Live

Rip It Up, Issue 220, 1 December 1995, Page 42

Live

BON JOVI, DOGSTAR Mt Smart Supertop, Auckland, November 8.

There were two very different generations of fans gathered at the Supertop on this windy Wednesday evening. The first bunch were very definitely there to see the headliners, their faded Slippery When Wet t-shirts worn like medals, a sign of their commitment to the cause. The second group on the other hand, were female, they went to school the next day, some had ‘Keanu’ scrawled on their upper arms and faces, and their underpants probably smell like roses. Often their screams were loud enough to drown the phenomenal blandness of the openers.

Dogstar were a dreadful

bunch of no talents, who did nothing I haven’t heard a squillion times before. As horrible as Soul Asylum are, Dogstar were 20 times more tedious. The singer couldn’t sing, the drummer had a better voice than the singer, but he found it difficult to keep time. And Keanu? He stayed in the shadows playing one string bass. But they persevered, for seven very long songs. The third one started slow, yet the drummer’s bobbing his head around like an ostrich on speed — he couldn’t have been any more out of time if he had the co-ordination of Stephen Hawking. The roadies setting up the stage for Bon Jovi let down a painted backdrop ten minutes before their arrival. It was of a

red brick wall, adorned with photos of James Brown, Chuck Berry, and Elvis Presley. Here lies Bon Jovi’s problem. They no longer want to be known as good oT boys, stadium rockers to the max. Bon Jovi desire to be ‘muso’s’, inductees into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall Of Fame. They want to be on a par with Little Richard. But it’s a hard luck story, ’cause Bon Jovi are quite simply, a damn fine, kick-ass stadium rock band, who send their audience home having seen a show worth every cent. Neil Young’s ‘Rockin’ In The Free World’, as opener, was a total, but pleasant surprise, as was what followed. A gigantic ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’ reached a crescendo that slid straight into the mighty ‘You Give Love A Bad Name’ — this was all your Bon Jovi dreams come true at once. The tent erupted with roars from the faithful, though where I was standing, Keanu’s flock watched with eyes that reflected bewilderment rather than recognition.

Predictably, the stars were Jon BJ, and Richie Sambora, who both had their stage moves nailed to perfection. This display of ‘comfortable’ choreography would look cheap in the hands of many others, but this is where Bon Jovi betray themselves. The looks on their faces say they love this kind of shit. Sambora has joined the legion of guitarists who mouth the riffs simultaneously as they scream from the axe, while JBJ pouts, thrusts, and gyrates with gleeful abandon.

The new single ‘Something For The Pain’ is welcomed like an old friend, yet this was nothing compared to the wild ovation that greeted ‘Bad Medicine’. And I’m wrapt to discover I can still recall all the words.

Unfortunately Bon Jovi strayed, albeit briefly, with a dodgy medley that included ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ and the Isley Brothers ‘Shout’, plus their own ballad, ‘Always’, though much face saving is done during the encore, with a monumental ‘Wanted Dead Or Alive’.

Tonight Bon Jovi did what they do, to the absolute best of their ability. They may want to be serious musicians, and to others they may be the butt of ignorant jokes, but Bon Jovi are members of a select group of bands, who deliver a show that defies you to

go to the toilet just in case you miss something. JOHN RUSSELL

NOMEANSNO, THE WARNERS, THINK TANK, FIGURE 60, PACECAR Powerstation, Auckland, November 9.

Pacecar play far too early for this reviewer, so a detailed documentation of their noise at this time is not forthcoming. At least they still got their name in print three times. Pacecar.

A reborn Figure 60 are in full supersonic flight by the time I arrive. The King of Firp and his Knights of the Periodic Table, featuring new guitarist Cameron Bain, ream the audience’s ears with a concentrated Dynamo Liquid drum-guitar frenzy. A little on the stain and the rest in with your whole wash. Firp leaves the crowd stunned at the end of the set by tearing all the strings from his mighty perspex excalibur. A definite improvement on your average lead break. The band are obviously enjoying themselves, which I’m sure is their Number 1 priority. Think Tank up next, self-con-fessed seekers of “that big Aerosmith sound", and in possession of the best one-liners in town. They’re all very competent musicians, and the singer-gui-tarist (also of Evilis) has a strong voice, presumably from many hours spent practicing with the limited edition karaoke laser disc of Bela Lugosi's Dead. But apart from the third number, which was kind of cool and epic, their songs don’t really gel, the tight riffs stuck together much like black and white pieces of aural Lego.

The Warners leave no doubt that they are about to play by projecting what I think is the cover of their new CD Bogans’ Heroes on the front-of-stage video screen. I wonder if they'll play behind it and finally transform into the avant-garde performance art ensemble they were always threatening to become. Not. The screen rises and the Warners do their thing, which is just about the same thing I saw them do a few years ago, apart from the bassist having lost his hair and the drummer having found Krusty the Clown’s Pork Products. But seriously: a great Osmonds cover (‘Crazy Horses’), some fancy fretboard

tappin’, a sense of humour, and still the ability to rock your world, especially if you’re a Warners fan. Best dancing award in the Whiteboy Black Category goes to the skinny backspinner in the Jamiroquai hat, while noveau-punk demerits go to the nancy boy mincing around obviously trying to keep his blonde mohawk straight. No future!

And finally, NoMeansNo, whom famous and talented Auckland drivetime radio host Wendy Havoc says are, “one of the best live acts I’ve ever seen in my life, ever.” Their bassist/frontguy (described pretty accurately as a “big greying old fucker who loves life”) says he’d be happy playing to crowds of 200 until he expires. Cool. What NoMeansNo deliver to the crowd in ample quantities is powerful, honest-to-goodness, no-bullshit punk rock; grander than a two-bit canyon you may have heard of, and harder than the callouses on their hands must be after well over a decade of doing it. However, no band can compete with a total power blackout, which leaves both band and audience twiddling their thumbs for about 15 minutes (someone suggests going to CHOGM instead). Power is eventually restored, and NoMeansNo play on under a single white stage light, giving the whole thing the feel of being in a large lounge with a very large PA. Two things become apparent at this point: firstly, NoMeansNo are the kind of guys who would be happy to come and play in your lounge; secondly, they could be playing acoustically by torchlight at Dave’s Discount Disasters and it would take

away none of their power as a truly awesome live band. When they play the anthemic ‘I Need You’, I succumb to primal urges and throw my feeble physique around like a fool. They leave the stage, apologising for the fuck-ups and promising to return. When that happens, I strongly suggest you attend. DAVID HOLMES

HEAD UKE A HOLE, JAWLOAD, MUCKHOLE Powerstation, Auckland, October 27.

Head Like A Hole and their manager Gerald Dwyer were not expecting this. Their all-ages Powerstation show is sold out, and over 300 have been turned away at the door. Later on, HLAH will rise accordingly. Once over initial sound problems, Muckhole blast through a set that makes it a joy to be alive, and unbelievably, blows their awesome Kurtz (in May) show to pieces. Energised to the point of spontaneous combustion, and with heavenly melodies coming out their ears, Muckhole tear through ‘Overdrive’, Subterfuge’, ‘The Muckhole Theme’, and ‘Don’t Wanna Know’. No other local hardcore band has sounded this good since the salad days of Salad Daze.

Wellington’s Jawload have been Head Like A Hole’s companions for the duration of this nationwide tour, and the odds that they’ve had a harder act to follow must be exceptionally low, if not zero. Therefore, their time on stage must be considered a triumph. With a unique sense of style (the guitarist standing spreadeagle with a cig-

gie drooping from his mouth a’la Keith Richards esp.), Jawload laid down half a dozen solid, bleak, mini-epics. With swirling dynamics in abundance, they came across as anger-fuelled Jesus Lizard/Fugazi concoction, and wound up a barely controlled performance by either stagediving or trashing their gear.

Head Like A Hole are now five, with the addition of former Funkmutha guitarist Thom Watson, but one man alone could not be responsible for the new musical direction HLAH are taking. Somewhere in Europe they must have picked up a dose of the blues (the sound, not the state of mind), and brought it back home — that’s not to say they’re playing badly, just different. Whereas the pretravelling band operated at a pace suggesting the world would end later that day, now there’s a more laborious, structured approach to their new material. That said, ‘Spanish Goat Dancer’ and ‘Faster Hooves’ are spun out with reassuring familiarity, and once again Booga proves himself NZ’s consummate comical frontman, taking his Elvisisms to a level Mr Hitlist could never compete with. A mass choir dedicates ‘Happy Birthday’ to Hidee, before he straps on a guitar for ‘Velvet Kushion’, with Datehole reigning supreme, making it the best rendition I’ve witnessed them perform. At times the stage resembles a playpen due to the amount of horse play between Date and Thom mid-song, though the audience enters fully into the spirit of fun, which is perhaps why they’ve been as receptive to the new songs, as they have the old. The finale is chaos, Booga, Date, and Thom have collapsed in a writhing heap, and Tallbeast is abusing his bass with a closed fist. As always, Hidee is the rock that saves them from a total loss of control.

It’s easy to comprehend why German label Noise International chose to release Head Like A Hole from they’re contract, Noise didn’t get the HLAH of three years ago, the one they thought they were signing — but you can’t help but know they’ve still lost out bigtime. JOHN RUSSELL

EYE TV Whiskey A-Go-Go, Los Angeles, USA, November 13.

This being the Nixons of course (name changed due to a whole swag of foriegn bands called the Nixons), and having found they were in this neck of the woods playing at midnight, it was the sort of thing I just had to see. Even despite it being a chilly Monday night and the hour they hit the stage, Eye TV managed to keep the well jaded LA rock kids hanging around. It’s been a few years since I saw them live, and in that time

they’ve hijacked one of New Zealand’s better young drummers in Luke Casey (who just can’t help but veer off into his early hardcore/speed metal licks at times), and they have that power trio sound pretty well wired. It’s all plenty big, the Scott/Sturm front line aren’t afraid to get those dynamics working by taking it from the quiet to the outright thrashing. All up, definitely a night worth the effort of heading out; plenty of stage banter that confused the locals, and a good band who show just what can be done with a great rhythm section and a front man with the musical intelligence to let them go at it. KIRK GEE

JELLO BIAFRA, DEAN HAPETA Powerstation, Auckland, November 22.

Dean Hapeta is not a big man, but, to paraphrase the Butthole Surfers, he stands 10 foot tall with a mic. He begins by addressing the crowd — the largest turnout I’ve seen for a support act in a very long time — with some Maori lyrics from ‘Tangata Whenua’, a track from Upper Hutt Posse’s latest album, Movement In Demand. Backed by some dark ambient noises, which unfortunately cut out part way through, this is quite powerful stuff — the language spoken with a vehemence accentuated by Hapeta’s measured pacing of the stage and twitching bodily movements. He sensibly rounds off this first piece by explaining the meaning of the lyrics to the crowd — most of whom would only come into contact with te reo by hearing the odd Posse track, or Ngawai Simpson’s show on bFM. A very good start. The remainder of Hapeta’s performance is comprised of more a cappella lyrics, with explanations or mini-rants in between. By his own admission, this is Dean’s first spoken word performance, and perhaps because of this, there is a noticeable Joss of focus in articulating his ideology between the pre-rehearsed pieces. Still, this was by far the best choice as a support for this gig, and apart from a bit of firsttime roughness and the crowd's attention wandering towards the end (bloody TV Generation), it worked well. Dean Hapeta left the stage to loud applause. Next, the daddy Dead Kennedy himself, mayoral candidate, conspiracy theorist supreme, poet, sneer personified — Jello Biafra. Mounting the stage in leather trenchcoat and Top Gun style shades (and looking more than a little like Graham Brazier), he starts his verbal assault on the crowd with a version of the ‘Shut Up, Be Happy’ piece found at the beginning of Ice T’s Freedom of Speech... album. ‘Anyone interfering with the collection of urine samples wi11... be... shot.’ If only this same penalty had applied to crowd hecklers. What is it about New Zealand crowds

that there has to be at least one excessively drunk or deluded (or both) punter who is under the misapprehension that the dude under the stage lights is there not to deliver entertainment to the crowd, but to engage in one-to-one conversation with them whenever they feel like it? Very fucking tedious. Aside from turning around and screaming at him to shut up or fuck right off, the only other solution I could think of was turing up the PA. Regrettably, neither happened, and “Einstein”, as Jello named him, bored the crowd with his verbal flatulence throughout the show, reaching an all time low when he started singing ‘Holiday in Cambodia’. Sad. ■ Anyway, after removing shades and coat (and still looking like the Brazz), Biafra gave his audience of old, new, wannabe and never-been . punks, at least three hours of their money’s worth. The religious right, multinationals, absurd band names, private prisons for kids whose parents would rather pay USS2O,OOO than have them misbehave, laughable politicians, downright scary politicians, manuals on how to “de-punk and de-heavy metal” your children, the Gulf War, drugs, Tipper Gore and the PMRC, corporate record company bullshit — all tarred by Jello’s broad brush. Most of the subject matter inevitably centred around the States, but to his credit, Biafra did bring things close to home whenever possible; dissing the New Zealand Herald, Jim Bolger (who sent a personal thankyou note for the “resources” sent here by some millionaire yank psychologist on how to establish draconian family values), the French and their bombs, and shedding some light on sinister censorship goings on in the Australian music industry which could well happen here.

Although accused of being negative, Biafra points out the first step to combatting bullshit is highlighting its existence. And personally, I’d like to live in a world where some of his solutions were reality. JUSTIN REDDING

HIT LIST, THE LURE OF SHOES, FIGURE 60, WRIGLEY Kurtz Lounge, Auckland, November 10.

Ain’t it always the rock ’n’ roll way that the best nights are the ones you don’t remember? That was true for me, in part, anyway, after spending a way fun Friday night at Kurtz Lounge’s Practice Room Romp. The efforts of the cover subverting crowd pleasers (Hit List and Wrigley) overshadowed the noisy intricacies of the other bands (the Lure of Shoes and Figure 60), but hey, that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to catch the latter bands in another context on another night. Anyway, it seems they were lucky to get their airings at all, given the late start, shuffling reported line-up and rock ’n’ roll end that all conspired to stunt the proceedings

— but not their effects — on the audience.

The tone of the evening was set, and not surpassed by anyone other than themselves (more on that later), by (formerly Peter Stuyvestant...) Hit List, a band I’ve been biting my fist

for missing since the beginning of the year. All the reports I’d heard were true, meaning these guys did the business. Lounge lovers were inspired to hit the cocktails in the presence of a singer who wasn’t afraid to get down on his knees for an audience — or kiss them, or play karate chopping Elvis for them, for that matter. His vocals would have sounded familiar to anyone who has ever heard Glen Danzig with his Power and Fury Orchestra (or can manage to imagine the sound such a name would require from that usually most unlounge of singers). The Hit List’s hit list included a personalised take on the old ‘Crying’ tune, sung in Maori, a version of ‘Mandy’, during which the guitarist couldn’t supress a leap, and a truly show stopping ‘E Ipo’, all accompanied by seriously cheese-o-phonic organ playing from a man in a dress. I must confess, the amount of glass raising this performance inspired boded very badly indeed for my memory’s later requirements.

I exhausted myself early in the following band’s set by shouting over the din: "The Love of What? The Law of Wh0?...” and assorted similar phrases. The Lure of Shoes was the name of the band. Their vocal mix was too low, but there were some good harmonies going on in the guitar department. I ended up being about as affected by their sound as I was by their name — that is, it intrigued me, but I couldn’t really get a fix on quite where it was coming from, where it was at, or what it was alluding to. Help! Next up were Figure 60. They were sounding dull, and doing it rather loudly. An errant bass player may have accounted for this malady (according to a fellow punter who, although trying to be helpful, I later realised was probably about as confused as I was), but I later heard the band planned it to be that way permanently, so who*knows? Nevertheless, their short set gave me just enough time to figure I would prefer to savour their approach on a more levelheaded bi 11... and night. As if to smack that idea straight across the face, the Hit List retook the stage. This provided a popular remedy for any blight in the proceedings. Their much more warmly received second set inspired even more cocktail clinking and sloshing than the first, which proved virtually lethal from where I was standing.

It was time for some punky pop abandon, which was a good thing, seeing Wrigley were next up. Covers like ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’ and ‘Glad All Over’ brought the dancefloor to life, and the grinning enthusiasm and number of people (count ’em, five) peddling the tunes could hardly be contained by the stage. It seemed it couldn’t be controlled by the venue at all, for at what must have been damn close to the end of a wild and groovy set, Wrigley got to end things the truly rock ’n’ roll way. “We’ve just received a noise complaint,” said the bass player. The band left the stage. I left the venae. I hear the disco dancers didn’t stop till they dropped.

BRONWYN TRUDGEON