Live

Rip It Up, Issue 223, 1 March 1996, Page 39

Live

SALMONELLA DUB, DARKTOWER. Kurtz Lounge, Auckland, February 3.

Firstly, nice tickets — the pot leaf emblazoned in green onto clear acetate looked very inviting, as did the rad posters, which now adorn the office wall. Promotion, though, seemed minimal, but on the night Kurtz was certainly busy, if not actually jammed. To be honest, by the time I arrived I had been awake for approximately 39 hours and was starting to suffer from sleep deprivation; in a word, I was delusional. I went to the toilet only to walk into a hallucination of a big group of people smoking an extremely potent looking spliff, and after quickly deducing that it was all too real, I had my head fully focused and my mind put back on line to step out to the sounds of Dark Tower. A couple of strapping rural types from somewhere down south. Good rhymes actually, one of them has a really cool accent, very kiwi. As for ‘Zeal Man’, however, let’s be frank, it was fun for a while, but it's a wee bit embarrassing now.

Salmonella, though', are a different kettle of spliffs. A full band, they, play entirely live (wow!), and their psychedelic blend of dub, artcore, jungle and reggae soon had everyone . mesmerised and grooving. Everything from vocals, to drums, to bass, to guitar is put through a pokey looking analogue effects unit until the sound mutates, blends and takes on a life of its own. I especially enjoyed the semi-jungle numbers — much props to the drummer for providing live beats — fascinating stuff. , If the crowd never really ignited, perhaps it was the funny cloud hanging over the room.. ANDY

THE AMAZING RHYTHM ACES Powerstation, Auckland, February 4.

The much awaited return of the Amazing Rhythm Aces was everything that could be expected. Granted, both audience and band have aged somewhat, and aesthetically, the Aces are a most ungainly and, yes, unfashionable bunch — yet as a band, they possess the intuitive cohesion which speaks of years of playing together. Plus, they just happen to have one of the most dynamic white soul singers to ever tread the boards as a frontman. Russel Smith still looks pretty much like an overworked accountant (and he must’ve gone through half a packet of cigarettes in the two and a half hours he was on stage), but he had charisma to burn, and tonight he was singing like an angel.

The lack of key member James B Hooker apparently curtailed the set list somewhat — the guy calling out for ‘Burning the Ballroom Down’ was never going to get his way, but right from the opener, ‘The End is Not in Sight’, this was a show that was no exercise in easy nostalgia. The hit ‘Third Rate Romance’ sounded anything but obligatory, and a rousing ‘I Pity The Mother and Father (When the Kids Move Away)’ was one of many highlights.

A tendency toward the uninspired 12-bar boogie threatened the latter stages of the set, but all was forgiven when the near capacity audience coaxed them back onstage for an encore, where Smith delivered a sublime version of ‘Who Will the Next Fool Be?’ An inspired performance, proving musical reunions can work for both band and audience alike. GREG FLEMING

PRIMUS, FUTURE STUPID Powerstation, Auckland, February 7.

Prologue: Maybe it’s because the Powerstation air feels hotter and thicker than an Auckland Warrior’s semen. Maybe it’s the uneasy state of my digestive system after being force fed a cubic metre of pasta by my unfeasibly wealthy and famous music business pals ("Come on, Dave, baby, a good live review for Primus is just what the industry needs right now... blah, blah... unit sales... blah, free dinner and as much nose candy as you can handle, blah.”). I’m (sniff) not entirely sure why, but tonight my attitude is a bad motherfucker.

Chapter 1: To the bar. Water please. Right, now that I’m not fucked off and dehydrated, let’s see what chicken shit, local talent, black hole of a support is being served up for me to dissect without anaesthetic. Future Stupid. Scalpel, nurse. Chapter 2: Fuck. Bastards. No, try as I might, journalistic integrity overrides the desire let them taste my blade. Why? Because tonight the monster riff-powered Auckland three-piece are most definitely ‘the happening shit.’ High point for the audience seemed to be Joint Force's Slave joining them for their last blast, but for sure, my highlight was the song before that — one of their most cohesive songwriting efforts, featuring some weapons grade guitar I wanted to hear again instantly. I demand a demo of this on bFM.

Chapter 3: Now the wait begins. Some human generated electric charge is definitely building in the aptly named venue. Grown men quiver and spill beer. Grown women wipe it off. Roadies are even cheered as they scamper around the equipment, including a drum kit that looks like a rejected Death Star design. And then it happens.

Chapter 4: Herb Drums, Ler Guitar and Mr Relaxo himself, oddball bass guru Les Claypool, appear; the Primus is ignited. Instantaneously I’m surrounded by a 12-metre communal mosh convulsion. This is absolute frenzy. After the first few (older) songs it is

blatantly obvious Primus have their worshippers ‘by the kiwis’ (see ‘Wynona...’ lyrics). They could light their farts for the rest of the gig and still get screams for an encore. So, what is it that’s bugging me? Chapter 5: Now, remember children, my most lasting impression of Les Claypool is the very laidback, funny, chatty San Franciscan on the other end of the phone during the interview for last month's RIU. But this being looks like a crew cut, black spectacled wraith, showing almost no facial expression and, aside from the odd distinctive stage strut, hardly moving a muscle. Only one word for it — downright fucking eerie. The rapid fire stream of bass noise seems to bear no relation to the movement of his hands on the strings, as if one is completely detached from the other. I am truly humbled and awed in the presence of a frighteningly skilful musician — three of them, in fact.

Epilogue: Have Primus successfully exorcised my ill-tempered demons? “You don't wear a Bob Marley T-shirt to a Primus gig!,” commands an over hyped, dime-a-dozen rock dork. I take a leaf from Primus’ book and inform him slowly in a loud and aggressive tone that he can Suck! My! Dick! Aaaaah, better now. DAVID HOLMES

JEFF BUCKLEY, JAN HELLRIEGEL St James Theatre, Auckland, February 9.

Few gigs have been as hyped as this one — word was Buckley was among the hotter live acts and sent normally cynical critics scurrying round for the superlatives. To give him credit, the venue (half empty), our rather bedraggled St James, did little to add to the atmosphere, and Jeff was the only one drinking tonight. Buckley opened with ‘Mojo Pin’, and much of Grace -followed, played pretty much as you hear it on the record. This being the first gig of. a world tour, things didn’t quite ascend to the giddy heights of last year’s Sydney shows. Buckley goofed around telling politically suspect jokes, and finally obliged the crowd with a solo rendition of ‘Hallelujah’, a song which has oddly become a kind of flagship for him. Much better was a slowed down version of Grace’s best song, ‘Lover, You Shouldn’t Have Come Over’, and the one new song on display tonight — an epic which went unnamed, but which showed off Buckley’s guitar playing to awesome effect. I don’t think a singer blessed with the sort of voice Buckley has could ever sing badly, but he often appeared strangely unconnected with the material — perfection without the passion. But he seemed to be enjoying himself later on upstairs at Squid, where he danced the boogaloo and collapsed into one of those all enveloping armchairs they have up there. Opening act was Jan Hellriegel, joined tonight by guitarist Andrew Thorne, Splitter bassist Kurt Shanks and long time drummer Wayne Bell. Given the low volume

and ridiculously early start, you would’ve thought it would be difficult to steal the show, but they very nearly did, with Hellriegel’s new songs (especially 'Moon's on Fire’) sounding fine indeed. All in all a strange night — let’s leave the St James to its movies and stage shows in future. GREG FLEMING

GREEN DAY, MUCKHOLE. Logan Campbell Centre, Auckland, February 15.

Ever seen Rock 'n' Roll High School? Squillions of teenagers drool and scream and lose their minds when the (recently defunct, I hear) Ramones play their school. The Green Day experience was like walking into that movie — right down to the drunk 12-year-olds outside and the social ‘sitters’ in the hallways. Muckhole up first. They were in much better form than at Big Day Out. But then, they played at bloody lunchtime at Big Day Out, and my hangover still felt like toothpicks were holding my eyes in. (Did I really say they sounded like Motorhead? It should’ve read: ‘Frustrated disgust like Ghosts of the Civil Dead.’ Bloody typos). They'd brought out their best Epitaph influences (last song was great, whatever it was called), and spat out some tough Troma surf punk

But what was it with the mic’ stand? Hey, Mr Muckhole, the rest of your band doesn’t move, you and your mic’ stand are all we’ve got to look at. One minute you’re using it like a drunken shoulder to cry on, next you push it around like you’re starting a fight, then you rip it’s head off and go down on it. Rock ’n' Roll 101, where are you? When Green Day walked on the atmosphere became so thick you could’ve punched holes in it. They were the Beatles to these kids, they were everything. The girls were screaming, the guys were going mental, couples started snogging with excitement. So, the bass player looks like an evil George McFly, the drummer looks like Bill Pullman with green hair, and the singer looks like a cute psycho who’s just done something naughty. So, Green Day are Hollywood perfect, hyper-real punks. Who cares? Billie Joe pushed all the right buttons — parents, drugs and masturbation. He spat and said fuck a lot. He jumped like a kung fu master. The guy was pumped full of energy and charisma and the kids knew it. It didn’t even enter their minds that these guys are worth about 10-million each!

The hits from Dookie got the biggest response. ‘Welcome to Paradise' was met with people jumping down from upstairs like stoned bats that had forgotten to fly — a couple of whom limped away to the mosh pit. The tracks from Insomnia, sounded far catchier and separated the fans from the hit single bandwagonites. But most of the crowd slowed down for the older stuff, which was probably just as well because they looked as if they were going to burst into flames.

Even in the quieter moments

Billie donned rubber masks, wanked water bottles, and used an Elmo doll to get the whole audience to clap along. Green Day were slick and entertaining, and they worked the crowd like Tom Jones with a nose ring. Tre Cool sang the extra track off Dookie as an encore, and they finished with the slower ‘When I Come Around’.

Professional punk is a horrible concept, but it provided one hell of a show. As the crowd emerged in a wave of sweat and green food colouring, talking about the impending Pumpkins gig and how lucky the kid was who played Billy’s guitar, it seemed pretty obvious, even to the old bastards over 20, that Green Day had seen, conquered and come. JOHN TAITE

BONEY M, MATTY J RHYS. Downtown Convention Centre, Auckland, February 9.

Having been accused of missing support acts in the past, we skip dinner and arrive as Matty J is announced on stage as one of New Zealand’s most promising vocak ists. We should have brought some toast because right from scratch the cheese is in full effect.

That’s not to take anything away from this voice though, for it’s obvious Matty has put a lot of effort into his vocal technique (as an a cappella intro for his remake of ‘Cruisin’’ proves). Now dig, if you will, this picture: a dancefloor crammed with tables for 12, the tables filled with (e)motionless, sullen, middle-aged couples (whose last gig was probably Suzanne Prentice at the Waiuku A&P Show), listening to up beat disco music (with no bottom end) and a totally inept sound guy that could neither turn up a mic’ nor start a DAT machine on cue, while one drunken fool sat on the stage facing the crowd enacting his own little private Mexican wave. Ahhh! In fact, so pathetic was this sad ass crowd that about 30 minutes into Boney M’s set, lead singer and sole remaining founding member Liz Mitchell pleaded despairingly: “Oh, c’mon... this is boring!”

In an effort to entertain ourselves, my partner and I (both dressed in our best flares) started paraphrasing one of Boney M’s biggest hits as an ode to a member of the Halleujah Picassos by singing: ‘Oh, the liver of Bobbyion / As it broke down...’ etc. But even this lost its impetus as our humour was broken down by the surrounding lethargy. The late entrance of Boney M’s bare chested male danger-cum-vocalist livened up the proceedings somewhat — what with his somersaults, back flips and cartwheels, not to mention the onanistic nature of his pelvic thrusting, that had members of the front row in serious risk of an unplanned lobotomy. Hit after hit was sung: ‘Brown Girl in the Ring’, ‘Rasputin’, ‘Daddy Cool’, 'Sunny', ‘Painter Man’, ‘No Woman, No Cry’, ‘Ma Baker’, ‘Rivers of Babylon’, and my fave, ‘Bahama Mama’, sadly, many of them twice.

The only redeemable feature of the night occurred by default, when in desperation at the DAT machine

breaking down once again, Liz Mitchell led her two backing singers into an unexpectedly good a cappella version of the Bob classic ‘Redemption Song’. Enough is enough, so as the repeats started, we decided to emancipate ourselves from mental torment and bailed. GREG HAMMERDOWN THE MAGICK HEADS, THE RENDERERS. Empire Tavern, Dunedin, February 15 First up are the Magick Heads. Something is. happening here. I always enjoy the Magick Heads. They play uplifting melodic pop with intelligent, often abstract lyrics. Tonight they are playing with power and immediately captivate the audience. The mix is great — loud and clear. Older material like ‘Standing On Edge’ sounds fresh and is played much faster than on the CD. Danceable rather than laid back. The band have TWO good songwriters in Rob Scott and Jane Sinnott. Jane is writing most of the new material, providing some of the night’s highlights; ‘Lines of Deception’ is a great single, and on ‘Better Left Unsaid’, Jane And Bob are joined by Richard Strang to achieve three-part harmonies. Musical bliss, and totally unexpected in the Empire. The brothers Strang, who make up the rhythm section, keep up an unrelenting driving pace through- z out. The bass stands out tonight. Alan Starrett adds texture with his fiddle, although he could do with stitching up the back of his pants — an ugly sight. • - The Magick Heads clearly don’t give a shit about being cool. They totally ignore the trend towards noise-pop and do what comes naturally — writing and performing simple, elegant pop songs that tonight were delivered with power and confidence. Great. As the Renderers take the stage the room is full, hot and sweaty. Not having played for a while, they all look happy to be on stage. A good sign. After a straight-ish country number to warm up, the Renderers blast off. This band thrives on potential chaos. Tonight they are overdriven. Absolute car-, nage. As always they career, . waver, lope, but never falter. Cathartic songs about the darker sides of the human condition, the titles tell the story: ‘Unforgiven’, ‘Planet of Pain' and ‘lt’s Sad’ (a highlight tonight). Robbie Yeats is rippling behind his low slung drums. Hunched and pounding. Maryrose sings like an angel journeying through the underbelly of some mythical, allegorical universe. Brian moans and wails, forcing impossible sounds from his guitar. Denise seems almost Zenlike in comparison. These folks do strange things to country music. Tonight there is plenty of space in the sometimes dense sound, soaring dynamics and many tender moments amongst the sonic, assault. These are musicians who . allow each other the room to move - and feel the heart of a song. What a night. Just about as perfect as live music can be.

DAVID MUIR