After the fury subsides that these guys have made it big, my whippersnipper of doom for tall poppies and their ilk runs dry of pep. The Howling Bells are dedicated and have their sights intently set on the ‘international’ scene. Joel Stein, guitarist and brother of Juanita, singer, was happy to choose that characterisation, ‘international band’ from other monikers like UK or Australian. I quizzed him on what it actually meant but he wouldn’t be pegged down to the specifics, which to me seem vaguely obvious. Australian bands have it tough. With the vapourous Jet falling from their stratospheric heights of their success and the disfigured Wolfmother also largely tamed by incessant remixes (Columnist Clem Bastow says “step away from the Pro-tools rig”), the Howling Bells are correct in my opinion, to shun the Australian Music Industry incubator and prove themselves on the world circuit. Glenn, drummer, finds the move a bit harder than the others do. Growing up in country NSW, he has a hard time visiting Australia for five days without time to really see his family before jetting off to the Latitude Festival, playing on a stage in the English countryside built for Mike Patton’s Peeping Tom, Gomez, I Am Kloot, Rodrigo Y Gabriella, and of course the Bells.

Such is life, and when you’re as wildly popular as the Bells are in England you have to follow that stream. Joel mentions to me that they have played about 60 shows over there, and that’s nothing to be scoffed at. The influence of the UK scene is worn physically in their chosen blackened cowboy-moody mod image, such a combination just doesn’t seem acceptable from your basic pub rockers, and also in their aural aesthetic which has picked up the whiddling guitar clichés of Mogwai, the droning riffage of My Bloody Valentine and the combination of it all that was once heard in Mazzy Star. What stands out, especially when considering their press in NME, is that Juanita’s singing offers a combination of perfect voice, inflection and intonation which can’t be compared to PJ Harvey’s or any other rock chanteuse as her lyrics simply cant plumb PJ’s depth. As an example, the song ‘Velvet Girl’ begins by offering herself up as a morning glory servicing toy.

Hello, I’ll be your morning girl/
You raise the flag/
I’ll ring the bell/
Hello I’ll be your quiet girl/
Just let me watch/
I’ll never tell,

hot stuff if you’re a domesticated blow job machine.

‘Blessed Night’ begins the proceedings at the East Brunswick Club. Amassed here is a much larger crowd than that of the Fiery Furnaces last night, and with more vivacious hip spunk than their indie foregoers. Glenn is wearing an impeccably curled cowboy hat, and does for the entire gig (including the pack up) adding fire to the discussion over shirt-on shirt-off drummers. Brendan, bassist, is wearing an op-shop looking brown vest, but I don’t think he was digging in the bargain bins for it, it also doesn’t fit him. Juanita has over her black underlayer a spangly silver rock-and-roll turtleneck tank top. Joel is going for the classic black muscle T, and looks a bit like a waiter in a claaassy café. Black is clearly the new black, my mind ponders whether the Howling Bells are the new black? Hmm. Perhaps if you compare them to an older Waikiki photo you will see the difference a bit of overseas time can have. I asked Glenn later on in the night why this is so, “it’s a nice neutral colour” he responded, I doubt Nick Cave would have said likewise.

I’ve lost track of their set list by now, they play ‘The Night is Young’ and ‘Wishing Stone’ in no particular order before a song that didn’t appear on the album, then ‘Across the Avenue’ and ‘Ballad for the Bleeding Hearts’. In fact, they do a truthful rendition of the whole album leaving ‘Low Happening’ until last, as a special treat. Glenn’s pounding tom-tom beat is what really sticks in people’s minds, reminiscent of a Sons and Daughters rhythm, (they wear black too!). I can’t escape noticing that Joel’s rock moves leave much to be desired. He repeats a string torturing twang, going from strumming to raising his hand above his head in a violent move, he hunches over the wood grained gibson in a suggestive manner whenever he isn’t doing his constrained Axl Rose sway and bhangra style side-to-side head thing. Brendan, on the other side of the stage is spazzing out, and all power to him. During the gig Brendan has a bit of a strop at the mixer saying “Hey Fitzy, I’ve got no keyboard, I’ve got nothing” at this he tinkles the keys with a sneer, proving the point. Glenn is drumming bolt upright and smiling at his bandmates, which is not allowed if you want to be ‘taken seriously’ (derr), and sometimes switching between brushes and sticks. Juanita is shimmering at centre stage, her eyes blink with every line she sings drawing attention to her peepers, a move that has encouraged some reviewers into prosaic ecstasy. Their cohesion as a band isn’t very clear, the Stein siblings hardly look across to where the other is. Juanita and Brendan only interact with that move where they play guitar facing each other. Glenn smiles at everyone.

Drawing to a close their hour long set the lights stay down, egging us on to chant and scream for more, but there doesn’t seem to be the sort of groundswell needed and there is no encore.