LIVE MUSIC

Rip It Up, Issue 180, 1 July 1992, Page 33

LIVE MUSIC

SEPULTURA, DEAD FLOWERS, TENSION Auckland Town Hall, July 1 I didn't know I had to review this until after the event, so I missed Tension by mistake, although I heard them in New Plymouth a couple of weeks ago and liked them (see article). I was in time to see the last three songs from Dead Flowers, successfully plying their sultry, riff-laden rock to a potentially hostile audience itching to see their heroes. Sepultura emerged from the dry-ice fog and mega-watt throb straight into a molten number that set the standard for the night. The band come across like a highway pile-up — speed metal breaks sudddenly give way to lowdown, evil grooves which nose-tail into guitar pyrotechnics, vocals avoid the worst excesses of the bulldozer death style, the energy level is unforgiving — concentration is needed, to keep up with relentless tempo/ mood changes. Sepultura are a seamless mega-watt Brazilian beast and the crowd approved heartily. A word of warning: don't stand under the balconies at these shows unless you want to be snowed on by dandruff from excited head bangers. I can't imagine any Sepultura and/ or metal fan being disappointed by this show. They played for over an hour (I think) and came back for three encores including a rockin' version of Motorhead's 'Orgasmatron'. Metal machine music at its finest. DONNA YUZWALK THE BLACK CROWES Mt Smart Supertop, July 6 "There's a funeral every time we play, Chris Robmson. yells back at critics, "a funeral for the fuckin' 70's — it died twenty years ago!" But trying to convince a crowd the Black Crowes aren't superglued to the seventies is somewhat difficult when the Marc Ford , the rhythm guitarist on his left, is wearing bright purple "lampshade lookalike" flares. Robinson himself sports Jim Morrison's leather pants, dances like Mick Jagger and writes lyrics like Ronnie Van Zant. It's hard to call the 70's dead when you're a kind of rock n'roll Lazarus. .:

What is dead though is the seventies audience and all that

reputably went with it. The music set the scene for billowing clouds of dope smoke and people stripping naked in the spirit of free love. However, the only pot present was of the belly variety, it was too cold to have anything less than three layers of clothing on and AIDS awareness has dulled any other concert frivolities. It's not like I was expecting Woodstock, but this was one of the most conservative crowds I've ever been part of. Sure, a drunk wes tie reverse lambada-ed his arse on my leg for half an hour (he said he was dancing) but it wasn't quite rock decadence. Neoconservatism and fear of doing anything but wiggle your head slightly pervaded almost the entire crowd despite Chris Robinson's frenetic performance. The Crowes exploded onto the stage from pitch black amidst a blast of white hot light and sound — lead guitar wailing, high hat rippling and bass throbbing the intro to 'No Speak No Slave'. The crowd stood still and cheered quietly. Robinson contorted his lithe wiry body into another series of mike wielding poses as they played their better known 'Twice as Hard'. The crowd replied with all the vigour of a pensioner's fart. The Crowes played a fourteen song set (about one and a quarter hours) mostly from the new album. As Robinson crooned the closing strains of 'Thorn in My Pride' the huge Black Crowes backdrop disappeared to reveal a picture detai ling the bacchanalian party games o f transvestite satyrs who were raping devils and skeletons. The stage was awash in blood red, a harmonica toting Chris Robinson leaped skyward to start the thumping bass intro to the bluesy 'Black Moon'. This was more like real rock n'roll, I thought, as the backdrops changed again (and finally raised a good reaction) during 'Stone Cold'. This time the curtains pulled back to reveal a thirty foot marijuana leaf. NORML members of the audience wept with joy, then dismay as the Crowes finished the song and quickly left the stage. Returning for one encore to cram new life down the

throat of the rock n'roll myth, they blasted out 'Remedy' with burning soulful passion. After two more, and 'Jelous', they left for good. A few disgruntled yells came from the audience but it was really pretty good value for money. And they certainly proved themselves as a live band — even though they played to the album formula, it's obvious recording hasn't captured the intensity of their real sound. Perhaps they should have played material the crowd knew better ('She Talks To Angels' was lamented) and apart from Chris, the band were apathetic on stage (considering the mean solos coaxed from Rich Robinson's axe I felt a few cliched Hendrix poses were justified ). Whatever the cause, the problem was that the smallish supertop crowd (maybe four thou) failed to get into it. It certainly wasn't a disappointment, but then again the grandchildren won't hear the story. TONY MILLER MUTTONBIRDS, BRAINCHILD Gluepot, July 3 Perhaps 70s dance pop wasn't the perverse disaster I imagined it to be. Perhaps peer pressure socialised me to spurn the flared grooves that once infested dance floors. In any case, Brain Child's synth disco backed ditties provoked me to "come out". This was re al dance music, not the sort of stuff that makes you look like an overzealous aerobics addict. Brain Child rose from the ashes of Six Volts (best known for their ebullient pop single 'Crying Shame' last year) and they sound, at the very least, offbeat. It's an easy on the ears, accessible blend of strummed guitars, ska rhythms and psychedelic 70s keyboards, complemented by Janet Roddick's soaring vocals, trombone blasts and challengingly philosophic lyrics ("toasted sandwiches, they're all 1 eat"). Hundreds of bodies convulsed and contorted in front of the stage, many having followed the band from Wellington. An upbeat version of 'lt's Alright in the City' heralded the much awaited entry of Don McGlashan's latest, the Muttonbirds. Though very much based around Don and his acoustic guitar, they exude

a slightly harder, less poppy sound than the Blams or the Front Lawn album did. It's not exactly straight rock n'roll, but certainly moves towards it. McGlashin was in fine form, his strong, tuneful voice and ability to turn the everyday event into a delicate yet unassuming poetic commentary on Kiwi existance glazing many an eye. He took the night pretty seriously, moving swiftly through the set and letting his music speak for itself, not feeling the need to describe any particular significance. Because the subject matter is close to us as NZ'ers, it's difficult to misunderstand — it epitomises the value of "folk" music. Thus tracks such as 'Dominion Road', 'White Valient' and the soon to be released 'Nature'(Fourmyula cover) were crowd rousing highlights. Another rare gem was drummer Ross Birgin's 'Don't Listen to this Song', a thrashing auto-harp driven yellfest, refreshing in its utter pointlessness, and the band's chaotic jam in the background. The night was a tantalising and inspiring preview of the album, the release of which, if anyone rushed out Saturday morning to buy it, has been delayed until early August to coincide with a national tour. And congratulations to the Gluepot sound engineer, who finally found a setting below "ridiculously loud" on the desk and we could actually hear what was being sung. TONY MILLER HENRY ROLLINS, DON BAJEMA, HUBERT SELBY JNR Henry Fonda Theatre, Hollywood, May 28 Yeah, I know it's a rock mag and everything and one mic and no backbeat doesn't cut the mustard, but bear with me cause this was all very rock 'n' roll in a poetic, manner. Bajema is an ex-Olympic class athlete who does a nice line in dissection of his white trash background, but without getting mired down in specifics of vernacular and suchlike. He comes across like a sensitive and urbane version of Harry Crewes at times and as an intellectual with an Uzi at others. His book Boy In The Air is fine, and if he was a rock band he would be the Stones circa Exile On Mainstreet. Hubert Selby Jnr should be known to most of you as the

author of Last Exit To Brooklyn among others and as perhaps the finest writer in the English language alive today. Selby writes and speaks about the world he knows and it's far from a pretty one. He's about junkies and bums and fuck ups of all manner, the rejection of his father and of women. Selby talks mainly of pain, but his sheer presence on the stage is proof of how it can all be overcome and the beauty of survival. He is a very powerful speaker and every one of his five books can be found easily. Selby can't be a rock band because there isn't one good enough. Henry Rollins, however, is rock 'n' roll (or at least a major facet of it) personified. Girls scream when he walks on stage to speak and the fact that he's filled a decent sized theatre without an instrument in sight is indicative of his power as a star now. It's great because Rollins' spoken word shows are always a worthy experience. He's very fluid and entertaining without being overbearing and there's never a righteous or preachy element to the show. Rollins ambled through the riots, his days in a pet shop and a lot of personal grief in one extended story without becoming lost or boring (try telling a story for an hour — it's not easy). He actually only read a couple of pieces and none of it was from his new book Black Coffee Blues so any pretentious poet/ self promoter type accusations are downright unfair. Henry Rollins is a man with alot to say, the energy and skill to say it well and he is now finding a larger and larger audience to say it all to. It just goes to show that despite the whole 'top ten' mentality, there's still room for quality. KIRK GEE

VAN HALEN, BABY ANIMALS Arco Arena, Sacremento, May 10

Ask anyone who knows a Van Halen fan or two and they'll inform you that they're a very closed-minded bunch. Therefore, the opening slot for Van Halen has traditionally been regarded as one of the most harrowing experiences a new band can face. Unsurprisingly, the Baby Animals took the stage under less-than-ideal circumstances (the froth-at-the-mouth VH fanatics had begun their first "Eddie" chant of the night), but justly won the crowd over due to two things: well written songs and overall professionalism. Unfortunately, one of their strongest assets, Suze Demarches gritty vocals, were unmistakably below par and

they left the stage having impressed , but leaving many indifferent also. The 25,000 predominantly 20-something audience that packed the arena came for one thing: a party! And a party they definitely got.

Van Halen delivered two hours of hard-hitting music that seemed calculated for a maximum mosh and shout-a-long session. Eddie, Mike, Alex and Sammy Hagar seemed their high energy selves (despite nine months on the road) opening up with 'Pound Cake', 'Judgement Day' and 'Runaround' from their latest album F.U.C.K. It was in the lyrics to 'Poundcake' that you could find Van Halen's formula for success: "Just play it clean and simple, wrap it up nice and tight". The songs were basic, catchy hard rockers, deliver ed promptly with the work ethic of a pub band. That, coupled with the stripped down-produc-tion, transformed the arena into a sweaty, 200-capacity club on a good night. The mid-set airing of their FM mainstay 'Why Can't This Be Love?' brought the energy up another notch and Sammy was forced to tell the drunken moshers up the front to "calm down" because he could "see people passing out everywhere". But the only musical respite came later from a solo acoustic song: 'Give To Live'. This unexpectedly dramatic rendition was the only gamble in the band's sure-fire deck. It came off well and was as a calm before VH's final assault. Eddie was in fine form (surprise surprise), stretching his "greatest bits" solo to 15 minutes. The legion of worshippers seemed content that their King was a distant one. Ed was for the most part absorbed in his own musical world. Indeed, it was Hagar who came off the strongest, interacting with the crowd all night. It's no wonder he has been accepted into the family as if there never was a Diamond Dave and perhaps this explained the lack of Roth-era songs, bar three: 'Panama', 'You Really Got Me' and 'Jump'. The first notes of the latter drew the biggest cheer of the night and more surprise oldies may have added that missing spice to the set list.

The set was closed appropriately with 'Top Of The World' which summed up the mood of the evening. The fans left on top of the world , knowing VH had delivered all that was expected from them — a tall order in itself. No wonder they're a closed-minded bunch.

MILAN NOBILO