Live

Rip It Up, Issue 213, 1 May 1995, Page 37

Live

DA LENCH MOB, PARIS, DON JAGWAR, LIL’ HALF DEAD

Whiskey A Go-Go, Los Angeles, March 15

Wowsa, gangsta rap on the Sunset Strip. I had fantasies of a carload of hoodlums, fried on harsh PCP, cruising the strip in a lowered Impala, popping rounds off at all the rocker joints, with the bloodbath ending in a full-on, assault weapons to the fore attack on the House Of Blues. Perhaps luckily, the yuppie carnage was not to be, but there was at least a ‘take no prisoners' style to some of the night’s entertainment.

Support came from Don Jagwar (OK, if a little standard) and Lil' Half Dead, who had .some solid moments, the funk and the rap coming off well. Then the high point of the deal, Mr Paris. His albums have always been pretty damn cool, rap with a real' dark undercurrent happening. Better yet, he can do the live thing with the same style and force his records have. A lot of this probably has to do with sheer persona — Paris has the same sort of powerful demeanour as Chuck D. He stalks the stage, and where the other acts go to town on the ‘are you .in the house?’ stuff, Paris gives it all an air of menace. His albums have always used a pretty stripped . down sound, and luckily he kept that feel live. Rap can lose a lot of its impact live, but if it’s kept simple and flowing, like Paris’ set,’ it can be a real visceral thing. ; Finally, Da Lench Mob hit the stage. With one member doing life, they really can claim to be gangstas, for what it’s worth. Starting out looking like .they would prove themselves in a purely musical sense, they blew right into a couple of-tracks that sounded pretty loose and fine,

better than I’d ever heard them live (which, admittedly is only once before this night). Unfortunately this was pretty much the end of it. For some reason, the Mob decided to share the spotlight and turn the night into a huge freestyle jam, inviting most of the audience on stage. We sat through a few reasonable raps, a few bad ones, even what appeared to be some sort of horror/rap or Body Count style combo going a capella, but when we reached the lousy attempts at soul singing, it was time to leave. Gratuitous violence is one thing, but this was simply painful.

KIRK GEE

DINOSAUR JR., KING LOSER Auckland Town Hall, March 29

Woooooo-weeeee King Loser! These guys are showbiz personified. There hasn’t been a New Zealand band in a long time that could make me stand there with a big grin, wishing I was up there with them. These guys know the shit — they’re lookin' good, they make a travesty outta every rock ’n’ roll band that ever was and they enjoy every moment of it. Watch with wonder as they sweep you into their cess-pit of rock — Chris’ hand moves over his guitar strings furiously, to produce the bitchinest sounds, Celia takes control of the organ and bass with aplomb and glee, and drummer Tribal Thunder keeps a disdainful eye over the proceedings, while delivering mean blows. ‘Good on ya Thunder,’ Celia comments afterwards. Experience them now, before they surely leave us.

After King Loser, Dinosaur Jr. seemed a little inert. Last time I saw them was in 1990. Murph

was still in the band, but Lou wasn’t, a blonde girl with a yo-yo was the bass player. This time they’ve also replaced Murph, with a drummer who wasn’t quite as dynamic. The sound was rather muffled — sometimes it was hard to tell one song from another until J started singing the melody. The mood was a fairly mellow one. J wasn’t exactly giving it his all (apparently he said as much as well) — sometimes drivelling off, doing long, sloppy guitar solos and general mincing around. Generally, the crowd was rather the same (although most of them must have been seeing Dinosaur Jr. for the first time), therefore the mood was unexciting. Things livened up a little when they did an unexpected rendition of ‘Freak Scene’ (they’re still playing that?!) and their cover of the Cure's ‘Just Like Heaven'. A personal treat was the ‘rabbit’ song from You're Living All Over Me and ‘Repulsion’, which was played as a (reluctant) encore. The rest of the set consisted of stuff off their later albums Where You Been and Without A Sound (including a painfully long version of ‘You’re the Only One’), which are good in the right context (ie. dropping off or in the car). With the extra long guitar whiddling, it didn’t turn out to be conducive to a ruddy good rage, and I for one could have done with a seat to make it more enjoyable.

AFRICAN HEADCHARGE Powerstation, March 31.

SHIRLEY CHARLES

Ryan should have been there for the best gig of the year — no contest. African Headcharge were heading to glory from the moment they appeared. No sing-alongs or geriatric rock stars, just a night of wild, pulsating rhythms from a band that makes every bone, muscle and nerve in your body twitch — unless you’re dead. Even then, they'd have trouble keeping my coffin lid down.

The Powerstation was jammed for the first visit by an On U Sound band to these shores. African Headcharge are stalwarts of the label started by Adrian Sherwood, mixing tribal rhythms with reggae and a swath of samples. They finally made it to Aotearoa. Despite losing their engineer and a band member on the way through Customs, the sound was clear and sharp. A surprise was the apparent lack of samples used in the show. With a drummer, keyboards, guitar and three acoustic drummers, they wasted little time in settling into some intoxicating, pounding rhythms. Sharp as. They covered most of the tracks from their latest album, In Pursuit of Shashamane Land,

and delved into their extensive past catalogue, but the exact song titles escape me now. It was that kind of a night, from the time when singer Bonjo I A Binghi Noah stepped into the spotlight, arms raised to an ecstatic crowd. African Headcharge were truly awesome. When it was over, the crowd refused to move, unwilling to believe it had finished. It was that kind of a night.

MARK REVINGTON

SHORT Bar Bodega, April 7

While not- fitting into the cliched idea of a Wellington band (acid jazz combos of funkmetal), Short are quickly becoming something of an institution in the capital. What better place to see the band than at that institution of a venue, Bar Bodega, and after Short’s recent Dinosaur Jr. support slot, the place was packed.

Instrumentally, Short comprise of drums, guitar and two bass players, one of which is armed with cello strings (what was that about quirky jazz combos). This caused a stir of interest before the band actually started playing anything, then it became apparent the beefed up bass didn’t add a great deal to the overall sound of the band.

The songs followed a pattern of musical rises and falls. In almost every song, the full-on distorted guitar thrash would cut out leaving the rhythm naked for several seconds. This built up towards the re-entry of guitars, and the return of the whole soundfor the chorus. At first, this effect worked well in creating a collective buzz of anticipation around the room (like thunderclaps before the lightening), but after several repeats of the same technique it all became too predictable. Instead of standing stock-still, waiting for the sound to hit, many took the opportunity of a few seconds of relative quiet to order another beer.

The overall pleasure of Short was not in the listening, but in the watching: Stu Brown bounces around in a wee world of his own, but just so happy to be there. Cliff Bateman lost himself in his own playing, shying away to the back of the stage except for the odd bout of leaping in unison, which Short did so well. They looked rapt to be there, apart from Brett Garrety who appeared slightly cautious -on stage (who wouldn’t, with-the constant threat of having one of Brown’s tuning pegs ' catching you in the eye?), and his vocals (including choruses) got completely lost in the overall. mix, which probably didn’t over joy him. I want to hear more of Short. This gig didn’t

enthral me, yet I believe there is more to them than can be judged on one night. After the underground hype that has followed this band, they just didn’t satisfy

DONALD REID

ROYAL TRUX, FLUF Las Palmas Theatre, Los Angeles, April 13

Although Royal Trux have a hideously poor track record live (a glorified tune-up session and yod’re doing well), the clipped blues/junk rock of Thank You was enough to lure me to this dive of a theatre. With a new and effective rhythm section added to the line-up, the album’s material not only made live transition well, it even had a newfound, bottom heavy kick in places. The 70s recidivist guitar vibe was definitely in place on this night, from the grimy, flared pants on up to a few phased out solos from Mr Hagerty, and a great drum solo that even featured a little gamelan break. There were definitely times when this all fell into place perfectly, and Royal Trux rolled out a fine murky take on Sticky Fingers era Stones, only filtered through the New York art/noise aesthetic. (Fine though this is, Hagerty and Spencer both have a way to go before we should totally absolve them for Pussy Galore.) They grooved, they psyched, and they even got down and rocked, all while feigning disinterest and smoking continuously. Definite rock star material in action here. Other times, well, it all got a little messy. Ms Herrema’s voice is not too flexible, and the lurching tempos hardly help, as a pretty damn awful version of ‘Ray-O-Vac’ proved. I guess that’s all part of the deal when you want to have this much skanky fun. Openers Fluf were pretty fine as well, throwing out some nice choppy punk. The charts and MTV may prefer nice, emasculated boys like Green Day, but big guitars and a kicking rhythm section will still do it for me every time.

KIRK GEE

SICK OF IT ALL, NEFARIOUS, STATE OF HATE Antipodes, April 21.

It’s Friday night in Wellington. Over the course of the next 24 hours, some extremely loud music will be played. The setting for tonight’s hardcore holocaust is Antipodes. The culprits consist of two bands, State of Hate and Nefarious, but the real villains behind tonight’s skulduggery are from New York, and they’ve come to play a little ‘punk rawk’. Looking around Antipodes, it’s a fair bet little punk rock from New York has been played here before, the place reeks of espresso and jazz combos, but by evening’s end there will be only one odour — the stench of youthful anarchy.

Being a conscientious fellow, I arrived around nine O’clock, to be sure of apprehending the good vibes on offer. Unfortunately, it took an hour or so before the first band, State of Hate, shuffled on stage.

State of Hate were a four-piece with impeccable taste in 80s hard core and punk, one shown in the covers they chose and the smat-

* K? * JF ®C ’JR- ;BT JST-RS" W' FT r- r- F-. & & V- «*>■ w . tering of originals that sneaked their way through. Perhaps they could abbreviate their name to SOH. Throughout their set they suffered from the. infamous food processor mix. The sound pouring from the amps was a mixture of the Kambrook multi purpose blender, and the Breville milkshake maker. As State of . Hate departed, so did their drumkit, necessitating a tediously long changeover time between them and Nefarious. „ . Nefarious were a different kettle' of fish to State of Hate. For a start, they had one'more member. The sound improved marginally, con-, firming suspicions that the soundcheck . was being carried out - during the support bands’ •sets. After three songs, I took a wander outside and watched Nefarious’ set though the glass windows, giving my ears a break from the Barry Crump meets Black Flag kiwi hardcore rattling its dags indoors. : . . By carefully positioning toothpicks under my eyelids, I was able to remain semi-conscious for the third interminable drumkit changeover. Father Time’s beard turned a little bit whiter, and finally it was time for “a little bit of New York punk rock". Miraculously,' the sound had increased a hundred fold with the ‘All’s’ arrival. Leader of the'pack, .Lou Kollers, had a grin plastered on his face .all evening, as they blasted though an hour of white hot punk rock hardcore and general noisy nastiness. - ~ '/ •• .. : Despite the tiny' stage, Sick Of It All played an energetic,' limbs flailing set. Lou had a frog-like leap going all.evening,/while the guitarist’s feet never seemed to touch the ground: Every now and then Lou serenaded us with a “love. song”. ‘You’ve earned a castration / Your face ta face with your victim’s fate / You'deserve this laceration...’ 1 Mostly tenderness and emotion was steered clear of, the lads preferring the brute strength and bone crunching power of’ditties like ‘Scratch the Surface.’ and ‘Return/ To Reality’. Both used back up chants and.a gag from Lou that had me fooled for the first coupla times. When the bassist or. guitarist needed to lend their tonsils, . Lou would wave the mic’ in a member of the front row’s face, giving the impression they were chanting the chorus. It was a darn neat trick, and summed up the good humour that characterised the gig. Sick Of It All never gave the impression this was just another gig, and the enthusiasm they had for playing live was reflected in ; the amount of sweat extracted all over that nice, plush grey carpet — the sweat of youth gone wild. -

BODY COUNT, ICE T, THERAPY? Victoria University, April 22.

KEVIN LIST

Woke up Saturday, feeling half deaf. No worries, gonna finish off the rest of my hearing at Body Count. Evidently, Mr T and the Count have been transferred to Victoria University. Arriving not long after Bpm, it comes as some surprise after the previous evening's tardiness to find Therapy? all set to blast off.

Looking like they’ve just finished a hard game of footer, the three likely lads power though a short, but warmly received set of Celtic hard

rockin’ punk, vaguely bringing to mind Stiff Little Fingers. Every now and then bassist and guitarist get airborne, normally this feat would be impressive, but after Sick Of It All’s gymnastics of the previous night, Therapy?’s efforts are a trifle arthritic. The co-ordination’s lacking and they fail to achieve the all important height,

except when cheating by climbing atop speakers. They close with what is presumably their big hit, judging by the audience reaction. Therapy? played a team game, setting the ball up nicely for Mr T and Body Count to run with it and achieve their goal.

During Therapy? the crowd doubled, no doubt a goodly number forced to trek from the Town Hall. The change of venue was a smart move. Given the reduced capacity of Victoria, the concert was comfortably full, allowing for plenty of atmosphere as Ice T entertained the crowd as a rapper, rocker and japester. As gangsta rapper, Ice T came out wearing a fedora, suit coat and gold chain. Flanking Mr T were DJ muthafuckin’ evil E, resplendent in evil black shades, and to the right, his brother G. Appearing intermittently was LP, a young whippersnapper featured on Ice T’s latest album.

As rapper, Ice T was in laidback, but not lazy mode, interspersing his greatest hits package of rap for people who don’t listen to rap (probably around half the audience) with X rated jokes and a great Frank Sinatra impersonation, referred to as Las Vegas Ice. Being able to distinguish every word, thanks to the sound quality and diction, was something of a novelty, but much appreciated, especially when Ice T told a potted history of his own life. Watching Ice T baring his soul was reminiscent of Iggy Pop telling it like it was back in 93. Both shared the same raw honesty that transcended the genres they work in. But tonight was not just an Ice T solo show, and closing the set he promised to return and “show rock music’s got nothing to do with race”.

Returning as the leader of a metal band, Ice T had swapped his fedora and suit coat for a beanie and T-shirt. With the cosmetic changes, everything seemed to have gone up a gear. Behind the. band stood two staunch looking dudes whose job was to be staunch, and I must congratulate them on a job well done. Even stauncher than the staunch ‘still dudes’ was the rhythm guitarist, who stalked the stage in a selection of evil looking hockey masks. It was uncertain if the drummer was a figure to invoke trepidation, as he was hidden behind a mammoth drum kit, surrounded by more cymbals than some drummers would use in a lifetime. The only sound bigger than the drums was Ice T’s voice, which had been cranked up a couple of notches, but retained perfect clarity. Opening with the Body Count theme, ‘Body count, body mutha fuckin’ count [+3o]’, the scene was set, for a ballad free evening. The only interruption from the mighty ferocious sounds was the equally ferocious banter. “You girls get out of the pit. That goes for the girls with dicks as well.. Let’s see some blood.” Finally some blood was seen, and the lucky claret encrusted punter was dragged on stage as an example of what you should look like after

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a hard night’s Body Counting. Try as he might, Ice T was unsuccessful in getting the really roguish members of the crowd into the action, and the front rows remained largely content to pogo up and down. “What’s with this pogo shit? You guys are supposed to crash into each other.”

Leaving out the slower numbers, Ice and his boys crunched though a heavy duty set, closing with an awe inspiringly heavy version of ‘Born Dead’. Running off his list of unfortunate minorities who are born dead: ‘Born Asian, born Jewish, born Latino... born white, born poor, born dead,’ Ice T managed to include most of the audience, even the middle class, so long as they gave a fuck. But this show stopper was not to stop the show, as ‘Cop Killer’ was still to be played. Following a quick mineral water, it was time to get everyone punching their fists in the air and yelling: “Fuck the police." Wandering outside, I noticed the prominent presence of the boys in blue. Fired up on testosterone overdose, I swaggered towards the fuzz, full of reckless abandon... “Er, which way do I go to get back to town?”

KEVIN LIST

WEEN Powerstation, April 23

Best way to write live reviews is to find out the morning after that you were meant to do one. Hey, it was Ween after all — like I’d want to be organised. Garageland: hits, crowd pleasers. Yup, you guessed it — I missed them. Mea Culpa. Mea Culpa. Ween rocked, freaked, fucked up and laughed around like a bunch of your friends that surprised themselves by discovering some talent. And the audience embraced them as friends, with mediocre solos from Dean being greeted by whooped euphoria from an audience going along with the joke. “Well thankyou,” came the startled response in the middle of the song. Joints were passed between strangers in the mosh pit like some student party. Sweat everywhere. And after the bass guitar blew up, the drummer strutted around showing why drummers get all the babes. Bastard. Ween took the piss out of everything, especially themselves. They played most of Chocolate and Cheese (‘Spinal Meningitis’ and ‘The AIDS Song’ made so much more sense). My all time fave, ‘Mr Won’t You Please Help My Pony’ (‘He coughed up snot in my driveway, I think its his . lung’), was met by a crowd not knowing whether to dance, listen or laugh. One reviewer did all three —vigorously. No ‘Freedom of 76’, no ‘Push th’ Little Daisies’ (in fact not much of Pure Guava — all the voice warping restricted the live translation I guess), which disappointed a lot of people. Instead they played loads of old stuff (and was that Alice Cooper?) that no-one knew. That just added to their “fuck rock, lets party” presence.

It was the best of nights, it was the best of nights. They played, they conquered, they scored the two girlie dancers after the show. Wahey!

JOHN TAITE