Helmet, Pangaea @ Hi-Fi,Melbourne (25/06/2011)

Wed 29th Jun, 2011 in Gig Reviews

Sporting the name of a super continent and counting members of Wolfmother, George and Regurgitator amongst their ranks, Brisbane’s Pangaea certainly have a land mass sized sound, beginning with a tightly executed drum solo that introduces a wicked intensity that carries throughout the rest of the performance. There’s a line from an old UK Guinness ad that goes “and the fat drummer hit the beat with all his heart,” and it’s hard not to bring that quip to mind watching Dave Atkins pound the skins like a man possessed. His emphatic beats are the driving force behind Pangaea’s chugging, buzzsaw music which powers along unfalteringly, save to break down into almost Mastodon-esque meanderings (and once into a bass fill almost comically reminiscent of the theme tune from Seinfeld).

The band wisely ensure that their off-track wanderings are concise and focussed enough so as not to detract from the direct assault that is their modus operandi. Self confessed Dungeons and Dragons alumni, Pangaea gladly avoid the Dragonforce clichés of shredded solos and overbaked sense of drama to concentrate on producing a determined, balls to the wall aesthetic well worthy of a place on the bill.

Music, like the human form, has a habit of fleshing out with age- what was once lean and taut can become loose and saggy without due care. It’s a natural, albeit unfortunate, consequence of the aging process – how this ‘twilight’ period is handled is what really matters…

Opening with Milquetoast, it’s apparent from the offset that there is no carelessly accumulated flab sitting around the belly of Helmet’s performance this evening. Nor, apparently, is there anything to spare on the frame of Page Hamilton, who is lean almost to the point of being frail and barely looks capable of summoning the required amount of bile for the forthcoming performance. Gladly this is not the case, and in deference to the inevitability of age, the feisty lead singer has traded in his guttural vocal for something more incisive; a wanton marriage of Rob Zombie’s undead croon and the anarchic intoning of Fu Manchu’s Scott Hill.

His spoken tone though is of a much more measured timbre, allowing him to mock security in a delightful deadpan (“You’re security? Well, I feel safe”) or chastise the pesky troublemakers at the front (“have a drink… I like to drink. Just don’t be a dick”). There isn’t a whole heap of spoken interludes, but when they do take a break, Page displays a surprising propensity for humour and chit-chat. Otherwise, it’s a constant barrage of muscular riffage so powerful it has the wooden bar at the rear of the venue shaking so much as to begin casting bottles over its edge as if by magic. The venue was quite literally rocking.

Songs from latest album, Seeing Eye Dog, are greeted with gusto but it’s the older tunes that unsurprisingly receive the most enthusiastic reception. Anything from Meantime is greeted with jubilation, with Ironhead receiving a particularly warm welcome, happily resulting in a particularly enthusiastic, if slightly looser, performance from the band. As performances go, this isn’t the high octane flashing lights and thrashing bodies of much modern metal and if you were to level criticism at the band it might be that Helmet’s single speed and lack of desire to deviate from their determinedly decided course leaves little room for interest for the uninitiated.

But then, Helmet were always a ‘fans’ band, and a band for the more discerning fan at that – or at least those with attention spans able to cope without the gimmickry and plastic showmanship that has marred many a metal band. The energy and intensity of tonight’s performance demonstrates that age is no barrier for Page and the boys just yet. This is grass roots metal at its caustic best: raw, unassuming, unapologetic and gratifyingly honest.