Live

Rip It Up, Issue 214, 1 June 1995, Page 37

Live

SHIHAD, HEAD LIKE A HOLE The Mean Fiddler, London, April 26

Walking into'the Mean Fiddler tonight was like a blast from the past. Great to see men with long hair, dressed in their favourite T-shirt, with a few check shirts tied casually around their hips. I must be at a kiwi gig! Head Like A Hole stormed the stage looking a little different. Where was the nudity, the skirts, the tribal body paint? They funked through a set of delicious rock, smiling and flirting with the 400 plus audience who filled the Mean Fiddler. I never realised what a dead sexy lot Head Like A Hole are fully infected by Spring. Sorry, I can’t tell you the names of the songs, but they were performed with energy and spunk, by wild musicians who seem to have matured with a new confidence. Head Like A Hole delivered a tight set of their frantic and racuous tunes. Shihad took up where the others left off — keeping those bodies thrashing around in the pit and the hair swinging. The stage was a bit smaller than what they have been used to supporting Faith No More through Europe, but it was great to see a drummer centre stage. Like chocolate in a coffee grinder, the sweetness and purity of Shihad’s music breaks through stereotypes of rock montser bands, a category in which they definitely belong. It’s a bit of a pity there wasn’t a higher number of English people there. Breaking the kiwi/Aussie band sterotype is the barrier that proves to be the greatest challenge to success over here. Sure, it’s from New Zealand, but it’s music for the world. The two English rave chicks I took along want to know where they can buy the CDS... well Head Like A Hole have their own header card in Tower Records! Thanks for a great night guys. Hope you’ll be back this way soon. RACHEL MEYRICK

SHERYL CROW, DAVE DOBBYN Logan Campbell Centre, April 28.

One would be hard pressed to find enough superlatives to describe Dobbyn’s set on this night, as he ran through an aural history of his songs and made it look so easy but sound so good. Stand-out’s were ‘Language’, ‘Lap of the Gods’ and a moving version of ‘Loyal’, which showcased the maturity of his voice. Gun slinger rhythm section, Dave ‘the Enforcer’ Gent and Jay Foulkes laid it down, giving the perfect platform for Dobbyn’s acoustic and electric guitar work. Walking on to a very warm welcome, Sheryl Crow stated: “I feel kinda funny playing after Dave Dobbyn, isn’t he great?” The band then launched into a road

tested ‘Leaving Las Vegas’, ‘Run Baby Bun’ and other tracks off her album, setting the tone for the first half of the set.

Maybe things got a little lack lustre around this point of the evening, but the enthusiasm of the audience kept things alive. As Sheryl Crow said: "I’ve been touring this album for eight years,” a little road weariness may have come to pass. Things lifted when the drummer moved from his kit to an ethnic hand drum, and they delivered a Kerouacian beat version of ‘AI! I Wanna Do’. The unplugged material, with Sheryl Crow on piano accordion and excellent pedal steel from Wolf, showed the band’s versatility as musicians and definitely suited the songs. Shifting back to electric, with a great version of ‘What I Can Do For You?’, the band lifted for the last part of the set. All’s well that ends well, and ‘I Shall Believe’ left the punters hungry for more. It was a great night of contemporary music. Considering the awkward acoustics of the venue, both acts came through shining, showing live music and original music is thriving in the 90s, GRAHAM BRAZIER

AL JARREAU, EUPHONI Logan Campbell Centre, April 29. In the 1984 movie Breakdance, Michael ‘Boogaloo Shrimp’ Chambers wanders into one of those Famestyle dance classes and shows up the men in tights, breakin’ like crazy to an infectious tune called ‘Boogie Down’. This was my first introduction to the music of Al Jarreau. Since then it’s been limited to the ‘Moonlighting Theme’ and the odd hit single, as I decided his voice always sounded pretty thin on record. Live though, I’d been told, he was something else. The LCC was over three quarters full when Te Atatu vocal quintet Euphoni stepped up. Sam Cooke’s ‘Chain Gang’ and ‘Cupid’ were included in their short a cappella set. While there were great harmonies involved, unaccompanied singing just doesn’t move me. What’s really required is a proficient, warm sounding band to make things groove — exactly the type of band Jarreau brought with him. He strolls on all casual like, just after nine, and for the largest part of the following two hours, puts in a sparkling vocal performance. Preference is for the t : mes when he plays it straight, as on the floaty ‘We’re In This Love Together’ and the above mentioned TV theme, instead of the scatty vocal gymnastics that on several occasions drown in their own cleverness. His voice reaches tremendous highs and lows, and when purely effective, it's as though he’s speaking in tongues. The band, a five piece with three backing vocalists, reached boiling point almost from the word go. They played the kind of tight, complimentary set you come to expect from American show bands. Meanwhile, Jarreau managed to create an intimate atmosphere within the factory-like confines of the LCC, pausing plenty to swap jokes with the front row, fulfilling requests, including one that wasn’t in the rehearsal list.

They encore with a magnificent extended version of ‘CC Rider’. The whole crowd is by now out of their seats and going manic. Like I’d been told, live, he was something else. JOHN RUSSELL

SPEARHEAD, TEREMOANA, DAM NATIVE Powerstation, May 3.

The vibe for this show was huge, not unequalled, but huge. Spearhead’s awesome debut album Home, combined with a brief promotional visit to Auckland by frontman Michael Franti last year, gave a partial glimpse as to what the full band might deliver live, and set the scene for what threatened to be an outrageously good concert. Expectations were dampened slightly upon the discovery that rapper Danny D has lost the rest of Dam Native. Only DJ DLT remains from the original line-up. On a good night, Dam Native were an unstoppable ‘live’ rap group. This evening, the performance to DAT tapes churns my stomach, and even a guest appearance by the exceptionally talented Sonny Sagala (ex-Pacifican Descendants) fails to liven things up. Why go backwards? Teremoana falls into the same trap. Although her voice is as strong and beautiful as always, the contrast with the rigid, precise backing accompaniment means it’s not all it could be. Half an hour later, Spearhead prove that nothing can beat a good live band.

The Powerstation is jammed for their arrival, and immediately the combination of moshing and dancing begins in earnest. Franti has changed his flavour big time since he was last here on stage with the Disposable Heroes Of Hiphoprisy. Gone is the hard hitting, confrontational approach — in its place, a soulful, seductive, blend of funk, reggae, and rap. The big grooves of Home sound more huge live, as the terrifically funky seven-piece band bounced through ‘Love Is Tha Shit', ‘Positive’, ‘Of Course You Can’, and a tremendous jam version of ‘Runfayalife’. The only puzzling element to the whole set was the constant on-stage presence of a George Clinton lookalike called Zulu. Described by Franti as a “vibe merchant”, Zulu skulked about the place, occasionally grunting something into his mic’, and was more deserving of the title ‘free loader’. The band disappeared for the first encore, a sparse rendition of ‘Home’, then returned for the finale, an all in hootenanny version of ‘People In Tha Middle”. Spearhead managed to do what many of their genre can’t — deliver live. It’s wonderful to see a band who show, and keep, their promise. JOHN RUSSELL

FOREIGNER, THE DOOBIE BROTHERS Mount Smart Supertop, May 4.

Upon hearing of my going to this gig, my good friend Kathy said: "You fuckin’ loser!” Upon learning I was reviewing it, she said: "Well, I s’pose that’s alright then.” Then, upon learning that it was at my request, she reiterated her first point. Such is the

esteem, or lack thereof, that is held for tonight’s bands in some quarters. Gone are the days when it was safe (cool) to be ‘Rockin’ Down the Highway’ with a beer in one hand and a big phat booty blunt making road maps of your eyes in the other. But it’s an era 8,000 or so friendly punters were more than willing to invoke, happily assisted by the greatest hits from both bands. First up: the Doobie Brothers, how in their twentyfifth year and featuring four original members in their line up of eight musicians. The mix is good and the band is tight, as they run through a couple of newer songs before the familiar intro to ‘Taking it to the Streets’ sets the crowd really rocking. A brief semiacoustic set brings a lull to the proceedings, but is nonetheless highly appreciated, before the band launch full on into their popular back catalogue. Standout tracks are a sound version of ‘China Grove’, an extended jam on the staccato funk gem that is 'Long Train Running’ (both from 1973’s The Captain and Me LP), and a superb multi-harmonied version of 1974’s hit ‘Black Water’. They rounded off their set with Tom Johnson’s 'Listen to the Music’, and everyone was happy. A short break, then it’s Foreigner’s turn to try and impress, but they’re pushing shit uphill. This is not 1982. Only a well worked version of ‘Juke Box Hero' really rises above the mire. All the hits were here: 'Cold As Ice’, ‘Double Vision’, ‘Head Games’, ‘Urgent’, etc., but it’s dull plodding stuff. Halfway through their set my companion turns to me and says: "I feel like I’ve just returned from my grandmother’s place up North.” I kinda knew what she meant. It’s a slow motion death we just have to escape to preserve our sanity. So we do. A year on the road together as a double bill has left the Doobie Brothers as a tight, perhaps not vital, but enjoyable unit; whereas it has shown up Foreigner to be just plain tired, losing the battle to keep a shine on things. As we all know, ya can’t polish a turd. GREG HAMMER DOWN

BREATHE, LICHEN POLE Antipodes, May 13.

The evening’s are getting chilly. The wind blows strong in these here parts. I walked into Antipodes thinking a shot of tequila was just what the good doctor said would take the edge off the day. The shot goes down a treat, but shortly after, the good doctor does something completely unexpected. He throws up. Right there, right on the floor of Antipodes. It could have been a disgusting way to start the night, yet he pulled it off so well, with such nonchalance and ease. No cause for alarm. Just a slight negative reaction. Why this nasty tale of self-abuse? Because, like the good doctor had, Lichen Pole also pulled it off, with a great deal of ease and self-confidence. Lichen Pole are rock stars. They would be rock stars even if they never picked up an instrument again. They just are. Resplendent in movement and attitude, they rocked through their lOsong set, highly aware of the adoration of the relatively youngish

crowd who turned out. ‘Bad Joke’ made the impact needed to gain the respect of the uninitiated. Later the individual songs began to fade into each other. But the stage presence made up for it, and by the time ‘Plastic Jewel', ‘Dreadlock Stone’ and ‘Blind Rail Eye’ were delivered, there was almost no one left unconverted. Breathe are a more conventional entity, relying on substance over style. They used their two guitars to maximum effect when going for the full on assault, but seemed unable to achieve any delicacy when they were looking for it. The keyboards were almost always lost in the mix, except when everything else died away, leaving room for them to hum away happily. The good doctor, he hated Breathe, but I enjoyed the noise — and noise it was. For a band who pride themselves on subtlety of writing and musicianship, there was a lot of ball breaking hard guitar noise (with a big shout for ‘Dive Tower’) going on. At times it lost its way, but through most of the gig Breathe were pure, ear splitting joy. The doctor didn’t like it, but what do doctors know anway? DONALD REID THE MUSHROOM BALL 95 The Nitespot, New Plymouth, May 12 and 13. The Mushroom Ball has become an institution amongst inveterate gig goers around the North Island, and with the inclusion this year of two Christchurch bands (Ape Management and Snort), and Dead Centre from Nelson, its fame is obviously spreading South. The Ball (the eighth in nine years) is more than just a gig. In fact, the two nights of entertainment sometimes become almost incidental to the weekend’s events. | Day One | The first thing you notice on entering the venue is the hard work Poodle has put in redesigning the stage with scaffolding and camoflague nets — a vast improvement on what it originally was. Auckland’s Think Tank open this year’s proceedings with a hard rock set that goes largely ignored, as the steadily building crowd heads first to the bar (Taranaki Ale on tap), then turns to catch up with friends and fellow punters from around the country. Having seen them before, and not having eaten since breakfast, I decide to head around the corner to Chino’s for some of their fine vegetarian cuisine (no hunks of decomposing flesh for me, thank you very much). This pursuit of culinary gratification, however, means I miss Schizophrenia and the debut of my man Hooper on bass. Sorry guys. I arrive back as Hideously Disfigured are getting their set underway. What can you say about a band that calls their debut tape release Greatest Hits Volume II and has song titles like ‘She Goes Off’? Needless to say there's a lot of humour in this particular brand of Taranaki hardcore and, as always, they are a treat to catch live. Hideous in da house, yeah! The end of Hideously Disfigured’s set brings a bit of panic in the Warners camp. Spencer, their bass player, has had an asthma attack and been taken to find a hospital. “It’s the weather," he tells me, upon his return. I tend to think it may have had something to do with years of marijuana inhalation, but hold my tongue, as it’s not my scene to kick a man while he’s down. Meanwhile, Nefarious have taken the stage, determined to shake the spectre of several mediocre gigs and some bad publicity over the last couple of

weeks. They fairly much succeed. Nefarious play hardcore, fullstop. No ‘Full Moon Over Mushroom Town' (an old Toxic Avengers song), which is a shame as, for obvious reasons, it always goes down well at this time of year. I spy Alan from the Warners, who is shaking his head in mock amazement. Apparently he’d been out the back, just prior to Nefarious going on stage, in the hope of witnessing an orgy of self abuse, only to be confronted by a sober Nigel Toxic acutally tuning his guitar! A stranger sight he didn’t expect to see. Well, it paid off, as Nefarious went some of the way to redeeming themselves with a solid performance. The Warners, featuring a sicker than normal looking Spencer, finally hit the stage. They launch straight into the instriynental title track off their forthcoming album, the wonderfully entitled Bogan’s Heroes. From there, they virtually run through the whole album, only throwing in ‘Homosauras Rap’ off their last release, Sitting Pretty. Standouts were the soon-to-be-classic ‘3sl’ and their bastardisation of the Osmonds classic ‘Crazy Horses’. Their magnum opus tonight is a song called ‘Transfusion X’ — a song their guitarist Jon describes as “an epic”. When asked why, he replies (hopefully tongue in cheek) that it “takes you on a trip, y’know, it’s a rock journey". Ahh, yip. OK Jon, yeah. Dead Centre are left to round off tonight’s entertainment. They play punk rock, nothing more, quite a lot less. Maybe it was 1979 when they left Nelson and walked to New Plymouth, ‘cause they sound tired. I’m tired too, so I’m outta there (like bell bottomed trousers). | Day Two [ The centre of our social activities is the White Hart Hotel, which once again is fully booked up. We get a posse together and, after a superb breakfast across the road at the Art Gallery Cafe, we decide to head up the mountain. It’s a supremely beautiful day, and it’s only 45 minutes later when we arrive at the top carpark on the Egmont Village side. The sluggishness that is the aftermath of the night before is soon dissipated as the fresh mountain air rejuventates our lungs. Nothing for it but to blow some doobage and fuck ourselves up again. Ahh — how sweet is life? A fruitless search for mushrooms by some of our party on the way back, at Lake Mahoenui, allows the rest of us to simply vege and enjoy the day. Then it’s back into town to prep for the ensuing night. Our evening meal at Burundis goes on a little long, which means we miss opening act Dog Tooth Violet, from Palmerston North, although their irrepressible vocalist Rebecca assures me they did a good gig. If she’s happy, I’m happy. Still, it was a bummer to miss them. Next up it’s Ape Management, who include exmembers of the Axelgrinders, the Scuzzbuckets and S*M*A*K. Having seen them play a less than average gig in Christchurch, I was ready to write them off. I was only too happy to have my view of them dumped on its head, as they delivered an incendiary performance that, while owing a debt to the Birthday Party (especially in the vocal department), set about forging an identity distinctly their own. They were a personal highlight of The Ball. Reta from Snort best summed them up as she licked her index finger, then pressed it against an imaginary hot plate — tsss — they were fuckin’ smokin’! Palmerston North three-piece the Ashvins (great name) are now on. The sound is good as they deliver a set of short, punchy rock songs. My memory of them is a little clouded though (I think somebody put something in my drink), so I’m gonna have to catch them again sometime. All women outfit Snort are up next. Having warmed

up with two Auckland gigs over the previous nights, they’re attacking their instruments with a vengeance. They howl, they squeal, they pound and smash their songs as if excorcising the ghosts of recurring demons. All this while maintaining a ‘fuck you, muthafucka’ attitude that the frenzied crowd down the front lap up. Their blues stomp classic, ‘Cos I’m Evil’, sees Joanne pulling off some subliminal licks on her guitar, while Reta gets down and dirty with hers. An inspired performance, and the highlight for many here tonight. Next up, it’s the only band to have played all eight Mushroom Balls, local heroes Sticky Filth. They’ve had a busy year. As well as playing all the major Summer festivals (Mountain Rock, The Big Day Out, Strawberry Fields and the Nile River, as part of their South Island Tour), they’ve supported Suicidal Tendencies and finally seen the release of their (truly) long awaited three track vinyl EP, Def Thru Misadventure. But it’s a curiously subdued Sticky Filth on stage tonight, as if the weight of expectation is, not so much heavy, but not quite allowing them the freedom to simply play and play well. Not that they’re bad of course. Sticky Filth still shit over 95 percent of what’s around in their sleep. Craig pounds his throat with his pick hand to produce a unique vibrato effect while screaming: ‘There’s a witch among us [‘Nadia’].’ Chris debuts his fire breathing techniques, leaving Paul to pummel his rack-mount-ed kit with controlled abandon. It’s a special treat to catch Sticky Filth on their home turf, and they don’t disappoint. It’s left to Wainuiomata’s death metal heroes, Afterbirth, to close this year’s Ball. The crowd might be thinning, but they don’t care. They came to party and play. Go hard or go home, as the saying goes. They go hard.

Well, that’s it. Another hassle free Mushroom Ball comes to a close. Much props to Brian Wafer for his continued dedication to the cause, and the bands and punters that travelled from around the country to attend. I’ve got my souvenir T-shirt, so I’m happy. See y’all next year, second weekend in May. Be there. GREG HAMMERDOWN

OPERATION MUSIC STORM GRAND FINAL Sammys, May 19.

May 19 was the big one: video suites and cameras abound; stressed officials running hither and thither; the big stage all lit up; pissed comperes; door charged upped by $4 — the works. The big one all right — out of 70 odd bands only 10 survived the musical battle royale. Christchurch was represented by Trawler, Atomic Blossom, Disgraceland, Snort and Human — while the Cheese Band, Suka, Bodybomb, Humania and Axiom carried the flag for Dunedin. Up first were Humania, looking great and sounding pristine. This lot has a strong sense of theatrics — elements of 70’s space rock brought into a harsh 90s reality. Their songs are sometimes gorgeous, sometimes bizarre, and always packed full of action. Humania did not put a single foot wrong. Unlike Trawler. Their lively roughed up pop brought comparisons of the 3Ds and Pavement springing to mind. Unfortunately, when the guitarist broke a string he took far too long to change it, losing plenty of Brownie points there! So the bassist and drummer soldiered on for a couple of songs — in my mind these were the most interesting, a bit more free and wide.

The Cheese Band always pull a big crowd. Their supporters crashed to the dancefloor faster than lions to the kill. They’re another lively bunch of fellows, especially vocalist Cam. Their hardcore blend of funk was smooth and sexy, coloured well by the

trumpet of Paul Redican. For someone that doesn’t dance, their’s was genuine foot tappin’ stuff. Rather than relying on liveliness, Disgraceland let loose with complicated, strong, aggressive rhythms, locked together by bass, drums and guitar, producing a circling vultures effect. No one could escape the building tension. Interesting and very harsh. Human bring a Butthole Surfers/Gary Glitter approach to death metal. Their lead vocalist was a cross between Iggy, Gibby and Gene Simmons. Their songs are mostly trashy death metal (kind of early Napalm Death in the vocal department — one growly, one screamy), with an attempt at real glam at the end, which surprisingly worked. In these heady days of Failsafe it’s refreshing to see there’s still some damaged musical characters wondering the streets of Christchurch.

Suka forged their own style out of pure guts. Their songs were kind of bittersweet and discordant. Matthew Thornicroft’s superb voice let loose a torrent of emotion that was simply breathtaking. The last song was a huge epic of passion — absolutely brilliant. Snort are a raw, garagey sounding all women’s band, who also had plenty of support. They found planty of uses for a 4/4 beat, and were reminiscent of L 7, only more exciting — not too original though. The lead vocalist/ guitarist put on a great performance, which the other three could have taken cues from. Bodybomb are the only nasty sounding band — plenty of complicated changes and extremely harsh in all departments. They were aggressive, yet cerebral — a certain political edge was felt through the lyrics. As with Suka, the band’s last song was another building epic. It started off mellow and grew into a monster. It was superb. I didn’t have high expectations of Atomic Blossom. However, I was pleasantly surprised. This band specialise in big, glorious pop songs, quite awesome in places, as was their vocalist, Prudence Stone. Atomic Blossom seem to be a kind of midpoint between between Let’s Planet and the Pixies — very OK by me. ~ Lastly, Axiom. Their tight, rhythm based style of metal drew the usual strong crowd response. Instead of relying on guitar wank and showing off, Axiom use strong rifforama and solid bass and drums to impressive effect, complete with insane frontman. And then it was over. Almost. The judges decided that fifth place was to go to the Cheese Band, fourth to Bodybomb, third to Axiom, second to Atomic Blossom, with Snort taking first place. There was always going to be controversy with the results, but you get that. SHAUN JURY

THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS, THE DORIS DAYS The Powerstation, May 21. Tonight’s theme is Fuego, as in fire. Tonight was almost dubbed Shit Night. Maybe They Might Be Giants were disillusioned by their low pre-sales — low enough for upstairs to be closed off. But it meant there was plenty of room for dancing, and you could never get a bunch of conga lines out of a seething mosh pit, could you? More on that later. First up, a swell named band called the Doris Days took the stage. They played the only kind of pop better than the simply shiny kind of pop — that is the shiny and fast kind of pop. They delivered a tight set of mostly “songs about screwed up relationships”, which proved as infectious as that nasty virus the two boys next to me thought was such an appealing topic of conversation — Ebola. Some people should really get out more. The Doris Days should play around more. Next stop, the main attraction. “I’ve never seen so many nerds in my life,” commented my partner, who was a bit iffy about attending in the first place. Nevertheless, the atmosphere was very friendly and the fans were certainly dedicated. I felt like I was at someone’s house where the parents were out of town, and the clandestinely invited guests (all adults, I should point out) were anticipating the biggest night of their collective lives. They Might Be Giants did not disappoint them. In fact, they excelled any possible expectations by leaps, bounds, and a few well placed strikes on the glockenspiel. I’m talking talent to burn, and it was a mighty fire they stoked. Fuego indeed. Starting with 'The Statue Got Me High’, the now six-piece band blasted through a formidable-set of hits and album favourites, in a typically expansive range of styles. The crowd went wild. They did the twist and the swim. They pogoed (to ‘Dig My Grave’ and ‘Stomp Box’), laughed and screamed a lot. They knew all the words to all the songs (except, obviously, ‘Why Does The Sun Shine?’, which nobody except John Linnell could possibly know all the words to), and when put to the ultimate test, I’m buggered if they didn’t conga. We congaed. A brassily extended ‘No One Knows My Plan’ was the perfect soundtrack to the mania. While material from John Henry predominated (and highlighted the newer members of the fan base), the most rapturous response was reserved for old favourites ‘Birdhouse In Your Soul’, ‘Racist Friend’, ‘lstanbul (Not Constantinople)’ and ‘Anna Ng’ (which finally appeased the persistent roustabouters who’d been chanting for it since the minute the band walked on). After two encores and their trademarked cover of the Edgar Winter Band’s ‘Frankenstein’ (which featured a massive drum solo from the man with the mile wide smile, Brian Doherty), John Flansburgh made good on the guitar wrecking he’d been threatening his instrument with, and pulled the bastard’s strings off. All of you who so obviously were not there missed out big time — even my nerd spotting partner endorses that sentiment. Hoorah! A convert.

BRONWYN TRUDGEON