Four young lads in sweats and obnoxiously flared pants bound down the pavement, jostling each other, kicking around on the streets because they’re bored and, hey, that’s what guys do. Two girls walk past. “Hello, ladies”. Smirks and shoving and hoots of laughter as the boys walk on in search of food or something else that’ll keep them occupied. After all, they’ve got a couple of hours to kill before they’re due on stage.
Down the road, kids are sprawled along the Enmore, having waited hours to be front row for their international dance-rock superheroes. Doors open and they cram down the front of the stage. They’ve made it. But first they must endure Youth Group.
The pairing of Youth Group and The Music is an odd one, a fact not lost on the early revellers. The four piece rip through a couple of new songs before settling into tracks from their second album, Skeleton Jar. It’s beautifully quaint, charming with a live sound more muscular than on record. Eyes are drawn to drummer Danny Allen as he thrashes out on the skins, the aggressive thud-thud mildly shocking yet refreshing after being accustomed to the politeness of Youth Group’s recorded sounds.
The stage is maybe slightly dwarfing the band, but it probably has more to do with the empty spaces where the audience should be. The kids down the front, they clap politely after each song, maybe even cheer a little for the tracks they’ve heard on Triple J or something. But really they’re here for one reason and one reason only: The Music.
While the kids wait, everyone else heads to the foyer to fit in a drink or five, creating ludicrously long lines at the bar. Youth Group doesn’t exactly initiate a frenzy of excitement when you know that in about half an hour you’re going to be flinging your arms about at unnatural angles and sweating it out dancing. So everyone just stands around, chatting amiably, buying rounds. Suddenly lights dim and ominous space music seeps through the speakers. People scream, drink lines are abandoned, cups are dropped, and there’s a mad dash into the theatre. In three seconds flat the foyer is empty, save for the confused few left clutching little plastic cups.
Opener Welcome To The North has everyone frothing at the mouth, as hands are jabbed in the air and people dance, voluntarily or otherwise. The four innocuous young lads of earlier have turned into a psychedelic dance rock machine: tight, well-oiled and utterly unstoppable. Guitarist, Adam Nutter sticks to business, head down, his fingers flying up and down the neck and his guitar emitting trippy, whinny squeals throughout the place. Phil Jordan hits the skins with seasoned professionalism, backlit by a massive banner screaming the band’s logo. Stuart Coleman slaps his bass with vigour, nodding in time to the pounding drones. But all this is merely means to support the raw power that is Robert Harvey.
Harvey is dynamite. Quite literally – prancing about, threatening to go off at any moment. His repertoire of dance moves has grown considerably since they last played here: there’s the jerking-the-shoulder-while-hopping-across-the-stage one, the whipping-the-head-back-and-forth-from-the-mic-while-singing one, the thrusting-the-groin-with-a-cheeky-grin one, and the now famous spinning-helicopter-drop-down one. Then there is That Voice. Soaring to impossible heights, Harvey sings with absolute conviction, gripping that mic for dear life. Hair flipping about wildly, flares flowing mightily, he is a force to be reckoned with.
The swooping lights and hands stabbing the air make you feel like you’re in a rave, except, er, there’s guitars and you’re in a theatre with plush velour seating. But it doesn’t matter, because they’re playing all the hits, and my God Harvey’s going nuts, and everyone’s going nuts, and you’re somewhere else altogether. But then the lights come up and despite the screams of protest, there is no encore. Instead, we trawl out, sweaty and frazzled and wanting more, but still smiling.
