ALIVE

Rip It Up, Issue 183, 1 October 1992, Page 42

ALIVE

BAILTER SPACE SML, MEATBOY Gluepot, September 11 Meatboy kicked off the night with one of their best last performances, with guitarist Mark Petterson heading off to play for his new band (some hopefuls called Straitjacket Fits) their future seems doubtful. The first couple of numbers wreaked of wandering Swervedriver type structures, 1 ; anthemic riffs gliding into atmospheric interludes. But after pne of those mood crushing 'broken string' breaks they lost a lot of momentum and the set never really recovered. Which kind of summed up Meatboy really, finally getting it together and then falling apart. SML bounded on stage in "geek gear" as promised — suit pants, ties and business shirts pressed for the occasion. But the Shihad, the Hole and the drummer with a Dr Seuss hat kicked out some pretty mean sounds. Searing power riffs that heavy metal would die to call its own, screaming vocals that didn't need to hide behind layers of distortion, thumpin' plunkin' bass and a freaky synth that sounded like a police siren on acid — phew. Even the "Sabbath Music Lives" piss around was great, with another of the Holes jumping on stage for a 'National Acrobat' that'd make Ozzy roll over in his bank.

But it was Bailter Space that everyone had come to see. Yarns started to circulate about bygone Gordons gigs, the wobble dancers (you could hardly call it slam dancing) rushed up the front and the ritualistic, earshredding sonic boom fest began. The ninety minute set was a blur of back catalogue and new material. Generous doses of the latest EP showed how the songs were meant to be heard with 'The Aim' finally breaking out of the subdued confines of its CD. The new album sounds like it's going to be more a mutation than a definite progression. But the show was as intense as always, packing that PCP punch and leaving more than a handful of hearing problems in its wake. Yup, it was another one of those nights full of eclectic New Zealand music that you shouldn't have missed. JOHN TAITE

ALBERT COLLINS & THE ICEBREAKERS Auckland Town Hall, September 10 Looks like we'll go with the trusty 7step point-by-point analysis on this one.

1) Occurring a mere week after the Blues Legends of the Mississippi Delta show at the Gluepot this concert was an efficacious example of the epigram "good things coming in threes". The third thing is obviously TVl's epic tragi-comedy 'The Ford Report'. Dedicated viewers should watch out for the upcoming "We've taken the engine for improved luggage capacity" episode. 2) The Chuck Eddy prognosis of blues being (quote) "hookless gumbo", perpetrated by practitioners skilled in nothing so much as somniloquism, may have occasional relevance to the on-record thing (though that totally missed the point) (I'll explain later) (Actually I won't) is, needless to say, shot to shibboleth by blues in live performance. 3) Albert Collins not quite as "Satan's sack man" looking in person than in photograph. His guitar: Utilising a capo confines him to the high register frets, whilst his picking technique of thumb and forefinger enables snapping the strings against the neck, creating a staccato sound — the effect much like a string of firework bangers going off every time he essays a run. The proverbial (to use Sir Lieb's wordage) "HOT, NASTY AND LOOSE!"

4) The backing band (tenor sex and strumpet and Stratoplat and vital organ and home bass and tubs) ventured forth firstwith and traded solos in succession. The boner going to the Larry Graham-ish popping of the bass funkateer whose name you'll have to remember yourself next time.

5) They're a showband, as in "to put on a show" — meaning they make an effort to entertain their audience. This makes them the antithesis of B.H.S.C.* (*Basic Hyland Style Crap) and said fan-type’s worst nightmare. Those people should stay home and try to grow some chest hair.

6) The rendition of Guitar Slim's slow-burner 'The Things That I Used To Do' was dedicated "to Stevie” —- thus perpetuating the "for Stevie" tradition. A phenomenon rapidly assuming "This one's for Jimi” stature. Perhaps it should, you know,

push us to appreciate people more when they're within our reach. 7) Gratuitous porn bonus: Last time I attended a Town Hall concert involved innocently viewing Wendy James whilst some (unknown to me) chick decided to "take what she wanted" and grappled at my pants and contents (just like Lester Bangs fantasises on page 58 of Psychotic Reactions!). Surprise of this show was Mr Collins manoeuvre to part the crowd Moses-style and strut down to the sound deck, from where he whipped out the most stinging licks of the Teletastic Vegas-funk-filled set. ANDREW PALMER FREAK THE SHEEP ’ . Release Party DTM, September 17 If you thought the combination of bands was grotesque, consider your host for the evening: a giant video projection of C. Knox, facial spasms eerily out of synch with verbal ones. Which doesn't mean Tinnitus' noise sounded any less unearthly in comparison. If you ever wanted to know what a didgeridoo, an oboe and a bass guitar being sucked into a black hole sounds like and you weren't there you probably never will. ' Leaders of Style continued the theme of displacement. They sounded like they came from another time: about 1987, before rappers discovered the joys of sliding sensuous sample-textures between the beat and the voice. Will it surprise anyone to learn that back-to-basics rap is about as exciting as its guitar-pop counterpart? Leaders of Style are well-presented young men, they should have no trouble getting proper jobs. Gestalt introduced some muchneeded impossible dreaming to the proceedings. They looked exactly like Yes circa 1972; if you want to know if they sounded like them you'll have to ask someone whose memories extend back before 1981, but I liked the way their songs try to spin out in a hundred directions at once instead of just clenching their buttocks until the next chorus, as most local guitar bands seem content to. ' ■ Unfortunately they suffered from an imbecilic mix that made their fairly straightforward rhythm section deafening and the guitar, vocals and exquisitely archaic keyboards almost inaudible. Better luck next time and I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that in refusing to playlist 'Pump Gas' BFM have once again displayed the aesthetic sensibilities of an herd of oxen. Next came Blue Marbles, the aural equivalent of mashed Weetbix: natural, unprocessed, healthy, and productive of a lot of shit. Two drummers, two guitars, two (overbearingly "passionate") vocalists and funky/ jazzy bass. How can so much activity produce such a confined, one-dimensional sound? Still, they and their friends seemed to enjoy themselves and that's what matters, isn't it? It might as well be, because Into The Void made everything that came before them hopelessly redundant. I could say that the ton of beautiful swill they dumped on us in the first song was as chokingly , black and viscous as that secreted by Locust Abortion Technician era Butthole Surfers, but that would overlook the way the next few bled Suicide's poisonous rock n'roll nihilism from every pore, some with and some without the Birthday Party's diabolic swing, and it wouldn't say anything at all about how Paul Sutherland turned an old turntable into a source of luscious, unstable noises that swam across the songs in a way no sampling-genius could hope to recreate, or how singer Ronnie Van Haut, who's also responsible for some of the best 2-d visual art I've seen this year, writhed, moaned and spat bile like he was possessing the devil, then turned bits of Leviticus into schizo-demon-babble to prove it. I could write a dissertation just on the crushing power of the drums and still not communicate anything of how almighty Into The Void were, so I'll abscond from all semblance of critical responsibility (again) and leave you with two quotes, one from Louis Celine, one from an anonymous friend (see if you can guess which is which). ", .. He sticks his finger into the wound . . . some kind of pouch bursts .. . the juice pours out all over the place ... all full of brains and blood splashing ..." "Not bad for three art-fags and a librarian." MATTHEW HYLAND

SECOND CHILD, CULTURE STONE Boardwalk Bar, September 25 Here's the same old bleat about not enough people though this made for comfort. Josh n' Jarry opened the show. What a load of old bollocks. They, a guitarist and a drummer sat down; they shared vocals through a motley collection of bad folk songs. Just when you thought it finally over they surprised us by shoving a backing tape through the PA and letting loose. Don't know what they were on about but it was entertaining. Hey, Culture Stone rock. Still rough about the periphery they have the makings of a fine guitar band. They play well, very well. Sometimes at intoxicating speed. A hangover from their Anigma days perhaps. But do they have the songs? The most memorable was a number called 'My Friend Stoned', a rock ballad of sorts. Culture Stone were intensely pleasurable. Maybe 'cause as my friend commented "Isn't their lead singer spunky!" Along with the pretty boys from Rumblefish, I suppose so. Another band who've been away awhile and returned to do the live thing are Second Child. A chance to rejuvenate and write some new material. Most of the new songs bore Second Child's difficult hallmarks. Their music is intense and complex, ever changing. But the straight edge of newie 'Hold Back' was the proverbial hot knife. As an entity, maybe it's all that concentration, but I do wish they'd smile. Lead singer Damien Binder’s voice gets stronger but so does his urge to ponce about a lot. Never mind! Second Child are good songwriters and talented musicians. If they're working toward more gigs and hopefully recording, let's hear it soon. BARBIE CALEARO DRIVE, MEATBOY CILLA, FIGURE 60 Arcadia, October 4 FIGURE 60 are already playing as I walk in, a band I was unprepared to like much 'cos someone'd told me they were "Bailter Space influenced", as oft as not the X of death. And tho' for at least the Ist song I heard there didn't seem to be too much going on 'cept volume — way too much for a place this size I ‘figured — within a couple of songs they'd pulled out a bunch of smart, if no way "original" (big deal) Gordonstype moves and the volume and whatever began to seem warranted. Sort of. Way better when the gtrist was singing than when the bass player was singing (pretty common phenomenon) worst when the drummer was (ditto), probably best when nobody was (ditto) (ditto on rye w/ mustard). Whichmakes 'em, I don't know, half OK three-quar-ters of the time at least.

More evidence of the feared progrock revival, probably — CILLA is another 3-piece vaguely reminiscent of a bunch of 70s bands I've never heard, mostly especially RUSH — fractured Physical Grafitti dynamics, horrible singing (bass player AND gtrist both, nobody gets off the hook), approx, zero melodic content . . . good drummer tho' (Andrew Moon — I'd never seen him play before); even tho' he wears GLO VES whilst playing for fucksake, where is that at?

NOT prog-rock — MEATBOY! They listen to Cheap Trick, they drink beer, they make stoopid videos of themselves! This band might attract attention cos one of 'era's now in the Straitjacket Fits, and that's cool, but, dumb reason. But if ya wanna know, this is a way, way better band than the aforementioned, cos sorta put me in mind of a buncha stuff I thought I was being smart by avoiding it Ist time round (the Lurkers, the Boys, Radio Stars etc maybe) (don't bother searching those records out tho', go see these guys instead). They've gotta bunch of songs I can still remember today (Monday), which nobody else that played that afternoon had, and as well as their own stuff they do the popular disabled-children ad jingle 'We've Got To Break Down The Barriers' and Television's 'Scene O'Evil'. Swell band, check 'em the fuck out.

CALEARO DRIVE tie for best band of the day and best contempo Ak. prog-rock band too, they sound sorta like their name (the derivation of which I do not know and I've probably spelt it wrong too) ref. points being I guess NEU! (tho' much looser), the Stooges Ist album (tho' without any distinctive lead voice, vocal or instrumental) (no big problem tho'), Hawkwind, you get the pic. I'm sure. Cameron and Roddy from Supercar got up there for a while and tried to remedy the "no distinctive lead voice" situation, didn't make any difference tho' and same goes for the female vocalist who followed them and who I presume was (unlike those other two losers) actually meant to be there. Good drummer too and he

wasn't wearing gloves either, you can bet. ', ' - - D. ZARAKOV ■ OPERATION MUSIC STORM Sammys, Dunedin, October 3 The past year or so has seen a burst of vibrant young bands emerge in Dunedin and Christchurch with tonight's bunch of looseheads leading the way. - Polyp are definitely one of the best new acts. They're an inventive, tenacious trio whose songs have got flair, verve and vitality wrapped up in harsh, acerbic melodies. They should have been placed as they played sharply. - Opening the outside challenge were the spikey 147 Swordfish, eventually getting third place with a powerful set of bristly thrash pop. Visually they seemed like geeks, goths and bogans but there was no denying their vastly intense, startling sound. Travis were the first band to get a major crowd response. Normally a catchy late seventies-ish pop band, this time round they surged with dynamism and energy. However their over-theatrical stage presentation detracted from otherwise sparkling gems like 'This Holy Day'. Pumpkinhead and Thromityurch were next and what a venal and vapid load of funk metal turkeys they were. Both tried futiley to be red hot but were nothing’ more than cold farts. So, they could 'rock' — big deal. Knowing how to 'rock' is about as original and exciting as knowing how to pick your nose. Then came the Supertanker distortion juggernaut. It's heading in the right direction with a cargo of swerving, one-hell-of-a-racket noise and energy. Keep an eye on them. The funky Munky Kramp had the crowd eating out of their hands. With a combination of dancy pop, groovy funk and frantic lead singer Demarnia, they had sass and they had it sussed. They deserved first equal place. Unlike Lurch. They've obviously read about all this shoe-gazing overseas stuff but weren't discerning enough to avoid it. Good ideas but not enough to go beyond their influences. ' . . . ■ GRANT MCDOUGALL DOC SAVAGE, BOBBY MACK AND NIGHTTRAIN, James Cabaret ’ ’ Wellington, October 4 It may have been a Sunday, it may have been the night of the wine and food fair, it may have been Jan Hellriegal playing across town, it may have been slack promotion, but there was not excuse for only a handful of people turning out for this gig. 700 packed the room on Friday for the erractic Deep Grooves posse and 60 turn out for a Texas guitar legend and one of this country's hottest guitarists. All in a week when Winnies gets dumpedwhat better way to chear yourself up than a night of hot blues. Doc Savage and his stripped down three-piece opened the show with a 45 minute set of his tight punchy blues rock. Doc's heavily carved gibson raged through an enthusiastically received set drawing on his recently released Classified Out of Controlalbum. Live the three-piece lost some of the refinement of the recorded versions but within the economical format the band played hard rocking versions of'Boobhead Boy' and 'Railroaded', chugged strongly through 'Back To The Bar' with some screaming guitar gymnastics and dropped down for the broody blues of 'Honeytrap' allowing Doc an extra stretch on the guitar. Vocally Doc could have been a bit further up in the mix but his raspy voice came across strong and assured.

Bobby Mack fulfilled a promise made in February when he toured with Midge Marsden and Willie Foster and has returned with his band Nighttrain. He came out confidently playing a tribute to Jimmy Reed that set the pace for a two set, two hour show that read like a blues road map of America. Although the loping melodic Texas style that began with Blind Lemon Jefferson and flourished post-war with T-Bone Walker and Freddie King dominated the show, Bobby Mack blended Delta, Chicago, Memphis and even New Orleans (via the Meters) into the evening.

The Rev Mark Goodwin on keyboards pushed and pulled a multitude of sounds from his keys using the leslie effect generously and even trying a Jerry Lee with his feet. He also took over lead vocals for some raging gruff blues screamers that had him in danger of falling off the stage. The rhythm section of Jimmy Pate on drums and' Larry Lutz on bass held a solid bottom on the events, so tight that often you didn't realise they were there. Only musicians this good can

look so loose and relaxed on stage and pull of a steaming set of rock solid blues. Even the Hendrix sounded innovative with Bobby's dramatic playing and cascading notes striking just the right tempo. It was a long show but remained stimulating and exciting right till the end because of the variety in sounds and styles, but always with that great Texas feel. And no comparisons to Stevie Ray ok. They both have the same roots and influences but are also two individual and unique stylists. See them in a small room near you soon because next time round they'll be playing stadiums. JOHN PILLEY BEASTIE BOYS Powerstation, October 6 Sure, I don't listen to a whole shitload of rap or "dance music" what-have-you, reasons are several and include (#1) rap records are seldom found in the bargain bins from whence 98% of my record collection (all vinyl! Read my lips!) is shanghaied, and (#2) in order to know which is the good stuff you gotta keep abreast of a buncha stoopid-doopid and too-expensive can't-even-use-em-for buttwipe magazines and also (#3) listen to student radio and plus (#4) me having a mental age of 15 (I'm told) well goshdarn it, that makes it (mentally) 1978 and I'm still (mentally) living in Timaru and as far as I know (mentally) rap HASN'T EVEN BEEN INVENTED YET and don't even start w/ any of that Last Poets/ Gil ScottH stuff cos I bet you'd never heard the Last Poets in nineteen-seventy-eight yourself, FATSO. But OK, the Beastie Boys, always liked em if only cos vis-a-vis the general solemnity of honky-rap the BBs never made no pretence at anything more/ less than pretence — fake-out mastery in the trad of Chinn/ Chapman, Kasenetz/ Katz, Kiss, the Monkees, and o'course too everybody knows the baddest-rap-ping charlatanic-honky-fakeouts always gotta be either/ or (#1) Jewish (cf. THEY SAID THE SAME ABOUT ELVISby Huey P. Zarakov, pp. 473550) and/ or (#2) Jewish from New York (ibid., pp. 1169 thru 2066), and these guys, you guessed it, sho' nuff, etc, Jewish. And so here they come now, leaping stagewards an,d straight into an energetic demonstration of traditional Hasidic meschuggenah dancing (I hadda go to the library and look this shit up, yeesh) — Ist song, 'Slow And Low' off the Ist album, lasts about 30 secs seems like and then bam! into another/ another/ another etc ... a whole bunch of these done in this manner with the three main guys leaping and hollering backed by, 1 guess tapes and a black guy jockeying turntables and mixage (tho' I'm watching him a bunch of the time and actually what he appears to be doing w/ his hands seems to have little or no bearing on that-which-is-manifested sonically . . . gotta admit tho' I know very little of such matters and anyway later he doubles on rapping and percussion and triples on throwing people off the stage, tell ya bout that some more in a min.)... next move, two Beasties get on gtr and bass, some other guy gets on drums and they do some punk-rock stuff — not my kinda prock tho' cos it's pretty standard fast-metal-core blur and about as exciting or whatever as anything else of this boring genre — but then after a couple of these they move 'round some more — a Beastie (Mike D) gets on the traps, some longhair on organ (Hohner. W/ a Leslie if you know what that is, pretty cool), couple guys on wizzers, reen, rockas etc (cf. MCS album review) and they do some sorta prog-funk jams that, mighta been the acid but made me think of Frank Zappa. And so on, and so on, back and forth pretty much betwixt these formats with all the while GUYS GETTING THROWN OFF THE STAGE nine-teen-to-the-doz which after a while seemed to me to be the evening's real action esp. with the risk of, what with all the leapfrogging around that was going on up there, some member of the band might get thrown the fuck off the stage by mistake—didn't happen tho'. Some guy standing next to me got beat up too, by some thug who may/ may not’ve been acting in an official capacity, pretty scary. No conclusive result tho' as to whether more violence happened during "rock" or "rap" stuff, which I'm sure you woulda all been interested in, you'll have to wait till next time New Kids On The Block come for that one. D. ZARAKOV

L 7, HEAD LIKE A HOLE Powerstation, October 7 If the question you’re asking is "How many bands have you seen perform nude?" then the only answer is "Not enough". Hence Head Like A Hole's naturalist policy is pretty admirable

(though not pretty. As was their irreverent Buttholes-like sprawling across the stage. The music's a lurching BIG NOISE hormone toss-off and I could differentiate it enough to say the highlight was the one that sped up. They denied it on TVFM, but the singer's showmanship is straight out of the David Lee Roth book of etiquette. Nothing wrong with that, might as well jump.

It seems to me that the success of FOXCORE (chicks who get down and rock) has more to do with malcontents buying the records as surrogate sex objects than anything musical (at least this theory should account for the success of LA's Hole etc). L7's Smell My Finger was the rare almost-exception to the rule, melding your basic Page/ lommi powerchords of the Himalayas to your basic Johnny Ramone hookblitz, proficient enough to make dweebs like Pearl Jam sound more like, well, themselves I guess. At their Auckland show the girly foursome got down and rocked, beared down on their axes, kicked out the sweat, grunted in Black Flag's wake, and as with Head Like A Hole the BIG NOISE didn't provide the head-rush it used to, but that's got little to do with anything. Unlike the spectacular Point-o-Meter, which is flashing with several "cosmic coincidences":

1) L7's 'Enter Sandman' demolition and 'Circus of the Wanna-be Nirvanas' interlude paralleled Faith No More's New Kidz and Madonna disses two years ago. On a recent compilation both bands covered the same Dead Kennedys song. 2) Almost four years ago I saw L 7 live in LA where they played with GWAR, a band whose stage act involved nudity and penis extension props — much like Head Like A Hole (except GWAR's penile prosthetics shot green muck on the crowd). ■ 3) The name L 7 means "square" (that's the shape the letters form), whilst guitarist Donita Sparks was wearing a shirt advocating formerstar and noted philosopher Mr T ("father of E"). If you'll recall, on the A-Team Mr T had no time for squares — to him, they were suckers. Watch out!

4) On the subject of TV and the New Kidz, remember last year's fanatasy-fulfillment special where Jordan got to cream Kareem etc, but one of them was on the beach surrounded by bikini suckflesh and his fantasy was to cover himself in oil and arm wrestle someone (!?!) What a fop! 5) Karma's where you find it. ANDREW PALMER MARGARET URLICH, THREE CATS AND A DOG Auckland Town Hall, October 3rd Margaret Urlich may have been top of the bill but one suspects that most audience goodwill drew upon fond memories of When The Cat's Away. Nor could one overlook the fact that Kim and Debbie have been doing rather nicely with their 'Black And White' remake. So the Cats and Dog —that's Annie, Kim, Debbie and hubby Ricky Morris—received an approving roar the moment they ran onstage and burst straight into 'Magical Mystery Tour'. For the next hour or so we were treated to a nostalgic jukebox in flawless harmony. They wore their taste on their sleeves and I loved them for it. Whether it was Annie wrenching melodrama from the sth Dimension version of 'Ticket To Ride', Debbie dedicating "What Do You Get When You Fall In Love' to her baby or Ricky reviving the longforgotten 'Brandy (You're A Fine Girl)', the performance slipped under my critical guard and knocked my taste into dazed delight. The high-calibre mush of Morris's own 'Nobody Else' sounded simply gorgeous. Margaret Urlich's -Australian touring experience over the past couple of years has resulted in a slick, energetic show that exudes confidence. Her glittering black bodysuit, accessories (diamond choker, bracelet, feather boa, top hat) and non-stop dancing cast her in the role of catwoman as sexy aerobics instructor for the cocktail set. That she could sing so well at the same time seemed faintly astonishing. But while the stage show was always interesting and her band was polished and punchy it was clear that much of her new material has little going for it beyond the rhythms. 'Boy In The Moon' and the first album's hits were standouts in a set that depended largely on professional presentation for its success. So it was not without relief when Urlich welcomed her old friends back on stage for a three-song reunion. And of course they performed 'Melting Pot'. It was an evening in which reviving the past took on promoting the present and won on points.

PETER THOMSON