A Friday night gig that starts just after 8pm? Impossible! Normally, a gig’s listed time – to which you can add half an hour before the first support ambles into the limelight – is notoriously unreliable. But those turning up to the Hoodoo Gurus’ launch for Mach Schau were in for a surprise; not only were the doors open at the stated time, but bands were playing. Is punctuality coming back to rock… or was this a reflection of how many punters had to get home before 1am to pay the babysitter? Admittedly, conversations about what year gig-goers’ kids will be in this year aren’t what you normally hear when breasting the bar at a rock show, but this was the much-anticipated hometown return – festivals notwithstanding – of one of Australia’s longest-running bunch of pop axegrinders, so a slightly different crowd was probably inevitable.

The Booby Traps, a five-piece who are perhaps best described as Mod escapees from a Russ Meyer flick, had the unenviable task of warming up the crowd at the Metro this evening… what little crowd there was, to begin with. It must be difficult to perform while the headliners’ logo is emblazoned across the whole stage, but the band gave it their all. With miniskirted stage-presence to burn and an unidentifiably retro-yet-modern sound – making it easy to see why they’d landed a support slot – they could’ve been playing to a full house, rather than a slowly-accumulating contingent of hardcore Hoodoo Gurus fans. Where the band has previously come across more like a real-life version of Josie and the Pussycats, tonight saw them pulling the flick-knives out of the calf-high boots to really carve it up. Songs about prehistoric lovin’, cheaters and wrongdoing set to a deliciously big-beat – their drummer hits harder than most! – filled out the band’s unfortunately brief slot, and won genuine interest from the show’s earlybirds, and deservedly so.

If you had a ticket to this gig and decided to nix the supports, then you truly missed out. Better apologise next time you see the band… and maybe they won’t slice you for disrespect.

Maybe.

Given the sharp-dressed start of the night, Asteroid B-612 were somewhat lacking in the sartorial stakes – not one of ‘em was sporting a miniskirt or tie – but that really didn’t matter as they plugged in and cranked up. Through a seven-song set, the band – with very little audience interaction – played some of the loudest, dirtiest rock that some of the people in the room this evening had ever seen, judging by the looks of sheer terror that were seen on a couple of faces. Calling the Asteroids loud is probably a bit of an understatement, actually: when guitarist Johnny Casino first begins his thunderous playing, the effect is felt in the hairline as well as the gut. It can’t be a good thing for a band to play so loudly that it seems your follicles could be expiring in fright, but it sure feels good, and by the end of the set it seems that the rapidly-swelling crowd – particularly the guy who’s rocking the show in a Status Quo tour shirt – are thirsty for rock, and lots of it. With a vocalist that leaves the stage before the set’s over and a guitarist that leaves his hollow-body stringless and moaning against his amp, Asteroid B-612 have fuck-you attitude with the sheer rock know-how to back it up: there’s some young turks who could learn a lot from ‘em.

The reason for the gig’s early start would become clear through the course of the night. There were no plans for these headliners to throw in a desultory fifty-minute set followed by a two song encore. No way. When Dave Faulkner and crew took to the stage – to the strains of the Dad’s Army theme – they weren’t going to leave it for a good two hours, and certainly not before every punter in the place was satisfied.

Launch nights are always a bit of a mixed bag, especially with artists with a couple of albums to their names. Will they only play their new stuff? Will the most recent disc get only a passing nod in favour for those tried-and-true (or, shop-worn, as is sometimes more appropriate) tunes that’ll have lighters or fists in the air? How will the balance work out? Thankfully, the Hoodoo Gurus put on a show that had fans both new and old – though let’s face it: is there anyone out there who doesn’t wish these guys well? – pleased and dancing. Ripping into Tojo (Never Made It To Darwin) with undiminished fire, it was obvious that the band were in fine form and ready for a good time. Time-changes, amazing leads and a wild-eyed sense of speed were present from the outset – and the four men on stage made it appear absolutely effortless, playing together as naturally as ever a band has performed.

Through the night, Faulkner stepped back from the mic a couple of times as the crowd sang along, every word clear and close, and traded looks with his bandmates – a look of wonder. For a band that’s had such success, it’s reassuring to see that they’re still touched by the response they get. Scenesters who play through a hipper-than-thou fug should take notice: playing doesn’t have to be a dour experience. This bunch of blokes, fronted by a man who now looks like your slightly geeky uncle, are more successful than most, but still are enamoured of the joy of the live show, of seeing people getting down to their tunes. And that’s why this band works: it’s good, clean fun, devoid of pretentious trucker-caps and mascara-lined faux-drama. Sometimes, all you need are good songs.

While a couple of new songs slipped through the net – good, crunchy rockers, one labelled a new “punishment song”, a Faulkner term for a tune to play when an audience becomes too relaxed – it was clear that the night would become a greatest hits evening. And with tunes like these, why shouldn’t it? After all, this band have produced some of the best – if not the best – singles that’ve had airplay here or anywhere else. Brad Shepherd – rockstar resplendent in tight white trousers and frilled shirt (while his bandmates trod a more casual path) – wailed on harmonica during a sterling Poison Pen, smiling through a stuffed-verse go-around. Drums punched through the air, heralding Like Wow – Wipeout’s beachy go-go dynamics as the crowd went absolutely, incontrovertibly apeshit. And from then on, it was all gold: Come Anytime, Bittersweet, 1000 Miles Away, Miss Freelove ‘69. Pete Townshend-style windmills and guitar solos played from the knees (and the heart) prevailed through the long-awaited What’s My Scene? – with no rugby lyrics appended. And it’d be a heartless bastard who’d deny that tonight’s version of My Girl – with perfect division of the audience between the two vocal parts in the song’s end – was one of the greatest, tear-jerking encore tunes heard in recent memory.

Reviewing the Hoodoo Gurus is difficult because in some ways the regular rules no longer apply. They’re not only a band now – they’re icons, representative of some of the best bits of Australian guitar rock over the past couple of decades. The songs they play are the ones that – like them or not – you know all the words to, because you’re a fan or because they’ve been around so much that they’ve seeped in by cultural osmosis. They’re part of who we are; an amalgam of surfie cheese, b-grade movie and BBQ. Days on the beach and nights being bummed. Rave-up and rock out. And seeing it played live is strange, because it’s like coming home. Rarely at a gig do you feel like you belong, or that everything that’s happening makes complete sense. Everyone knows the words and everyone’s smiling. If you believe in an afterlife, it’s tempting to imagine that it’d be something like this: a night where feelings of wistfulness, pride and the desire to rock the fuck out combine – and where everyone’s singing the words with a smile on their face.

Guys, That’s My Team is forgiven. You can come anytime.