Live

Rip It Up, Issue 212, 1 April 1995, Page 37

Live

THE CRANBERRIES Logan Campbell Centre, March 11

How exactly the Cranberries became famous is unfathomable, they were nobodies, then suddenly they sell out the Logan Campbell Centre and become huge in the USA. Two quite good albums and a couple of hummable singles does not make super band numero uno. But a bleach-blonde, small, Irish woman wearing a stripy, flared jumpsuit is a good starting point. In the language of the un-PC and the in love: Dolores is a star-babe. It took all of a minute for Dolores to win over the crowd and even though nobody could understand what the hell she said between songs, everybody laughed or cheered just to please her. She was the epitome of cool as she stood before us wiggling her bottom, as she skipped the stage in her pretend flippers and wackily did an Irish jig for us. But then she had to do something to save us from the backing band. The backing band was made up of a moderately cute drummer and two extravagantly mediocre guitarists. The guitarists lurked on the outskirts and seemed to be: 1) doing nothing, or 2) doing something incredibly dull. They performed the music faithfully and crisply, but with an absence of character or soul. At times they verged on sounding like a competent covers band. Dolores stood alone as the Cranberries’ source of brilliance and propelled them into stellar orbit tonight. In the manner of all bands that are suddenly pitched into the spotlight, the Cranberries try to convince us that they are here to stay, though we can see their fear they will disappear. They play us a new song and instruct us that there are plenty

more where that came from, in case we dared think otherwise. It was a good song. DARREN HAWKES

GARDENSHED, CORRUGATE, ANTON RYAN, FIGURE 60, TEENSHAG SUPERSTAR Pod, March 4.

Certainly it was the offer of free lollipops, and Tshirt and beer give-aways that attracted me to Pod for the party celebrating the Intravene fanzine’s midlife reaffirmation. My favourites, the lime ones, naturally got snapped up first, leaving only multiple orange Kojak props and a fistful of Export Gold tickets as consolation prizes to soothe my bitter spirit. The other 150 souls probably came to get a mainlined dose of Auckland’s up and coming bands. Fair enough too, for the night offered the best line up the town’s seen for awhile.

Crowd charmers and raiders of the Hammer House of Horror’s make-up box, Teenshag Superstar kicked the proceedings off. Characterised by a tight rhythm section, sheets of shimmering guitar effects, and artfully led by a petulant vocalist with the unlikely moniker of Liz Taylor, TSS happily proved inner city pop incarnates. The foursome romped through their favourites — ‘Anyone’, ‘Freak’ and ‘Mother’ — before settling into a lurching cruise which included mourning their collective childhood memories — ‘Golliwog’ — and finishing with an amusing abuse of JD’s nightclub, dear to the heart of anyone living west of Avondale. The masses were up a swayin’ and the good time mood for the evening was set.

Figure 60 followed to deliver a no-nonsense, eyes-at-the-floor mixture of joyous Grey Lynn feed-

back, ultra metal heat, a sax solo right out of left field and perhaps a tad too much practice room mess. The fans were happy though, particularly for ‘Cop Show’ and ‘Number 39’. Anton Ryan slotted in at number three, to act as counterpart to his louder brethren. Playing a stylistically original acoustic set of classy ditties, Ryan oozed the melodic skill and stage presence that he has finely honed in front of audiences across the Tasman. ‘Live Today’, with nimble fingerwork aplenty and a soaring chorus, was well received. This was followed by ‘Alive Again’, ‘lt’s All Right’ and the edgy ‘I Can’t Sleep At Night’ — all driven by a powerful voice and soulful hooks. The EP promised (“soon”) may well prove one to listen out for.

Back into it again with Corrugate, punching out their version of what they referred to as “metal-with-feeling’’, the boys, more correctly, jangled, through a loose set of winners. ‘Birth’, ‘Purchase Payment’ and ‘Phosphate’, amongst others, kept you humming through the break after their performance.

More T-shirt and beer give-aways, then young band Garden Shed set the place alight with a bunch of tunes worth hanging around till the wee small hours for.

Good feelings, good music, good fanzine. CRAIG CEE

PANSY DIVISION, CHRIS KNOX, NOTHING AT ALL Squid, March 6.

In nursery rhyme speak, the cupboards were bare at Squid for the last show of Pansy Division’s lightening-quick New Zealand tour. When local punkers Nothing At All stepped up just before 11pm, the crowd had barely stretched into double figures. Playing only through a vocal PA, the snotty trio were loud enough to shake the walls, but tonight they lacked the sense of charm and humour that makes them fun. They sped through serious versions of ‘Grand Central’, ‘TV Generation’ ‘and Nothing At AH’, and bassist Dion ran through his collection of S Vicious Faces™, but the usual connection that sits thick between Nothing At All and their fans was absent. Blah.

Chris Knox wanders on wearing a black singlet and black footy shorts, that were a particularly black shade of black — has he gone Goth? Nope, his jandals provide the splash of colour necessary for salvation. Opening with ‘Lapse’, he’s joined by Jon Ginoli and Patrick Hart of Pansy Division, who are clearly thrilled to be helping out on the call ’n’ answer portion of the tune. Once left to go solo, Knox puts on an outrageously good performance. He’s genuinely witty, and his voice is sounding strong and glorious. The new single ‘One Fell Swoop’ is a perfect example, and this evening Knox selects the pop songs that showcase his ear

for a melody, rather than the shrill, grating bollocks he often uses as filler. He stumbles through fresh tunes from the new album, plus hits from Seizure and Polyphoto, Duck Shaped Pain and Gum, but, with the exception of ‘Woman Inside Of Me’, my memory fails and I can’t recall the other titles.

After a considerable delay, San Francisco's Pansy Division take their turn at the crease, as the clock races closer and closer to one. The pop and punk trio suffer through PA problems for the first two songs, before the volume is cranked up to an almost unbearable level in the still mostly empty room. Pansy Division might as well tattoo their influences on their foreheads — ‘We love the Ramones and the Buzzcocks’ —- and anyone who tells you they’re something new is talking shit. But their three-minute barrages, mostly lifted from the Deflowered LP, are entertaining enough, though fail to strike any real memorable blows. They’re a classic case of a band whom you can take, or leave. The ridiculous noise level (the loudest ever at Squid by far), combined with the late hour, and the irritating antics of a bass player who deliberately came over, like Jim Carrey crossed with the gay one from It Ain’t Half Hot Mum, meant I chose the latter after hearing 10 songs. Ho-hum.

SLAYER, BIOHAZARD Auckland Town Hall, March 19.

JOHN RUSSELL

BIOHAZARD Often opening bands are missed by lax reviewers, but not tonight. Tonight is pay back time, with the first band missing the reviewer. Whilst knocking back a mineral water in the bar, in the most manly way possible, a guitar suddenly bursts into life. Scampering past the chummy security guards, I was blown away by what I took to be Headbutt playing a Biohazard cover. Then reality bit, it was in fact the mighty ‘Dukes of Hazard’ themselves, and I’d already missed half a song. Rock and roll’s on show, hi-ho and up to the front I go. No need for a chainsaw this evening — all that’s necessary to get within twenty feet of the band is a polite ‘“scuse me”. The sound pouring from the bank of speakers is not dissimilar to an aircraft taking off. Guitarist Bob Hembel spins around and around, inspiring motion sickness, before leaping atop a speaker and doing the duckwalk whilst blasting out yet another eardrum shattering solo. Centre stage is held by Evan Seinfield, and no motherfucker's going to take it off him. When some misguided fool biffs something on stage, Mr Seinfield offers to have a wee bitty chinwag with the “punk” post-gig — out the back. Tonight’s the night to fight the good fight for Biohazard, as the audience is primarily here for Slayer. The apathy surrounding them acts as a spur. Halfway through, a lengthy discussion is had with certain sections of the audience; the upshot

being the only way to stop Biohazard is with a bullet. Sticks and stones may break their bones but only automatic weaponry will halt these ‘sons of Brooklyn’ spreading their messages of anti-racism and tales from the hard side.

Biohazard promise to play twice as hard in an effort to get something happening. Scorching versions of ‘Wrong Side Of the Tracks’ and ‘How It Is’ follow. The mosh pit is suddenly alive with bouncing bodies. When Biohazard do the "say yo!” thing, everyone starts acting like the floors been electrified — bodies bounce in the air and a coupla minor scuffles occur.

Before departing, Bob Hembel pulls off one of the evening’s highlights by demonstrating just how to say “suck my dick”, with attitude. But Mr Hembel is not to have the final say. Mr Seinfield tells the audience if they can’t afford Biohazard’s latest and greatest, Tales from the Hards ide: “Go out and steal it.” Nice-to see a band that cares more about spreading their message than chart sales, however they omitted the important “don't get caught”, unless you want your very own tale from the hard side. ItTI be nice to see Biohazard return sometime soon as the main act. Not only will the set be longer and the drummer hopefully more visible, but I won’t feel the need to stay for the other band (just joshing Slayer Devotees). KEVIN LIST SLAYER There was plenty of anticipation for this one. Dribbles of spittle collected around the ragged chops of the few thousand. The legion. The idea of Slayer in the flesh, before us. dragging us into their hole, opening our skulls and eating our brains excited us. The Decade of Aggression double live album must’ve been thrashed mightily in those last nights before the gig. And what an album it is. Frighteningly powerful. Mercilessly violent. Brutal. A great record. Hopes were hight. Maybe a little too high... Don't get me wrong, what we got on the night was awe inspiring, sure. But standing back from it all and thinking about it, shouldn’t it have been as powerful as to have stopped my life in its tracks? Were Slayer almost playing a rote performance? You can’t blame whatsiname, the new drummer, because he was as heavy and loud as bombs. He earned his money. And Mr Soundman was really pumping those drums right into our ribs, so that was good. Kerry King was exactly the way he looks in photos, and shredded his distinctive striped ESP V with absolute muscle — the playing of he and Hanneman surely gives Slayer its warped power. Tonight they were abusive of their instruments and violated our minds brilliantly, but some fuckin’ clown somewhere didn’t turn their guitars up loud enough! The soloing should have cut through our heads like glass — as it does on Decade of Aggression — but it didn't. Why? Who’s to blame. We don’t pay $45 to be left

with our hearing intact! I felt short changed in the guitar department because of this. So what about Tom Araya? You know, the Slayer guy. Shouldn’t he have been the one — rather than Kerry, Jeff or Drummer — who led us headfirst into battle? No, funnily enough he stood there playing, screaming and watching us as if, sometimes, he was asking himself: ‘What the fuck have I created here?’, or maybe: ‘They are like butter in my hands. The revolution is at hand, my master, we are ready!’ But y’know, after saying all that, it was still great to finally see Slayer. Know what I mean? Ah, fuck it, who cares. JEREMY CHUNN

THE VIOLENT FEMMES, THE MUTTONBIRDS Auckland Town Hall, March 21.

It was a night and a half for the sing-alongers among us. The Muttonbirds kicked things off, and warmed up the crowd’s vocal chords, with a set that pulled out everything bar the Kiwi boot polish. For the countless times I’ve seen these guys, this was the first time in Auckland. ‘Dominion Road’ goes down so much better when you actually know where it is. And it’s true: Dominion Road really is bending, under it’s own weight. That McGlashan fellow really knows what he’s on about. The Violent Femmes think so too. They brought him (alongside a second horn player) out for a guest horn spot later. ‘Black Girls’ was all the better for it.

Judging by the way their drum kit’s grown since they last played here (requiring newish drummer Guy Hoffman to be seated, as opposed to former drummer Victor DeLorenzo’s standing style), the Violent Femmes’ bus must be a little more crowded when they take all their equipment on it these days. Nevertheless, you still cannot fuck with this band — you simply wouldn’t want to. Their fans treat them like old mates, yelling all the song words so faithfully it often makes you wonder why Gordon Gano even needs to show up. Mere onlookers scratch their heads in bewilderment, because you can’t join this club over night. This is a fan base built upon years of everyone owning only one album — needless to say, it was always The Violent Femmes. Thankfully, there weren’t a lot of non club members in the audience. The ground floor wriggled like a pool of moshing maggots from back to front, and people were out of their seats and dancing all the way up to the back row of the top balcony. For all the excitement, things were a little less anarchic than the Femmes’ literally earth moving 1990 gig here, so the main assault came via an overwhelming barrage of hits and oddities.

‘Dance MF Dance!’ has become the New Zealand Femmes fan anthem. Howls of anticipation greeted Brian Ritchie’s introduction to this mysterious track. Yep, they’re still asking for it’s

discoverer to show up. Gordon did his bit to make us feel super special by reverently quoting James K Baxter to a darkened and stunned silent house.

The biggest of the old favourites (‘Blister in the Sun’, ‘Add It Up’) got that old, familiar reception (ie. hysterical rapture and much roistery doistery ballyhoo). The newer rockin’ Rock!!!!! tracks faired well alongside their fearsomely strong predecessors. ‘Tonight’ got the sort of reception you’d expect from the near second coming of ‘Add It Up’, but my affections lay closer to the stomping ‘Living A Lie’. The inclusion of New Times' most flat out rockin’ number (‘Key of Two’) juxtaposed with it’s way out weirdest (‘Machine’) was a reminder that it was neither nostalgia or flavour of the month syndrome which sold out this house. BRONWYN TRUDGEON

LOREENA MCKENNITT Auckland Town Hall, March 23.

History has never sounded as good as it did when interpreted live by Loreena McKennnitt and her fabulous five piece band. Fans of Loreena’s last album, The Mask and Mirror, for which this show was named and from which most of its material was faithfully drawn, should have been delighted, as Loreena was in even finer voice than she is on the album.

Opening with The Mask and Mirror’s first track, ‘The Mystic’s Dream’, Loreena took us on a journey traversing east and west, and through hundreds of years. The songs were occasionally linked by Loreena’s softly spoken tales of her travels: adventure and misadventure in Ireland, a visit to a Benedictine monastery in Quebec, and an early morning earthquake, right here in Auckland city.

Backed by candelabras and tapestries, dressed in a black velvet gown, with a halo of long, golden hair, Loreena proceeded to captivate an audience which was somewhat more refined than that which had gathered for the Violent Femmes two nights earlier. Refined, that is, until second encore time, when one enthusiastic gent felt compelled to holler: “Exquisite agony!,” from the back of the house. The crowd is best summed up by the rousing reception they gave Hugh Marsh’s fiddle solo of ‘Amazing Grace’ (clever, but by no means the height of his considerable talents) — they were just dying to recognise something, anything. ‘The Dark Night of The Soul’ also went down particularly well, which proved the majority of this sadly small house were definitely fans. Those that weren’t already could be seen snapping up CDs and merchandise at intermission.

From The Mask and Mirror, the divine and dangerous ‘The Bonny Swans’ and ‘Marrakesh Night Market’ stood out. ‘She Moved Through the Fair’ and Loreena’s solo performance encore of ‘The Lady of Shalot’ (both available on the double CD, souvenir tour edition of The Mask and Mirror) were

spine tingling. Her interpretation of WB Yeats’ ‘The Stolen Child’, preceded by tales of Yeats’ sorry love life, was the pinnacle of the blend of affectionate historical story telling, musical innovation and original interpretation, which Loreena has made her own. It was a truly magical evening. BRONWYN TRUDGEON

M PEOPLE, THE GRID, TEREMOANA, JOINT FORCE Mount Smart Supertop, March 28.

If I hadn’t been forced to stand in a queue for half an hour outside the Supertop venue to be searched, I might have got into the tent in time to see Joint Force (aka OJ, Slave and DLT). As it was, they sounded like the noise that blasts out of a Honda Prelude with $5,000 worth of stereo equipment on board, when it speeds past while you’re waiting to cross at the corner of Victoria and Queen Streets. Having missed the set, I cruise to the loos to blow some gnarly buds that I picked up down the line. Fumbling in my pocket, I find two tabs that I thought I lost last week. Yahoo! Down the hatch with one of those babies — and what to do with the other? I know, I’ll hide it under my tongue. Yes sir, there’s no fooling this brother. In the tent now. Teremoana’s extolling the benefits of going solo, telling the crowd: “It’s just me now,” with an infectious grin. ‘The Real Thing’ and the new single ‘Beautiful People’ lead into a short a capella tune which, without the DAT accompaniment, better displays her vocal strengths. A quick “peace”, and she’s outta there. The Grid weren’t exactly what the majority of ‘soul’ searchers in the audience were after, but they were the band I came to see. A middleweight techno outfit sans vocals (for the most part), they went down a treat with anyone who wanted to dance. The Grid were more suited to an all-night dance party at the Box than an 8-9 pm slot in a covered gravel carpark. My enhancers were really kicking in by now, and I think I can see ‘The Cowboys’ the Grid are going on about. A technical fault in ‘Swamp Thing’ robs us of hearing the banjo in the most perverse of settings, but The Grid were the rarest of beasts — a truly live techno experience. I’ve personally seen three moas, a Tasmanian tiger and Elvis since the last good one. Four songs into M People, and I’m having vivid images of being caught into an overturned car, the stereo is out of reach and is playing the Eurythmics’ first album, for that’s exactly what M People sound like. It’s definitely not for me. I finally track down that pre-rolled length of ‘Te Kuiti terror’. Nothing for it but to mingle in the crowd and share its delights. Most of the 5,000 or so present were still getting into the M People when I bailed. I bumped into an old friend outside as I left, that was the highlight of their set for me.

GREG HAMMERDOWN