I could easily hate the Hell City Glamours for touting their derivative brand of rock ‘n’ roll, if it weren’t for the music they’re making. Yes, I could readily loathe them for their well-worn schtick, their overt cock sure swagger and those prosaic pseudonyms. But I don’t.
You see, rock n roll of this type – a brazen kind of trash rock – has been severely under-represented of late and it’s reassuring to see the Hell City Glamours as one of its most dogged proponents. And there’s nary a threadbare cardigan or scuffed chuck in sight.
Theirs is a dirty, bluesy rock, held up by equal parts bravado and damn good musicianship. Their self titled debut LP is a rather curious affair. The songs oscillate between great foot-stomping anthems and hackneyed filler, but the lower points are inconsequential because when they’re at their best, they’re remarkably good.
It begins with the brash One Night Only, whose anthemic group chorus is more reminiscent of ‘80s punk than the ‘90s cock rock frequently attributed to them. Rock just hardened the fuck up in one sweet song and it doesn’t abate either. They push forward with the Southern porch rock of Flying Away. It’s a little bit honky tonk, a little bit rock & roll and it works remarkably well. It’s pure unadulterated rock and it continues with the rousing High Brow, the infectious sing along of Back to You and the ballsy Josephine, which features a riff that sounds like a more rollicking, grittier version of The Animals Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood.
Lead singer Oscar McBlack’s scratchy vocal works well within these songs and it’s never more apparent than in the rather nostalgic and slightly tender Worst Kinda Man. Well, it’s as tender as it’s gonna get with Oscar’s jagged tones imploring and beseeching amidst the obligatory guitar solos and kick arse riffs. Of course there are guitars. And then some. Guitarist Mo Mayhem is quite an adept musician and his technical ability redeems the album for all its niggling inconsistencies. The archetypal rock Right My Wrongs is particularly noteworthy for McBlack’s protracted cadence, which manages to extend the word ‘ear’ to three syllables long.
I’m Not Here has to be one of the strongest tracks on the album, if not their entire oeuvre. It contains one of the most interesting riffs to grace these weary ears in the longest of times and a wonderfully atonal group chorus which just implores you to sing along. Go on.
At times, the music does tend to sound a little contrived and the lyrics abound with far too many naff references to rock & roll. It’s too gimmicky and doesn’t bode well for longevity; after all you can only push the rock schtick – replete with babes and booze – so far before people start to nod off. If truth be told, the majority of Sydney bands tend to bore me with their lacklustre tunes and affected manner. Our city’s best and brightest are only marginally better than the mediocrities it continually disgorges and there are very few bands I’d part with money to see live. This is one area in which Melbourne seems to fare better.
It would be just as easy to simply dismiss the Hell City Glamours as another paint-by-numbers revivalist band, but they’re more than that. Maybe it’s because they unashamedly wear their influences on their sleeves without apology or pretext. Sure, an inordinate amount of fuss has been made about their ‘80s cock rock leanings, but I bet there’s just as much Motorhead and Misfits in their influences as there is Motley Crue, and it’s precisely this which makes their music all the more refreshing.
Don’t be fooled by their bravado. Behind the distracting pseudonyms, the well manicured hair and devil-may-care ethic stand four astute musicians for whom music is king. They say that the Hell City Glamours brought back rock & roll. Don’t believe the hype – rock & roll of this type never really went away. It just needed a good kick in the pants, and the Hell City Glamours have well and truly seen to that.
