Jupiter Lead, The BatteryKids, 20th Century Graduates @Rocket Bar, Adelaide(07/08/09)

Tue 11th Aug, 2009 in Gig Reviews

20th Century Graduates

Which in context makes our opening act all the more improbable but no less inviting on a live stage tonight; or rather like discovering a bright yellow canary still singing sweetly like nothing’s amiss in a collapsed coalmine long since condemned to a cemetery. In both reality and ridiculous metaphor: neither should really exist, but we’ll still gladly accept them regardless. That’s the 20th Century Graduates, or more specificially that’s their “lead cheerleader” Larissa. Granted she’s not the lead singer of the band: that would be Jeremy the long haired “labradoodle” hidden away on the drumkit. She’s not exactly the most crucial member of the band either: as her singing, tambourine playing and all that whimsical shit she pulls with a melodica (aaah who the fuck knows!?) doesn’t exactly scream “pivotal” (in quite the same way that we often wonder just what it is that Art Zinoviev provides for Fire! Santa Rosa Fire!). But she IS the first one you’ll notice and she does set the mood brilliantly. Thanks to her beaming one hundred watt smile and her boundless enthusiasm bordering on shitcrazy Jesus freak devotion (and perhaps a few other band members playing ACTUAL instruments) the 20th Century Graduates are without a doubt the happiest damn band in all the Adelaide scene. They’re fucking infectious. They even give The Keepsakes a run for their money (somewhat ironic given that they share two band members: Jeremy on drums and Jon on bass) in fact in many ways I’m half wondering if they’re bona-fide flesh eating serial killers. I mean c’mon, nobody can be THIS head explodingly gleeful without harbouring some seriously psychotic brain dysfunction!? (yes I’m looking at YOU Larissa!). And yet that’s exactly who they are: nothing but rainbows, sunshine, lollipops and teddy bears skipping hand in hand, happy as all fuck; like they’re one teeny tiny bag of Skittles short of a fullblown outbreak of type two Diabetes. Weirder still (especially with James’ joyous trumpet revelries bursting forth every minute) you can’t get enough of it. Even if the songs pretty much run the same sunshine happy theme over and over, it’s still a winning formula. Yup, if you could imagine Frente! joining forces with Belle & Sebastian, Crowded House, The Shins and The Smiths to write songs about summer love, swimming pools and ice cream trucks. If you could imagine a Combi van with a giant fuck-off daisy painted on it gathering rust in a fantastic field of green, as a merry band of minstrels skip about arm in arm blowing bubbles while you trip balls on acid. If you could imagine any of this shit grinning from ear to ear, whilst stuck in THIS sickening soul sucking void on a Friday night? then you’re in an awesome place indeed; for such is the diabolical power of the 20th Century Graduates tonight. They may very well kill us all where we stand and wear our skins like “Silence Of The Lambs”, but it’s a small price to pay to feel THIS ridiculously cheerful!

The Battery Kids

As much as our opening act were at odds with the stifling surrounds they found themselves in (and would likely be much more at home frolicking in the springtime accompanied by a birdsong chorus of Disney’s cheesiest cartoon characters) our second act welcomes this inpenetrable gloom willingly like a heavy winter’s cloak. They channel that darkness, harness all of that foul discontent, amplify it to truly anthemic levels and then unleash it upon us wave after wave, with gnashing teeth and screaming guitars like the whole world is about to crash about our ears. Or in other words they sound very much like Muse. Picture any music video featuring Matt Bellamy and his cohorts having an exploding hissyfit on guitars as next to everything around them gets blown to shit by excessive g-forces and hurricane winds, or simply picture the Four Horseman Of the Apocalypse fucking up next to everything as reinterpretted by Japanese manga and that’s pretty much what we’re dealing with here; only in teeny tiny budget form like Pokemon vs Digimon (and infinitely more claustrophobic on Rocket Bar’s oppressively dark stage tonight). It’s that same shriekingly melodramatic, frequently operatic, “Bohemian Rhapsody” inspired energy that everyone loves to shit pineapples to with Muse. The only real difference here is the vocals: which thanks to Shannon Juvan’s “effeminite” delivery (sounding rather like Daniel Johns from Silverchair at his most hormonally challenged) only makes them sound even more emotionally overblown. It’s fucked up I know, and it’ll likely annoy the piss out of you the first time you see it (dude.. tell me about it!) but the more you hear them the more you start to dig their shit something fierce: partly for the ripe comedy of it, but mostly for the open invite they give you to go fucking beserk in response. The Battery Kids. For them it’s all about SELLING that performance, exaggerating it to truly absurd levels: through Shannon Juvan’s meaty riffs, Tom Krieg’s spastic whiplash rhythms, Bowl Lipson’s toddler temper tantrum keys and Shannon Simpsons aristocratic abrupt style of drumming; till it practically makes your teeth rattle. It’s all in the violent contrasts. From those weird interludes where they all take turns to hoot like owls, to the exploding crescendos that follow. It’s all in the psychotic covers they perform: with their snarling renditions of both Nick Cave’s “Red Right Hand” and Jimi Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady” damn near bringing the roof down. Short of Bowl Lipson donning a teeny tiny viking helmet and hitting a high castrado while their lead singer Shannon Juvan spontaneously bursts into flames it’s hard to imagine how they could make it any more extreme. In many ways I’m very much relieved that they don’t. Like a fourpack of redbull shoved into a microwave, this is the kind of band that should come with their own medical disclaimer. The Battery Kids. Just like all of puberty experienced in less than forty five minutes, only twice as funky!

Jupiter Lead

Our third act have quickly gained a reputation in the Adelaide scene as somewhat of an “urban legend”: a chinese And now before I begin with.. well, I think you can guess where this review is going (aaah don’t you just LOVE this blog!?) I feel a disclaimer might be in order. You see in effort to get into this gig for free tonight: I got our headlining act to sneak me on the doorlist. Awfully decent of them too. They totally didn’t have to do it, but they were more than happy to oblidge knowing full well it could totally backfire on them (and how!). So let’s give them a round of applause for that, no really, that shit takes true courage, you dudes rock! Because after all they’ve done to get me in here tonight they totally don’t deserve what’s coming to them. No really, if you’re Jupiter Lead I’d strongly advise you DON’T read any further. I’m SO sorry, I truly am! I mean where do I even begin!? First off: they’re a loud and proud “jock rock” band in the worst possible way, they’re “Zoolander: The Musical” (and I’m not even kidding with this shit: one of their guitarists Nick “Hunter” Gill even plays for Adelaide Crows.. FUCK YEAH!) which let’s face it is really BAD sign. Unless you’re as downright hilarious as Josh Moore (and you front a band as wildly “entertaining” as The Touch) being “jock rock” is a recipe for disaster. Jocks shouldn’t form rock bands, it totally goes against the principle of the thing. Rock bands exist so that disenchanted nerds and pasty white dweebs who got beat up a lot in highschool BY jocks (ie: Thom Yorke, Billy Corgan, Kurt Cobain) can finally make themselves heard, speak of true pain and pathos, create art that truly speaks for a generation, then score with lots of loose women. Shit like THIS however is just rubbing our noses in it. No I mean really, NO! It’s not a popularity contest! YOU’RE ALREADY POPULAR!! Which brings us to the second issue: as catchy as all the songs are, as downright radio friendly (Nova would totally blow a load over this shit!) it really doesn’t say anything with it. Granted it’s an agreeable blend of Kings Of Leon’s fourth album, Coldplay, The Killers and Vampire Weekend, it hits all the right notes with the buzzing guitars and all that indie synth shit that’s so IN right now (and it’s driving their female fanbase fucking wild tonight) but it has no soul. Thirdly: that cover of The Killers’ “Mr Brightside” was cruel and unusual punishment and YOU know it! (and scarily accurate too, so much so I feel compelled to throw away my copy of “Hot Fuss”). Fourthly: having a handclap chorus in EVERY FUCKING SONG does not constitute actual “songwriting”. Fifthly: aaah fuck it, you know what? I give up! The worst thing is I just know they’ll go far. There’s every indication here that they’ll pack out stadiums, that people will love the shit out of them, that they’ll wind up in the “Confidential” section of The Adelaide Advertiser for week after week, on the red carpet for MTV, appear on Rove Live and receive endless accolade for years to come. And they’re perfectly decent blokes too, if this was any other band I’d wish them the very best (I met their bassplayer Adrian Plevin before the show, totally upstanding dude, don’t have a bad word to say about him!). I just don’t agree with this shit on principle. It totally goes against all my beliefs. Just because you’re aspiring for popularity doesn’t mean you’ll instantly achieve artistic credibility. They’re NOT one and the same. It’s not real. Real music makes you feel something, ANYTHING. And let’s face it, this is nothing but fast food; and I hope sooner or later these mad fools can tell the difference!

READ MORE FROM SPOZ’S RANT HERE.