Pinky Beecroft and the WhiteRussians + the Russian Brides+ Ryan Hazell @ AnnandaleHotel (14/01/07)

Wed 17th Jan, 2007 in Gig Reviews

As far as I was concerned I was an hour late. Begrudgingly I made my way down to the Annandale to watch two obscure supports and a man I thought could do no wrong.

When I saw Ryan Hazell onstage I felt immediately like I was at one of those pub band competitions designed to lure people out of their homes at the weekend’s end when they should be on their couches, collectively cracking open cans of VB and watching some sort of sport. Hazell slumped melancholy across the stage. I thought he sounded a bit like Jason Mraz. Or an inorganic Incubus. In any case it was another vote for 90s guitar rock nostalgia. His guitar painted empty pictures of coastal roadways where young men with flannel shirts drive with their arms rested on their car window sill. Fans or friends heckled and slung sarcasting comments. I suddenly felt like I had walked into someone’s family barbeque.

As the Russian Brides soundchecked a motherly figure with a camcorder crossed the void of the preheadline moshpit to capture footage of  a 17 year old boy in a Sonic Youth t-shirt as he soundchecked a trombone. I half expected Uncle Larry to come out with an apron saying “Kiss the chef”, tongs pinced firmly on a beer marinated steak. I prepared myself for eyerolling convulsions. But I must say, banter does wonders for a set, especially served with a dash of self-parody. Lead singer Keegan may not seem completely at ease with his dual roll on vox and guitar and bass player Aja teetered on her high heeled, knee high black boots, but it seemed to me everyone had a good time. Keegan in one song offers a coke and burger as long as you come and hear him sing, moments after the drummer Harry declares he can’t. The bass player checks him minutes later as the set skids 15 minutes off schedule and tells him to stop “fucking talking”. Yet somehow I felt like I should have been in a 50s diner somewhere, listening to the Russian Brides poprock with the Fonz, having milkshakes and wearing leather jackets.

“This is just an empty piece of paper!” exclaims Pinky Beecroft at his fictitious set list. Dressed like a dishevelled school boy, waving his arms in the air like a ranting George Street hobo, grinning like a cheshire cat. I didn’t have a plus one with me becuase no one I knew could understand why I wanted to see this creepy old man slur incoherant lyrics at a drunk tasteless crowd. But I knew better. I knew he knew something we didn’t.

Pinky talked constantly, made everyone laugh and certainly made it entertaining. After a broken song Pinky accuses drummer Christian McBride of stuffing it up. In defense, he says “I was following the melody”. Pinky retorts by yelling “You KNOW I always change the melody!”. The guitarist almost salsa’d his way through the whole set. He shot slight pensive looks, coated with indifference, at the audience once in a while. Keyboardist Cameron Bruce looked pristine. “He’s been wearing the same outfit for three days” says Pinky. And everyone marvels at this aesthetic magic.

I felt like I was at a circus. I felt like I had wandered into the freakshow tent and I was definitely not in Kansas anymore. But despite ramblings and obscure cultural references, there were moments when I wondered why none of my pretentious indie friends liked Pinky Beecroft. In a solo song, where he played keyboard, he sang about everyone talking and nobody listening. The girl next to me sang the lyrics smiling. I suddenly felt like no-one could hear anything he was saying. I was looking around wondering if anybody noticed but everyone was just exclaiming how good the set was, how funny Pinky was. Everything slowed down. I wonder if anyone really noticed that one of the songs were about war and how war would never be over.

At the end of the set, men asked roadies desperately, shamelessly, for a souvenier from the stage. I wondered what they would have thought of the set if they had been sober.