Hell City Glamours - LesInfideles

Mon 11th Oct, 2004 in Music Reviews

Ah, hairspray! Where would the US music scene of the 1980s – surely a place where image was almost as important as being able to whack out a double-tapped solo variation of a Paganini piece – be without it? Where would the LA music scene, and all those who followed in its wake – hair-metal royalty and its offshoots – be without it? And, more locally-speaking, where would Sydney’s Hell City Glamours be without it? Would they be rockin’ the house this emphatically if they had to adopt Weezer’s mode of tonsorial taming?

I reckon not.

The bandanna-and-mascara-equipped four-piece, currently experiencing a level of notoriety thanks to Brides Of Destruction support slots, a history of exceptional live gigs, are deeply-indebted to the hairspray-and-spandex crowd. Thankfully, their self-produced debut EP steers away from wholesale musical borrowing and goes some way – though not quite far enough – to capturing their good-time sounds of debauchery.

The first track is a ripper, and undoubtedly the strongest of the release. C’Mon Honey N Ride slowly fades up as the CD begins, as if broadcast from some hard-rockin’ station. Guitars build to a circling climax before vocalist Oscar McBlack weighs in with a cock-hard stab at screaming the title. A song of unashamed horniness – although one with safe-sex overtones (“Let’s burn some rubber” ... “put a French letter in the envelope”), it stays close to the idea of the interchangeable nature of rocking and fucking as espoused by dirty musos from time immemorial. It sets the scene for what’s to come; tightly-played, low-concept-but-high-fun rock that’ll have you playing air-drums in no time, backed by solid musicianship (dramatic key changes, emphatic rhythm section work by Robbie Potts and Archi Fires and some sizzling solos, laid out by McBlack and Mo Mayhem) that doesn’t falter. No, it’s not a spectacular departure from the world of rock, but it is a form of tribute to a type of music that’s one of the most honest that’s been heard for a while.

12 Bar Blues is a little more Southern-sounding, while also managing to channel a bit of Marc Bolan’s hip-thrusting goodness – though that artist’s tunes never quite sounded so summery as this bunch of stickin’-it-to-the-man party animals do. It’s a tale of leaving jobs – one giving the listener a rare opportunity to sing “Adios, motherfucker, I’m leavin’ today!” – and pursuing partying instead, and manages to sound like something that David Lee Roth would give his best coke mirror to have sung. (Though comparisons to iconic hairmeisters might draw band member scorn from the HCG, it’s sometimes unavoidable; this kind of party-hard music certainly draws a lot from the ethic behind bands like Motley Crue et al, even if it doesn’t borrow too closely, musically-speaking. And hey – isn’t Diamond Dave a better artist to be compared to than Andrew WK?)

Get It On – featuring the memorable line “C’mon, take it off… let’s get it on!” sees the tracks begin to falter a little. It’s a solid, accelerator-down type of song, but it’s not particularly different from what’s come before. Following on, Burn It Up invokes more hellacious imagery, with discussion of the Devil’s dining table, McBlack’s seedy-sounding vocals alternately bruise, cajole and revel in all manner of naughtiness, the sound of a naughty boy who just knows he’ll be getting a smacking sometime soon… though he’ll probably enjoy it. Stentorian backing vocals combine with a slinky, reduced-instrumentation verse structure to make this one of the more interesting – musically speaking – tracks on the EP.

Album closer The Skeleton, which at gigs is occasionally dedicated to an overindulging acquaintance of the band, offers a full-throttle exit. It also reinforces the Glamours’ musical ability, while not quite providing that much of interest as it races towards its end. The lead riffs – guitars eating back on themselves – are indeed addictive, but as a whole, it seems to be the EP’s weakest link, in terms of original writing.

The band’s not afraid of playing with dynamics or tempo in their songs. Across the length of the EP, there’s thrilling moments where the band drops out – giving listener focus purely to Oscar’s vocals for a moment – before kicking back in. It’s a simple trick, but it’s utilised well. This is, after all, a disc crafted with fist-pumping in mind, rather than chin-scratching.

If there’s one criticism that’s most likely to be levelled at this recording, it’s that the band are wearing their influences on their sleeves, or that they’re an example of style over substance. It’s not an argument that’s entirely without merit – this is the first recording of a band that is quite young, and as such is a kind of hodge-podge of both their influences and life experiences. The shadows of big-haired behemoths are indeed here. It’s certain that the band will produce some pretty sweaty epics, given a little more musical cask time, however. But Les Infideles ain’t a bad start, by any means.

 

As it stands, Les Infideles is a pretty good EP. It’s a reasonable introduction to the band, but it’s in no way a replacement for their highly entertaining live shows. Here’s hoping that, with a few more road warrior stories, the band’s debut album will be steeped a little further in that LA hairspray mystique, and will bring a little more scarf-adorned muscle to the fore.