Devil's Kitchen @ RailwayHotel 24/01/08

Tue 27th Jan, 2009 in Gig Reviews

Once every year there comes a time. A time of gathering where the grime and gutsy origins of stoner rock and grunge-infused sinew rise from behind seedy corner dives and garage doors to meet its day of annual glory. To some this is known as the ultimate divide in greasy smokey drawl retribution. To others, it is simply known as Devil’s Kitchen. And what a magnificent concoction of evil directive it was.
But in most accepted tradition of the theme, this festival was a one of slow bloom. The infantile Eagle was first to draw from the deck, but actually brimming with a nervous confidence seeing as it was their second gig. Ever. The start even resembled something full of promise as they wrangled their way charismatically through their number The Tale Of Will Squash-Hall and The Demonic Hooker. Lets just put their flavour this way, these guys have no problems with playing balls-to-the-floor rock that has some serious groove to it – but as soon as they open their mouths something happens. Something that really was a crime. And it all comes down to the lyrics. They are trying to be comical. But not, if you get the drift. Enough said.
Then came the Perth supergroup Gilroy . Supergroup? Well not only do they contain the Gilroy man himself, but members of The Scotch of Saint James and Schvendes also. Quite a prospective ARIA-winning mix, if you go by the numbers. But although these guys have the most apparent yes-factor, there was a certain daring cuteness to the way frontman Gilroy positioned the tunes and lyrics upon the quirky rhythm and tone of his voice that gave a warm ring to everything he did. Especially when Sing Your Heart Out ended the set. How reaffirming.
This was where the stoner decree heard the first bell toll with Blackwater Station . Shrouding themselves in very obvious influences, namely Queens of the Stone Age and Kyuss, these three dudes really hold on to a beat that could really make them mythical. Gritty, groaning and always with a perpetual groove that kept most entranced. But they have one fatal flaw in vocalist Ryan Mcleod’s . Lack of inner grunt. There was this great, lazy way of delivery but without the power to drive the music – the style was just lost in the wind. Needless to say their drummer Russell Commons, was for lack of a better phrase, fucking amazing.
Resident doom overlords Cease then nailed the coffin shut with the shudder of delirious bass, the echo of tribal toms and the gurge of tasteful guitar notes littered upon the feast. There was only one song, but it was rich and so utterly, irresistibly dirty that those who fought the urge to nudge their heads in motion must have been soulless. Not to mention the welcome greeting by skin-man Nick Odell pounding away in a pair of smart red boy-leg briefs. But the most innovative sign that this band should be destined for some higher recognition is their ability to get lost in the music. And how they draw you into it. Directions for these lads would be to close your eyes and enjoy the ride.
Next Big Thing competition lover-boys Project Mayhem then took stage for the punk syndicate’s quota. Now, these are four men that you either love or hate. There is no grey. Some make cover band comparisons, others tout them as a ball of flaming fury. But either way you look at it, the one thing that have is an insane stage presence. Though admittedly corny at times, there is something always amusing about boys who come from the upper socio-economic class belting out ‘punk’ tunes like it’s a Sunday roast. But hey, at least they have some class. The crowd lapped them up on the evening as these lads of Mayhem wiped the drool from their faces and served them cream.
Rock-and-cock was next on the agenda with Crossbones on cue. And they certainly do pride themselves on a – œno bullshit’ approach to everything they do, in every aspect. Taking a slice from the Aussie pub rock pie, the power engine that resides in this quartet of sorts had a distinctive swagger that most of the well-lubricated listeners were eager to receive. Completely uncomplicated, but really all about the balls – no song is considered to be highly memorable but how the crowd becomes attired to their chugging machine is how they roll. Like shoving a pitchfork down your throat and waiting for the gurgled screams, these guys are rough to the core.
Snotty gutter punx The Homicides looked right at home swaying around the stage in a kind of twisted matrimony between beer, harsh lights and sloppy playing. But those are the ingredients they love and they give as good as they get. Frontman Donny Rat looked more than the part with black shades plastered to sweaty skin, lurching around the stage in catatonic spasms as lyrics spurted from his tongue. Most fitting when the content was Zero Population’s ”...this place is a fucking toilet”. All class. These guys are getting a little older, a little slower, a little drunker but they never seem to lose the entertainment factor. And they are still catchy as fuck. So who can argue with that?

Now this is where the night turned a little hazy, for at me at least – but I am sure the rest of the shenanigans followed some sort of similar path. Hopefully not with the same circumstances. On this musical journey, I stopped at a kitsch little burger joint in the area to dine on a chickpea burger that was highly recommended by a good comrade of mine. Needless to say half an hour after the sediment had settled, my stomach lining and its contents ended up in the foul depths of the Railway Hotel’s ladies lavatory. Shame there was not enough energy on my behalf to catch headliner Winnebago Deal. But I guess anyone would empathise with my situation.