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Rip It Up, Issue 179, 1 June 1992, Page 26

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MEAT PUPPETS Powerstation, May 23. Came pretty close to not bothering to check this out on the strength of the dubious REM tendencies of their mid-period albums and not having heard their new one — but, boy, it woulda been my loss. Dunno about on record, but live, their tent is still pitched someplace between the hopped-up Country & W (actually closer in form to bluegrass than to rockabilly) of Meat Pups Hand the alien brain-probe metal of Up On The Sun and the anomalous

'comeback' alb. Monsters with nary a sniff of the Huevos/ shit (even if they did maybe play a song or two off of those albums, dunno that I'd be able to tell). So it was like this — started out fast and sorta wacky (the "Bluegrass. Breakdown" section of the set), got down slow just around the time I was thinking 'Gee, be good if they played some slow ones" — did Roy Orb's 'ln Dreams' and didn't fuck with it overly much — told some jokes I didn't get (they're from Arizona) — another cover, Tumblin' Tumbleweeds' as featured on their first album 'cept they've learned to play it properly now ... some beautiful unison whistling on 'Maiden's Milk' off Up On The Sun... and on and on. It was great. And then — maybe best part of all — the lengthy and largely unsolicited encore bracket after they'd gone off for a while to "smoke" some 'pot' or whatever these American punk rock musicians do. 'Blue Moon of Kentucky* got its ass whipped, 'I Wanna Be Your Dog' got its arms and legs sawn off, The Battle Hymn of the Republic' received a solemn and respectful treatment and then a bunch of stuff got thrown around (instruments, band members, audience members) and the final eidetic image of Cris Kirkwood scarily brandishing a cymbal and stand above his head (and I'm thinking, oh no, he's gonna throw it into the audience and someone'll get their head chopped off!)... too much. I don't guess anyone went home under the impression they'd just seen the Red Hot Chili . Peppers. DUANEZARAKOV HALLELUJAH PICASSOS ? ' JUGHEAD, THE TIME, SKARS. DTMs,May2B. DTMs is a great space—it was the site of the first and best Arcadia, and has retained some of its atmosphere despite being painted into standard nightclub black. It should be used as a live venue more often, even if the wine does cost $5 a glass. The choice of support bands for the Picassos' album release party reflects their legendary eclecticness. First up . Skars played three songs in a vaguely rhythm oriented mode of spiky punkish pop. Their general inoffensiveness was, I fear, a ruse to lower our . defences for the Time. If I don't make. some attempt to communicate "the facts" they'll probably send me a parcel full of live maggots, or worse, a demo tape, so here they are (the facts, not the maggots). 1 .The Time have

guitar, bass and drums, all of which can and frequently do play long, long solos, and a female backing singer who could quite capably provide harmonies for the soft-drink ad of her choice. 2. They seem to be interested in funk (slap goes the bass,"ugh" goes the vocalist) and metal (although the "heavy" bit must have got lost in the post). 3.They play 'Psycho Killer' by Talking Heads. 4.They are almost preternaturally vile. If they try and offer you sweets tell your parents or a policeman. Jughead promised "an unfunky" half hour and delivered just that. Five songs full of seething lateral guitar and geometric bass, the latter courtesy of Barbara Morgan, who also sings with a vengeance. The highlight was a cover of Madonna's 'Justify My Love', the only halfway decent song asshole Kravitz ever wrote. Next time they play it expect to see guitarist / vocalist Jonathon King wearing the appropriate costume of fishnet stockings and a pointy metal bra. And then came the Hallelujah Picassos, as contradiction-laden a 1 band as you could hope to see. They're one of the very few groups in Auckland with a full set of teeth in their collective head, they provoke audiences and invoke Bader-Meinhoff, and yet they're quite willing to play innocuous reggae and thrash pop. They're at their least convincing when they keep their various styles separate as if to prove that they can do them "properly," so it was good to see them moving towards a truly distinctive sound that incorporates dub dynamics and hardcore vocal fury, as on 'Hateman' and their wild mutation of Bo Diddley's 'Who Do You Love'. They could take things further by using the turntables right through the songs more often, taking greater risks with coherence for the sake of drama. There'd be little chance of the result seeming muddled because nothing could diminish the theatre of the rampant, all devouring ego that's their focal point, the source of their bizarre, undeniable power. : MATTHEW HYLAND ELECTRIC MAYHEM Powerstation, May 30. . The title Electric Mayhem sounded somewhat dubious — the sort of name you usually find on Dino music's last album by the dancing Smurfs. So it was with some trepidation I arrived to hear the first band on the line-up, the predominantly female Exploding Jellybeans, a suitably insecure and •• innocent secondary school band. While they started off the show in defensive poses and frightened tones, the sultry lead singer Kerensa soon gained a bit of confidence, inspiring the band to rattle through some Seattle covers with some nice vocal harmonising and a fair degree of skill. Fellow young 'uns Ransom followed with some pretty ghastly Alice Cooper covers and a few promising originals. My fears about the dancing smurfs came true as Indian Angel appeared centre stage with the cry "anyone going to Def Leppard?" which pretty

much summed up their set—a band that was trying hard to sell out in a country that no longer has currency small enough to buy them. Things improved as the first of the more established bands arrived. Freak Power blasting out a typically grunty, bassy sound though the lead riffs (as ever) seemed somewhat lost in the mix. However Paul Snake's angry screams were clearly audible over the top, a kind of slurred monotone in a Pearl Jam style. Brain Tree were next, but didn't really do much for me, despite a frenetic stage presence and some great (slightly 70s rock retro) vocals. Their sound always appears to be uncohesive, scattering their energy outwards rather than driving ahead in one direction. The drummer in particular seems uninterested in what the rest of the band is doing, not leaving them with much of a base to work on. Individually each member sounds great, but the sound doesn't gel as well as it should. In contrast, Sticky Filth's racing thrashed phallic guitar and 'Eat Fuck Sleep Die' philosophy drove unerringly towards the goal of sonic oblivion. Their vast wall of sound sent the now sizeable crowd into a chiropractor's nightmare of head waving and slam dancing, the opening track using a dance beat on which to overlay wailing guitar and vocals reminiscent of Trent Reznor. Wellington trio Legacy were next and drove the crowd back to the bar with frankly uninspiring songs about the ozone hole and other suitably important subject matter. They had some interesting riffs and competent vocals (sung rather than shouted), but sounded more like a soundtrack to a James Bond movie or a Richard Marx tribute than anything else. I've never seen them before and it may have been difficult as their drummer quit last week (the vocalist played the drums as well as as sung), but they certainly didn't rouse much of my interest. But it was the Dead Flower's melodious repertoire, animated stage presence and attractive pink bunny costume that made the night. They played a characteristically skilful and gutsy set, brave enough to play some down tempo songs as well and drew the audience out of the corners more than any of the previous bands did. They proved too hard an act to follow for Wellington band Big Deal whose tanned, blonde glam rock appeal paled somewhat in comparison. This coupled with the prospect of Nine Livez (whose sound, though widely followed, never led me anywhere) heralded the time to leave. I paused only to step around the ice-encrusted corpses of the several 14-year-old females who had spent the entire afternoon in sub-zero temperatures outside waiting to glimpse their idols (Nine Livez as it happens). As a whole, Electric Mayhem never really came together. Though the lighting and FX were excellent—skilfully following and anticipating the music, the bands changed with reasonable speed and the sound mix

was generally very good, there just wasn't the sustained crowd to create the atmosphere if needed to work well. It was dragged out over too long a period (12 hours) to sustain interest. Perhaps Minor Electric Chaos would have been a better title. TONY MILLER JIMMY BARNES, DIESEL THESE WILDING WAYS Supertop, June 6. : Yep, late again. It started so early at 6.30 pm! Caught the tale end of These Wilding Ways. The semi-assembled crowd tapped a toe or two to the swirl of guitars and strictly pop ditties. The gathering of the fans began in earnest, pouring through the flaps for Diesel. He's obviously put in his bedroom apprenticeship with the Hendrix records. An overblown intro, ‘ third song in, was too close to 'Little Wing' for comfort. Otherwise the set was hot. Diesel's spic good looks, chrome larynx and that seamless easy way with a guitar charmed even this cynic. The boy can do it, rock that is. Bamsie! "Mate, put some Bamsie on the stereo and grab a tinnie from the fridge will ya?" I wish I'd had a tinnie to get through the first half of the set. That being out of the question in the alcohol-free zone, I found the renditions of the Soul Deep classics “ tedious. Sure, they were note perfect. What they lacked, and what soul is, was that emotional edge. It could have been a lounge act until ... yes, something was brewing. The nice backdrop came down. Singers and band members exited. Alone on the riser the drummer remained, soloing. Drum solos bore me shitless. At this stage I was ready to cry at the thought of no 'Lay Down Your Guns' or 'Mary Mary'. The Jimmy Barnes I know — let's shake the cred — and love. Just about ready to give up, out bounced the band ready to kick it all the way back across the trough if necessary. The second half of the show did kick serious rock ass. This is what big gigs are about. Not only did the whole thing turn up to 10, the voice that was the main attraction took on the colour and depth that would have benefited the soul stuff immensely. Surprise of the night and major compliment must go to local Hutt girl Annie Crummer. Taking on the role of Tina Turner must be terrifying. For the duet of 'Simply The Best*, its inclusion an unexpected treat, she pulled off the manoeuvre with flair to spare. Jimmy Barnes takes on the title of the hardest working-class man in show business. He earns the title. BARBIE THIS WILL KILL THAT CLAY, NOTHING AT ALL Boardwalk Bar, May 22. It was three-piece city tonight. Nothing At All, the Band Who Are Still At High School, actually suffered from a crystal clear mix from Matthew Heine, dispelling the pleasingly rude" sound Zarkov commented on last month. NAT sounded too clean-cut and "nice". They opened with what sounded like a Nixons' cover, but

apparently was not and things did not accelerate from there. ' Last year Wellington's Clay were called Amazing Broccoli and they had a keyboard player. This year they've stripped back to a three-piece and : gone for a minimalist name with . uncompromising monosyllabic song titles to match ('Catcher', 'Hinge', 'Stationer/) indicative, I guess, of the contemporary art school angst brand. of rock they are bent on making. W>uld-be brooding squalls of guitar, bruised bass, overcast drumming, every song played at the same. ponderous speed to soporific rather than hypnotic effect. Senses dulled by this monotonal ; performance which was at least half an hour too long (hasn't anybody heard of the old adage 'leave 'em wanting more'?) hopes were not high for This Will Kill That, but the guitarist looked nervous and kind of geeky, always a good sign. Sure enough, three songs into their set they were jamming a keyed-up, on-edge bass/ guitar/ drums din: metallic, loud, light and heavy at the same time; intense, discordant, bristling with edginess from that nervy guitarist. Bass and drums listened in, concentrating on strengthening the weave to create a living, breathing jam. Not exactly easy listening, but worth the effort. DONNA YUZWALK CROWDED HOUSE Dunedin Town Hall, April 22. A quick crowd study of this second and final night confirmed that Crowded House have made that vital cross-over from old Split Enz wrinklies to the mid-to-elderly teenager, predominantly female, with taste if not patriotism. ' Filling up the vastness of the carpeted gothic structure that is the Dunedin Town Hall two nights in succession is the sort of thing that maybe only a certain Dame could do on a good week, but there we had it, the affable Neil Finn, sans brother, fronting a band whose live muscle kicks sand in the face of the punier studio Crowded House. Don't get me wrong, with three beautifully carved long players littered with tunes worth pillaging for, the band has wealth to draw on, but live Finn's voice takes on more depth, sounding like vintage Paul Kelly and the bottom end, the rhythm section, kick like a rabid mule. With appropriately wooded backdrop the band bounce their expected highlights off a crowd of buoyant believers. 'Don't Dream It's Over 1 'lt's Only Natural' and 'Now We're Getting Somewhere' are as familiar as the national anthem, but it's the awkward skewed funk of 'Chocolate Cake' and the sensitivity of 'Fall At Your Feet' and Paul Hester's balcony rail balancing act that reveal the wide parameters of this band.

With Crowded House in this form and continually improving, nostalgia for a Finn Brothers or a Split Enz reunion would be more than a step backwards. GEORGE KAY