. The room immediately gets stage heavy: evidently there are people outside the music fraternity that know these guys fucking rock.

A couple of songs in, they kick into Lennon’s Starting Over but as Ash commands, “Matthew, take me away,” Matthew does not take him anywhere. Trouble afoot. Wally does the niceties while Ash rectifies the problem. Wally and Matt keep things simmering as they build into a blistering delivery of The Common Law. Lennon who? Ash is such a kick arse guitarist, Matt sternly addresses cymbal, in turn belting snare and bass through Which Way To Run. Ash is singing about – œmaking it look easy,’ and these dudes certainly do.

The logistical concerns from early evening have deserted Wally completely by now and he’s evening out ball tearing solos from Ash; they all get together for a good old fashioned rock – œn’ roll ending, neatly dovetailing into the next tune. They graciously thank The Fauves for – œinviting us to their party’ and make nostalgic noises about the past twenty years. A lovely slice of professionalism, that The Fauves themselves could have borrowed later in the evening.

The nostalgia continues as Ash heads off into a riff jam of favourites cuts (John Williams’ Star Wars anyone?). I would have been well satisfied with the Rock and Roll Saved My Life ending, but they opt to take us out with Keep On Burning. Let’s hope they do – they’re doing Christmas at The Corner and you would be insane to miss it, if you’re interested in seeing the best rock band in Melbourne. (gush, gush gush.)

The birthday boys are up next: The Fauves. They get straight into it with Phil taking vocal duties on Don’t Get Death Threats Anymore. They’re a warm, familiar rock blanket; bit rough but I love it cause they’re an heirloom. As I wistfully recall beachside festivals, road trips in old Holdens and odd cheeky bong, their shambolic delivery is peppered with laughs and imitable commentary from Andy. However, it does take until the fourth offering before they reach any level of cohesion. By the time Surf City Limits and Dogs Are The Best People swing around I am feeling a bit old and the assembled crowd goes mental. The Fauves do fashion a bloody good rock song though, and I am impressed when they hit the mark. Despite Ted’s repeated requests for toiletry leave, they push on through Baby Dale (another of Phil’s – his contributions seem to be the promise of what they will do when they grow up), Andy owns up to the two cock-ups he engineered in the last two songs and they redeem themselves with Sunday Drive (from When Good Times Go Good): it starts like a cop chase, with squirmy guitars, tight fills and awesome hooks.

Whatever was slated next, Andy can’t remember how it goes and things start to look a bit shaky. Ted’s still copping a tongue-lashing and Andy manages to direct his vitriol into a screaming performance, absolutely fucking nailing it. The Charles Atlas Way is welcome: I’d forgotten how much I liked that song. In what seems an inexplicable rant, Andy decides to spend a mic break cursing the Hoodoo’s sheet-covered drum riser, angrily questioning what one has to do be elevated above being – œfucking lapdogs.’ All seems a bit bratty, although The Fauves had implied on their website that they wouldn’t be playing the same room as the Hoodoo’s so perhaps they thought their 20th birthday meant a headline slot. Must be frustrating to have been a staple in the Australian music diet for 20 years, to little appreciation (The Hard-Ons anyone?) but fuck. It just looked like sour grapes, especially in comparison to the splendid Even set. They took the shitty pants off long enough to bash through Hot Nairobi Nights and Give Up Your Day Job, both great, but I was indifferent by this stage.

After midnight Aussie legends Hoodoo Gurus took to the stage, with frontman Dave Faulkner happily announcing that after 130 years, they were finally making their debut in the iconic venue. Hard to believe. By this point, the capacity crowd are well liquored and looking forward to bleating all the classics; the band smashes into it like the force that they are. I am ashamed to admit I don’t know what the first song is called, but I do know all the words and happily yell them along with everyone else.

Now what you should understand kids, is that the Gurus are not some relic of a group who provided a naff theme song for Thank God You’re Here. These dudes are the real deal – and as they careen into No Time Like The Right Time I note that the crowd comprises a very good cross section of punters aged between 20 and 60 (with a couple of mohawked punks thrown in for good measure). The unbridled rawk, shredding guitars, relaxed, witty stagecraft and classic playing is not something a young band can expect to cultivate overnight. The Gurus sound better than ever, and so they should.

Big Deal is a performance with the energy levels of a band twenty years younger: dark bass, spirally guitars, a filthy whirlpool that looks metal in the face. Highway One is similarly passionate, but a foray into melodia gets a lukewarm (but still shit hot) response from fans. Come Anytime gets everyone back on track: the audience goes absolutely spare. Another song title slips my mind, but the peeps doing The Stomp to the tribal double kicks make me grin look a fool before Brad Shepherd (lead guitarist) has a crack at a couple of smashing covers.

Half pots are thrust in the air and every hip is shaking to Bittersweet: decorum is a long dismissed concept; everyone’s screaming the words as poor bar staff try to negotiate more slabs of ale through the beer-fart air.
– œ Tojo? ’ asks Dave, – œLet’s get it out of the way.’ Dealt with, Brad gets another go with Form A Circle and my legs start to feel like matchsticks holding up my body weight. It has been a long day, a long night and this crowd shows no sign of slowing down. The Gurus have been delivering a powerhouse show for an hour already and give no indication that things might be winding up. Sliding into a fantastic A Thousand Miles Away, it occurs to me that What’s My Scene? hasn’t gotten a run yet. The raucous crowd has gradually forced me from the front of the room to the back and it’s getting to the point where if I stay, I’ll end up with a pen through my arm, hand or spleen. I battle on for another song, but it’s hopeless. I reluctantly turn away from the legends party, exhausted, and leave the room rocking out like it’s the last night on earth. Fucking brilliant. You want your drums on a riser, that’s what you gotta do.