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Thursday night oozed palpable anticipation from the linear clusters of punting throng outside Metrocity, patiently waiting to have their mettle tested. Literally: walking through precautionary metal detectors that beeped at everyone without raising a single bouncing eyelid. Overkill with a dose of undercare, but the alternative of frisk searching every person would have been worse.
Local outfit Grim Fandango kicked off, attempting to deflower the stage, but not overly grim in appearance. Perhaps indicative of their freshness, the band exuded a slightly nervous disposition. Despite being vaguely unpolished, Grim Fandango’s veneer couldn’t be classified as dull and behove a bevy of fans clamouring to the front, determined to not miss out, jumping pit-ifully. In all a short timeslot was effectively rounded out and their final number delivered replete with a more confident air than when the set began.
Venue now bursting, fresh FAT band Pour Habit blasted forth generous portions of unbridled enthusiasm. The fro-sporting frontman possessed a seemingly boundless arsenal of expressive motion, creating sufficient onstage presence to inspire frenzied infectious spasmodic carnage. One could hear subtle nods to their favourite influences interwoven amongst every song, notably D.R.I. and The Vandals, even a bit of Strung Out. The majority of crew present were probably unfamiliar with these definitely muscular FAT newcomers, but this slight element of homage in their tunes never perverted the originality, only boosting the definitive impact. These guys meandered offstage after impressing everyone, and probably growing a new fan base.
NOFX were greeted with a resounding roar and bludgeoned all to massive effect. Once again they proceeded to skilfully tear Metro’s a new ace whole. The last tour in Fremantle -comprising Fat Mike’s Spiderbitten stooliness felt less energetic, with minor dismay at being vaguely disappointed with the song selection. Not the case this time, far too many favourites were being rolled out. Crisp raw delivery of classics like Murder the Government and Linoleum’ led into a vivid cross-section of premium tracks, shuffling seamlessly back, forth and back again in disc chronography. Soul Doubt saw this sold out show cranking up yet another notch, ever upwards slaying all with hit after gilded hit.
Those punk-az fuckwits who like to bounce items off performers’ noggins encountered suitably dismaying comeuppance for said clown antics. Fat Mike proved it’s aaaall in the reflexes with an outstandingly calm catch of an insulting item. Pointing at the small man, we were told to “pinch him. HARD.” The culprit, probably wore his bruises proudly, – œblissfoolly sic’, oblivious to the scorn shown, deserved more than a pinch assault.
Less mercy was afforded to the wrinkly royal, our venerable monarch when – œpunch her in the…crotch’ rang out, being one of many irreverent and amusing high points. El Hefe acting out the story for Kill all the White Man, mixed with their typical onstage banter between songs begged the conclusion that they’d stolen the show… if it wasn’t theirs to begin with. Proclamations of it being one of the best gigs seen all year were roundly agreed with.
Bad Religion stepped into the limelight smoothly. Melodic and exhibiting well renowned musical precision, the sledgehammer impact of Do what you Want catalysed many viewers into movers. Despite claiming tiredness due to the hefty drag of serious jetlag, not many present would even contemplate beginning to criticise this amazing band. Maybe not echoing – œNOFX’s boundless exuberance, Bad Religion still managed to slaughter a 20+ songlist, complete with a much welcomed encore they were – œnot supposed to do, but what the hell, here you go’.
It might have been that they collapsed exhausted post-gig, but the lack of energy apologised for was not overly noticeable or pervasive. A superb set was performed, interspersed with smatterings of the larger commercial hits to appease the majority. Punk Rock Song had its airing. FatMikes maggot – œsurprise visit’ stagecrash proved highly enjoyable, lending his choice outer key vocals to the classic Digital Boy divining obvious frustration from the band for sullying their hit. He punked – œem, but good. When American Jesus had been thoroughly and efficiently – œnailed’, mass tinnitus reigned and reverberated throughout the atrocity of Metrocity.
Despite rumours of consistently draconian security, only a mere handful of deserving yobs had found themselves prematurely ejected. The mega-crush semi-mosh exiting procedure had an encompassing theme, most faces seemed to bear a glaze-eyed grin reminiscent of “I’ve just been WAY laid.!!” A fairly safe assumption could be made concerning the success and staunch popularity of the huge international punk acts gracing this most remote damn’ city on the globule.
When do we see them again? MORE. I want more.
to listen to their music now on 
