The last time I reviewed a Casanovas’ gig, I managed to use the word ‘balls’ about thirty times. Whilst slightly embarrassing in a literary sense, the testicle talk wasn’t entirely unrepresentative of the fun-obsessed rock ‘n’ fucking roll being produced by these Melbourne boys. Yes, The Casanovas aren’t an intellectual nor cerebral group; this is a band interested in rocking out, and rocking out only. And considering how effectively they do it – with their brand of stomping, riff-heavy shout-a-longs that by-pass the brain and go straight for the crotch – it’s a relief they’ve got their priorities so straight.

Indeed, it’s the not-entirely-mature worldview of the band that makes their gigs so enjoyable (along with the bitchin’ guitar, duh). This is a band who’ve produced lyrics like:

I’m into monogamy, baby /
Though it sounds like wood’

and

‘Put my hand up in class for my oral examination /
She said meet me after school for some extra French dictation.

And when lead singers Damo or Tommy aren’t filling cheek with tongue, they’re delivering red-hot solos or John Paul Jones basslines. Don’t expect subtlety, expect a good time.

And a good time will always be had at a Casanovas show, because that’s what they’re all about, man. Preconceptions won’t be challenged, paradigms won’t be deconstructed, and you won’t get an introductory 11-minute synth solo (and if you did, you can bet your arse it’d be a bitchin’ synth solo). The Casanovas are a band who live to be live, their catchy, throbbing rock delivered straight to the punters without interruption from studio wizardry or production gloss.

In fact, you know that corny meme – apparently the work of Mark Twain on one of his lazier days – that graces the MySpace pages of hopeful adolescent girls everywhere? ‘Dance like nobody’s watching; love like you’ve never been hurt.’ The Casanovas are a band who play like everybody’s watching, and they’re in a stadium, and they’ve just sold fifty thousand tickets, and girls are flashing their boobs, and guys are screaming and making devil signs.

It was that kind of gig on Saturday night, despite a lacklustre turnout, freezing winter winds and the fact the Annandale is more local-on-the-corner than Wembley. Men drank beer, women danced, and The Casanovas blazed through a typically red hot set, from opener ‘Nasty’ to encore favourite ‘10 Outta 10’ (which sounds like Def Leppard performing the Degrassi Junior High theme song). Also included were ‘Shake It’ (with a riff that’d make Angus Young a little green), ‘Won’t Go Down’ (a great, never-before-played-live cut from the first EP) and ‘I Thank You’ (originally by Sam & Dave, later by ZZ Top and Bon Jovi), all sweat-stained songs perfect for a chilly inner west night.

Some of the credit for the warmth and good vibes has to go to the Hell City Glamours, who continue to be one of the better supports in Sydney (I last saw them supporting late-80s supergroup the Brides of Destruction, and they more than held their own against the veterans). Just looking at the group – especially lead singer Oscar McBlack, who always looks like he’s just woken from a 1988 coma – puts you in a good mood. Like the Casanovas, the Hell City Glamours understand how to rock out in every way: aesthetically, musically, and – dare I say it? – ideologically. Both bands grasp the importance of being the complete package, and – perhaps more importantly – both bands are willing to give every gig their all. And you can’t say fairer than that.