It’s always interesting when popular club nights, no matter what the genre, take the avenue of adding live bands to their schedule of DJs. Recently, on certain nights, Club 77 have started doing it; more unusually, so has Home nightclub on Saturdays. Does it work, you ponder? Will it bring different subcultures together? Will it broaden a band’s popularity? Will it attract new people to the club experience? Will the DJ be inspired to spin the band’s demo the following week? Will the promoters or bands end up scoring a root out of it? One would hope all of the above.

Liquid Buzz, formerly Club Blink, has now jumped on this bands-and-DJs bandwagon. Considering that the Liquid Buzz DJs are staunchly loyal to spinning all genres of alternative rock and metal, you know that live bands on the bill makes 1000 types of sense and is a winning combo for all involved.

From the outset, the thing that the bands on tonight’s bill have in common is bald-faced cheek. And that’s about where the similarities end. I can’t recall ever seeing this lot play a show together, and thanks to my occasional desire to imbibe a bevva or few, my grey matter is a bit on the hazy side when attempting to recall each band’s live show. Therefore, it is thankfully with open mind that I head out for tonight’s festivities. My only preconception is that it should be an eclectic, if not interesting, evening of messy rock.

ROFL is that weird arsehole kid who sat up the back of the school science lab and tortured the mice, but despite his oddness and your own penchant for animal rights, you couldn’t help but like him and want to not give a fuck just like he didn’t. Grindcore aficionados who have yet to get wise to ROFL will totally dig these utterly self-deprecating slobs. They are “I-know-I’m-smarter-than-you-so-fuck-right-off” power-violence punks who’ll have you eliciting compliments in no time, compliments that the band don’t want or even ask for.

Rizzo Rat and Iggy Pop-lookalikes share twin vocal duties; Rizzo Rat busts out funky hiphop-in-a-blender dance moves while Iggy stalks the audience, his sinuous torso on display, their bass/tenor grind vocals performing a harmonious balancing act. I just love how the drummer screams along yet doesn’t have a microphone. That’s passion for ya.

If you’re a myspace junky, it’s more than likely that you’ve been abused online by one or more of the guys in ROFL. I can’t decide if the band’s name and songs, with such titles as ASL and Plz Add Me to Your ICQ, indicate that these guys are computer geeks, or that they hate computer geeks and want to kick them in the nuts. Doesn’t matter – these guys are intelligent, enjoyable, energetic and their music is filled with testosterone – just how it should be.

Sadly, there’s always one dickhead in the audience who is still of the misconception that the drunker they get, the more witty to others they become. This night was not without that moron. He stood up the front and oh-so-cleverly shouted out word puns on each of the band’s names while they played their set, often drowning out the in-between song banter and the intros. I’m sure I wasn’t alone in wanting to king hit him in his pugnacious snout.

Dave Grohl lookalike you say? More like a vertically challenged Osama Bin Laden in skinny jeans. I’m sorry, but whatever it is that Rattle Can Black are selling, I ain’t buying. Their music sounds like pub rock karaoke performed in a suburban RSL. If I knew about arpeggios and chord progressions and stuff like that, I’d probably be able to tell you for sure that these lads are proficient musos. But that’s as far as I go with the compliments. If RCB were a food, they’d be something completely devoid of flavour – perhaps a tofu dish prepared by a chain-smoking carnivore who is allergic to seasoning and hates vegetarians. RCB just bored me – it sounded like rock by numbers, especially evident when they tortured a Kyuss song. Mind you, the audience seemed to dig them. But then, the masses are rarely on the money; just take a look at Catholicism for evidence. Rattle Can Black? More like Rattle Can’t Play.

Thunderbox is the loveable drunk who, week after week, much to your amusement, keeps getting chucked out of your local by the arsehole bouncer who you and your mates then collectively implore to ‘Please let him back in’, so you can watch him fall over again and buy him a beer.

Completely lacking in pretence and armed with a barrel full of butter-churning riffs, Thunderbox crank their tunes out with shit-eating grins and tongues firmly planted in (your mother’s) cheek. Very straight forward and simple stuff, but unlike the preceding Rattle Can Black, it’s good clean fun that is completely un-poseur-esque. 

Thunderbox are a loveable party band – they may be a bit wrinkly, but at least their brand of meat-and-two-meat rock don’t need no Viagra.

Despite the uneven line-up of bands on tonight’s bill, not to mention the last minute intrusion of the World Cup meaning the bands had to play upstairs instead of in the basement as planned, the organisers of Liquid Buzz should be proud of the live addition to their club. Kudos to the Blink crew and let’s hope they continue to persevere and do their bit for Sydney’s local talent.