LIVE

Rip It Up, Issue 188, 1 March 1993, Page 41

LIVE

LEMONHEADS, DAVID KILGOUR

Powerstation, March 6

It's hard not like the Lemonheads with their happy, goofy singer

who even some of the boys I know say is a spunk, which is dubious in itself. But then having an affinity with members of the group does make you like their music. I mean if what's-his-face from Motley Crue was doing this stuff I would probably hate it. But Evan writes lovely songs that, played live, turn out to be much heavier and passionate than on record, with romantic and sometimes rather funny lyrics. "If I was a booger, would you blow your nose, would you eat it, would you keep it" is a particular favourite line of poetry from 'Being Around'. Anyways, they churned their way through their set, Evan bouncing around like a happy muppet, opening with a bitchin' rendition of 'Store' off Lovey, then going on to play all the good stuff off It's A Shame — 'Confetti', 'lt's A Shame', 'Rudderless' and 'My Drug Buddy' all beautifully done. They also did 'Mallow Cup' from Lick which was a pleasant surprise. The night ended with a solo acoustic set by

Evan, then the rest of the band came out and completed the night with a band version of the acoustic track on the record, 'Frank Mills'. Really grouse!! Oops, sorry, didn't see any of the support bands, well I saw about two songs of David Kilgour and it didn't seem too exciting to me . . . sorry. SHIRLEY CHARLES ,’

THE PUDDLE, THE TERMINALS

Gluepot, February 20 Maybe the Gluepot's going to become a serious venue again now Tommy Adderly's dead, or maybe tonight was an abberation. Anyway, the no-neck students who usually crawl out of the woodwork for Flying Nun gigs stayed home (perhaps they were waiting for Orientation — the Muttonbirds, Head Like A Hole and no Snapper, how damn privileged can you get?) so the audience was smallish and largely motionless, and seemed to know what to expect from the Terminals. Which is more than can be said for your ever-humble reviewer: for some reason I'd always thought of them as practitioners of vaguely dark, unruly 60s type pop, which is roughly akin to saying Mahler wrote the odd catchy tune, or Man Ray took some nice holiday snaps. Because the Terminals sound exactly like their name; not just in the sense that their Moog (also recently used by the Dead C's Michael Morley) often sounds like a 747 taking off, but because

they're death warmed up. The songs are built on the faintest memory of slow, minor key blues, the main singer has the perfect voice for popular tragedy, equal parts Orbison, Sinatra and Cave, and the guitar lines spread and cling like spider's web. This relatively classical framework is comprehensively defiled, however, by what Carducci calls the "lead instrumental voice", in this case the psychopathic keyboard playing of a man whose appearance caused a certain radio announcer to call out "Stephen Hawkins rules!" His weapons are the aforementioned Moog and a prehistoric organ, which he plays almost like a percussion' instrument while somehow still producing melodies which cut gracefully across the chords. For a finale he sets fire to things and plays guitar with his glasses. As far as I'm concerned that's incontrovertible proof: the man's a genius, the band magnificent. Why Flying Nun are desperately pushing JPSE and the Headless Chickens when there are bands like this and Into The Void in their roster I'll never know.

After the spectacle of the Terminals it was hard to pay due attention to the Puddle. They play a kind of happy-sad, sometimes nervous sounding pop music; outer limits might be the Clean and early 852 s if that's not stating the grossly obvious. George Henderson may or may not be a great songwriter, I don't feel qualified to judge him on the strength of one gig, because the kind of songs he's writing depend on the sort of submerged charm that you sometimes only discover after owning a record for years. I hope they do deign to play in Auckland again, 'cause there's certainly something unusual about them, but maybe next time they should find an easier act to follow. MATTHEW HYLAND

HALLELUJAH PICASSOS, PASIFIKAN DESCENDANTS, LUBE, RUN CHICKEN RUN Forts X-ing Feb 19 RUN CHICKEN RUN Attica Feb 20 Who says the Auckland music scene is not only dead but decomposed beyond recognition? Here was a venue bursting at the seams with stinking young flesh, I mean enthusiastic kids desperate to hear new, original music! Well actually to pay a bare minimum of attention to three competent rehashes of established goodtime formulas and to swoon at the feet of a local band with at least one quite good trick to play. First competent thing was Lube, three fiercely blond young men and drummer Lance (SPUD, F/ Power) who's much more than competent but largely strait jacketed by grim 4/ 4 song shapes. I suspect they see themselves somewhere in a DC tradition of athletic, Puritan hardcore (Fugazi, Bad Brains etc), but those bands have such a subtle feeling for dynamics, the spacing of sounds, that their minimality is almost luxurious, whereas for Lube less is less, no amount of ostentatious bass-work or vocal Bono-izing (Mr Ire's fine word "earnesty" may at last have found its true referent) will make their cramped, poorly ventilated sound seem like anything other than just that. They do jump around a lot though.

Pasifikan Descendants looked, for about two minutes, like transforming the proceedings. Here, in the diseased heart of muso dullness, were the makings of a confrontational, visual show. Four large Pasifikan males, two rappers and two dancers, one wearing a t-shirt with a machete on it, go from standing still with their backs to us to waving slogans around and mov-

ing in ways that rendere’d any spurious questions about "origin" (ie was that a Polynesian or an American footstep?) utterly unanswerable. Unfortunately the music soon got stuck in a sickeningly. breezy, cheerful light-reg-gae mood and never got out again. Also the samples were mixed way too low (with the exception of an obvious and gratuitous PE one), so the bass didn't so much shake the floor as limp forlornly across it. Needless to say all the white BFM volunteertype creeps who patronise "black music" by pretending to like its most pitifully well-mannered, radio-produced incarnations while demanding that white rock bands be suitably loud and manly (and that goes for L 7 too) loved them.

But not as much as they love Hallelujah Picassos, which is mildly surprising, because at their best the band's attempts to lash a flailing, childish (that's a compliment) form of punk to the more disreputable bits of reggae completely fuck up the rules of both genres and in doing so make ignorant listening all but impossible. I like it when Roland's scabrous voice spreads like a cancer through an otherwise ridiculously jaunty song, and when, just occasionally, the guitar and bass runs seem to spiral into separate universes, and of course when they abuse the audience, although I wish they meant it. I don't like it when what, not having done the research, I can only surmise to be "lover's rock" is allowed to continue unchecked by chaos or irony for an aggregate of at least half an hour. But still, if, as someone suggested, the punters love not the reality but the idea of the Picassos, it's probably because almost alone among their contemporaries they have one. I didn't catch all of Swiss Baker proteges Run Chicken Run's set but I saw them at Attica

the following night. Basically they speak the international language of hardcore vigour, they just happen to be more fluent than most. They're generally more hard than fast (which is good), with explosive drumming and totally lung-shredding vocals. Variations include quieter, "atmospheric" wah-wah bits (possible reference — Stooges' 'We Will Fall' or 'Ann'), Young/ Mascis-ish melancholy interrupted by spasms of even more violent rage than usual, and one dark, sly little pop song about, if I remember rightly, an Action Man. Another song even combines all these styles over an epic length and makes the transitions plausible. So aside from being so infuriatingly unassuming that they refuse to do anythiung that might tax their audience's imagination even a little, Run Chicken Run offer an excellent return on your family's entertainment dollar. Incidentally, both these venues have terrible sound, grindingly predictable (C)DJ's, and, in at least one case, outrageously expensive drinks. Yeah, long live the fucking scene. MATTHEW HYLAND OTAGO UNIVERSITY ORIENTATION February 22 — March sth Orientation is always a prime opportunity to cast a discerning glance at the state of play in the Dunedin music scene. It allows young, fresh bands to play to large enthusiastic crowds and for the bigger names to gain further good exposure. As it was the acts that did play ranged from the atrocious and tedious to the glaringly brilliant. The first night was the diabolical togs party night which I avoided like the plague. Apparantly jangly poppers Cynthia Should and the somewhat faster, heavier Funhouse acquited themselves well while punk tribute band the Ex Pistols

definitely weren't bollocks. Tuesday. The more things change for My Deviant Daughter the more they stay the same. They've had at least three different line-ups in the past year and they still sound like a fifth-rate Joy Division/ New Order covers band.

Now is a crucial time for the 3Ds. Rather than rest on the laurels of the awesome Hellzapoppin' they need to capitalise on it. The good thing is, they seem to know that, judging by some of the new songs which flicker with the same warped pop flames. "Flame on!" as the Birthday Party once said. The new Snapper line-up (with Peter Gutteridge and Mike Dooley) is Chris and Celia of King Loser on guitar and keyboards. With Gutteridge chiefly concentrating on keyboards too, an extra hypnotic angle has been thrown into their warped splicing of melody and superfuzz. It's still an entrancing approach, as indicated by their forthcoming single.

Wednesday 24th. Tonight was Death Ray Cafe's last gig and they went out wonderfully. A blistering version of 'Titanic' and the driving 'Red Clouds' highlighted a set of catchy unpretentious pop songs. A good cafe has shut up shop. Poet-guitarist David Merritt was excellent. Anyone that has flat-top heads and yuppies booing loudly at him is alright by me. The Clouds were a lot better than expected. Rather than dull formulaic indie pop, this fourpiece dashed out some cutting and biting sounds with feel, guts and substance. And here's to you, Lemonheads, I okay the way you do your groovy thrash-pop thing. Thursday 25th. Glovepuppet have improved immensely in the past year. Their recently self-released 'Someone Else's Dream' has some punchy, swerving moments which come across

wonderfully live. The guitar dynamics are stabbing and incisive while the songs in general are vibrant slabs of pulsating noise. The mix may have been askew but it didn't stop their iron fist in a velvet glove approach from hitting the sweet spot. Ranting poet David Eggleton and his intense 15Oks per hour verbalising was a good interlude, rumbling guitar backing added colour. JPSE's recent gigs here have beerf uninspiring; this time they pulled out the stops and let their good thing grow with an allenveloping, pulverising blitz of weird pop songs. The Muttonbirds may be a bit of a one trick pony but there's no denying Don McGlashan's energetic stage presence or their glowing reception by a massive, terminally frenzied crowd. Friday 26th. For various reasons the Strangeloves aren't as hip (barf) as they used to be down here but this hasn't deterred Rex Bourke and his crew from writing some scorching new songs. Rather than more jangly 6Os-ish stuff the Strangeloves have gone in a harsher direction. The result is a starker, more brutal band but still using buzzing melodies. Their pop colours still shine but in darker tones. Also in darker tones, but thankfully with humorous edges, was the poetry of Kerry Loughrey which put a witty angle on bonking, copulating, shagging or whatever it's called this week. Bike is Andrew Brough's new band. He looked the happiest I've seen him on stage for ages and I don't blame him. For a band only three gigs old, Bike are very good. Away from the pressure of his past, Brough can now do exclusively his own thing. Stylistically, it's what you'd ex-

pect: soaring vocals, a delicate chiming twin-guitar attack with a catchy rhythm section. All of the songs were good while about four were simply outstanding. They'll get better too. Jan Hellriegel is in a quandary. Obviously her songs are intriguing and vibrant at-their - core, but they are rendered tedious by the bland session musos backing her who sound and play like the biggest load of bodgies I've seen on stage after the Nares. Sunday 28th. The sex/ violin/ gat line-up of the Lee J-3 was an interesting diversion from the flood of pop/ rock that is Orientation, providing a dose of mellow folk-jazz (hell, I just invented a new genre). , Next up were the nutty Weetbix boys, all tongue in cheek satire in their songs, and peculiarity in their pop, frivolous without being cute or irritating. The country tinges were a nice touch also. Tin Soldiers were on the ball. If anything, they've gained a consistency in their set and kicked out the duds which have been replaced with more abrasive, bitter-sweet gems. They have an air of freshness, passion and enthusiasm which enhances their basic pop qualities. If this can transfer well onto their forthcoming album it'll be a cracker. The rest of the week was basically crap (comedy featuring Gaz and Belinda) until . . . Thursday 4th. Munky Kramp. Funk-edged pop has never exactly been flavour of the decade down here but with this excellent band that's beside the point. Their songs reverberate with energy and danceability. 'School Boy Song' sounded great and the drummer did a perfect Keith Moon finale. Friday sth. This was Polyp's

first gig for ages and they've used the breathing space to come up with further brutal, incisive - pieces highlighted by simple, repetitive melodies and basic guitar riffs that get under your skin without resorting to any tedious "grunge" shit. Horodroby are another good new three-piece specialising in a loud, dense interstellar pile-drive. The Horo-show is a grimy, sludgeridden mess of sound, grinding and frightening. Which was how most people found the poetry of Gaylene. Even without a guitar she, like Merritt, managed to fuck off the right sort of cretins with her scabrous tirades. The Puddle were quite simply astounding. When the Puddle play like shit they reek. When they play well, they’re incredible. Like tonight. Everything fell into place, everything flowed. George Henderson's psychotic, psychedelic guitar threw out some blistering sound frenzies cleverly painted in by bass, drums and keyboards. The Puddle play a strange, unique form of pop that possesses a peculiarity and originality few come close to. They've never been a consistent band, but when the Puddle get it right they're a totally convincing and awesome act. The minimal/ no clothes stage gimmick of Head Like a Hole is a farce so thankfully their songs have substance. Bone crunching guitar, skullsplintering rhythms and a demented front man is where it's at for them, an approach more devestating than a hideous hangover. HLAH were raging, full-on, no worries. So that's how it went, two weeks of the worst, the best, the disappointing, the dazzling, the crap, the crazy. Even without the Verlaines making their man-

datory Orientation performance, it conclusively proved that the Dunedin music scene continues to be full of potent, inspiring bands. GRANT MCDOUGALL

JOHN PRINE, CHRIS WILSON Gluepot, Feb 20.

To be at the Gluepot on Friday night, February 20th, was to witness one of America's finest singer/ songwriters, John Prine, entertain and enthrall a capacity crowd of devotees for almost two hours with the finest bunch of songs these ears heave heard in a long while.

Gifted with great insight and a unique sense of humour, Prine's songs are deeply rooted in American tradition, transcending the boundaries of the country and folk music idioms he's often categorised into. Dressed in black and armed only with his Gibson acoustic, Prine proceeded to liven things up with an upbeat version of 'Let's Blow Up The TV'. His smile and down-home good humour relaxed the crowd and we were treated to gem after gem from his vast catalogue of songs, ranging from his first album John Prine [1972] to his latest, The Missing Years [1992], Highlights were many, including the hilarious 'Let's Talk Dirty In Hawaiin' and the classic 'lllegal Smile' with Prine clearly enjoying the audience response to the chorus. It wasn't all fun, however, as Prine changed the mood as he pleased. Subjects such as divorce and lost love were brilliantly articulated in songs such as 'I Guess I Wish You All The Best', while a song like 'Sam Stone', a harrowing tale of an ex-Vietnam vet's struggle with heroin addiction, still stuns with the same intensity as when it was released in the early 70s. No cornball cliche

here folks! Even the tender love songs like 'Gold Inside of You' and 'My Woman' were unique in how they brought out the warm fuzzies without patronising the emotions.

All the while Prine's sensitive guitar playing provided a tasteful backdrop for his deep southern-style vocals. For two hours the attention never wavered. I left convinced that John Prine is truly an American treasure.

Earlier in the evening I missed Al Hunter playing solo, unfortunately because his new album is full of good original NZ material. However, I did arrive in time to see Australian Chris Wilson deliver a searing version of Led Zeppelin's 'When The Levy Breaks' accompanied by an excellent slide guitarist. Wilson's own songs are dark and interesting, well-crafted and intense and he has a good voice. Looking like a cross between a convict and a skinhead, he received rousing applause. SIMON LYNCH

CONFESSOR, THE NOD, MALEVOLENCE Gluepot, March sth

The spirit of Metallica, Megadeth and Slayer was in the air and on the chests of half the audience tonight. And to make it even cosier, all three bands did at least one Megadeth cover. Malevolence also did Slayer's 'Angel of Death'. Their own material was extremely tight and fast, lead singer (on flying V) playing like the wind and singing like the devil about devils and death. Good fun! Malevolence are young and derivative but they've got good songs which only started to sound repetitive after about 45 minutes.

The Nod were the real McKoy, the meat, in tonight's

muscle sandwich, playing a set that had genuine moments of brilliance. Darren Broughton can really sing — rich and heavy, no bullshit. He's got a ton of stage presence (and I'm not just talking about his size) fixing you with a fierce stare while he pulls hot chords out of his guitar, alternating solos with second guitarist Glen (in shorts — shades of Angus Young). The Nod are like a molten mix of Suicidal Tendencies, AC/ DC, and Rush. On the downside, Nod songs feature too many speed-scale prog-rock guitar solos which have you nodding off. But at their best, all parts meshing, the Nod were harder and heavier, more brutal and exciting than any of Auckland's trendier rock bands. And they do an excellent speed/ thrash version of 'God Defend New Zealand' too.

Unfortunately, after all this, Confessor were a bit of an anticlimax, looking and sounding like refugees from the Marquee, London, 1982. Still, they do what they do very well, playing with real skill, and the lead singer (in common with tonight's others) can really and truly sing. He could probably even sing opera. In fact he did in one song ('Metal Magic'?) punctuating each verse with an ear splitting, glass shattering sustained screech. Their version of Megadeth's 'Symphony of Destruction' was by far the best Megadeth cover of the night, note and tone perfect. But the original material sounded dated — too much heavy riffing followed by fast, complicated guitar solos, punctuated by the singer's vocal gymnastics. Still, Confessor have energetic stage presence and lots of people were digging 'em. Me, I was probably just tired.

DONNA YUZWALK