LIVE

Rip It Up, Issue 225, 1 May 1996, Page 38

LIVE

PAUL KELLY Powerstation, Auckland, April 5 and 6.

There’s little fancy about Paul Kelly. You know he’s got good songs, often a good band, and that, yes, he’ll probably sing a song or two about his other abiding passion, cricket. Although these songs encompass falling down drunk, swing through various addictions, adulteries and murders, you trust that Kelly himself shall turn up on time, and (as much as his wily chords allow) sing in tune. Indeed, the last few years have seen him attain a scary degree of professionalism. ’' This visit Kelly seemed a little more . sombre , than usual. Dressed in basic black both nights, he kept the between song patter to a minimum, let-, ting his songs’and their characters do the talking. Once or twice he’d climb up on the drum riser, and once memorably,, on the second night, shuffled Berry style from his. mic’ stage centre to (kiwi-born, ex-Johnnys) guitarist Spencer : Jones stage left, but such movements were the exception . rather than the norm’. And, like Bruce, he can’t dance. Much of the material this Easter weekend was made up from his two most recent albums (Wanted Man and Deeper Water) with Kelly choosing to open the first night with a New Orleans style ‘Everybody Wants to Touch Me — a song that lyrically could’ve been penned by that great grump himself, Dylan. Yet Kelly, true to his working class roots, turned in a show which ran for almost three hours (a little too generous), aand showed how far he. has progressed, and how much he has

stayed the same. .Highlights included a stomping ‘Dumb Things’, the wonderful ‘Careless’, a perfectly judged ‘Everything’s Turning to White’, played solo on an out of tune guitar (“Murder ballads are in fashion, I hear,” quipped Kelly), and ‘Randwick Bells’ — a song saved for an encore, and one whose emotional power seemed to surprise even its author.

In Jones, Kelly’s found a perfect accompaniest, and his understated and economical playing was a delight throughout. Ironically, it was a version of the Band classic ‘lt Makes No Difference’, sung by Jones on Easter Friday, which really brought the house down. Not a night, then, of revelations, more one of refinement —- Kelly seeming content for the moment to remain a craftsman rather than a seer; cricket songs not withstanding. GREG FLEMING

0, FITCH Kings Arms Tavern, Auckland, April 18.

Early morning drinkers and mumbling vagrants who still pine over the obliteration of the Gluepot, in particular the public bar, should check out the Kings Arms for a soothing dose of

nostalgia, as all the classic elements are in abundance: carpets, tables, curtains and jugs. In the lounge bar, numbers are few for 0 and Fitch this damp Thursday evening. A pal who’d caught both these bands previously warned me to pre-

pare for what Elvis Slag used to describe as, ‘tuneless whiners in Doc Martens’, though I’d seen 0 before, and knew they, at least, were a cut above that. The band histories of O’s lead guitarist Mac Hodge (Zombie Boy, Sea Monkey) and bass player Darren McShane (Chainsaw Masochist, Figure 60) have, not unexpectedly, been drawn on to create the 0 sound. The resulting amalgam means, almost in rotation, their squall-ish, free flowing pop can

sound overblown and directionless, or sharp and melodically blessed. Book-ending the set were two examples of the latter — the practised feedback and clanging chords of ‘Out of Sight’ and ‘Black Cars’ — plus a rollicking cover of Love’s ‘My Flash on You’, ensuring that, despite a two-song bout of indulgent time wasting midway through, even Elvis would warm to them.

, Taking to the carpet (no stage, ya see) first, three-piece Fitch’s dreary first song was a total eye roller, dutifully acknowledged with a polite: “That sucked, sorry, guys.” Thankfully it was uphill from then on, though crappy sound meant the wash of shrill, cascading guitar was only faintly audible, under solid, melodic basslines and taut, methodical drum patterns. Fitch are a schizophrenic bunch, shifting from sloppy jams to tightly coiled sleepers, before pulling off a SPUD-like dirge to close. This evening, 0 and Fitch both had moments of being ‘tuneless’, and indeed ‘whiny’, but also offered instances of classy guitar noise that demanded they don’t get dismissed lightly. Oh, yeah, the ‘jugs’ gag is still a good one isn’t it? . . ; JOHN RUSSELL

MARTIN PHILLIPPS, CHRIS MATTHEWS, CHRIS KNOX, DANNY MANETTO Kurtz Lounge, Auckland, April 21.

It’s Sunday night. It’s pissing down. On the way to the gig a woman is beaten up on Ponsonby Road. People are looking away and walking past as she’s getting her face pummelled. At the lights there’s a homeless tramp trying to clean my windscreen with an imaginary squeegee. And at the end of this trip through the heartland of darkness is Kurtz, with 30 or so people huddling away from the wet madness outside.

First up is Danny Manetto,

formerly of Shaft, presently of who knows. Starts out with a Christmas song. Nobody is really listening, nobody really cares. Then there’s a song I assume is called 'So Long’ — sounds like Lou Reed doing ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door’, in the background of some Hollywood slacker sell-out movie, where Christian Slater is in a bar trying to break up with his cancer ridden lover. The whole set is full of songs of separation and despair, and by the look of Danny chugging back his quadruple whisky at the end of the set, I’d imagine he’s set to write a few more of them.

Chris Knox is up next and the crowd seems to double. The downpour outside might have something to do with it. The sound guy is munching on a Kurtz $5 roast, and Chris reminds us all he’s got a cold. But that doesn’t stop him delivering a predictabley strong set, with the usual Knoxy stand-up routine in between songs. The girl behind me whispers: “He’s got such a cool voice,” but not to me. Damnit.

There are a couple of numbers off the latest album, but the real gems are the new tracks. ‘Flaky Pastry’ was the bit of magic we were all hoping for on this gloomy rainy night; rhythm killing stomper of a backing track, Gatling gun, semi-demi syllabic lyrics, and chorus of: ‘You and I have all we ever wanted.’ Heads turned, feet tapped and people cheered. Then there was ‘The Art of Skin’ and ‘Sweaty Thighs of

Circumstance’ (I might of misheard that one), and he closes on the possible next single, ‘The Joy of Sex’, with its ‘baby, baby’ chorus (honest!). Chris Matthews gives us a rare solo performance, but it’s one of the evening’s lows — kind of like watching Al Jourgensen doing unplugged, or something. It just didn’t feel right. And hearing ‘Mr Moon’ solo was enough to send me back to the pinball machines. Let’s hope the Chickens find a

keyboard player bloody quickly. When Martin Phillipps got up with a keyboard, it looked like we were going to finish the evening off with a religious experience. Apart from the odd stumble, it was certainly the most captivating performance of the night — but we only got a couple of songs, then it was back to guitar. It’s strange, but Martin looks more comfortable up there by himself than with the band. It was like he could just play the songs as he imagined them, without worrying about anyone else fucking them up. Just a man and his guitar. ‘Ocean Ocean’ sounded great, with the ebbs and flows of the structure sounding more prominent and bare. ‘Wet Blanket’ was brilliant solo, as was ‘The Streets of Forgotten Cool’. I didn’t catch the name of the new song, strummed, lyrics about getting back together again and giving it another go (ironically, he tells us he hasn’t practised this with the Chills yet). .. It was an evening of sketches and rarities, of test drives and favourites. And as I leave Kurtz, it looks like, someone has abandoned a smashed up, stolen car outside. Just another Sunday in Auckland. JOHN TAITE

ENZSO Aotea Centre, April 3

The idea of an orchestra dishing up hits for the masses in a ‘pops’ season has always turned my stomach. Like Keri singing pop songs, to me it just ain’t the real thing. So, it was with a certain scepticism I ventured into the Aotea Centre to see New Zealand’s greatest pop icons collide with our other great musical institution. A glance at the programme relieved me, as I relised this was not going to be some super unplugged greatest hits show. Three songs from Mental Notes anti no sign of ‘I Got You’ anywhere. This was Split Enz going back to their cello and and violin roots.

Inside, the air of pomp and festivity reminded .me of the grand royal court set the Enz had used the first time I saw them in the Auckland Town Hall. Noel Crombie and Sally Ann Mill’s set, together with lights by original lighting designer Raewyn Turner, provided that surrealistic mood which the Enz were always so good at exploiting.

After an instrumental version of ‘Six Months in a' Leaky Boat’ provided the show’s ‘overture’, sailor Tim appeared from within the audience and rollicked playfully onto the stage, to deliver a risky, but largely successful, ballad version of ‘I See Red’. Neil followed claiming his ‘Message to My Girl’ back from Purest Form. An elegant Annie Crummer delivered a soulful, if a little misplaced, rendition of ‘I Hope I Never’, and Dave Dobbyn sounded like he should have joined the troop a long time ago, with his perfect renditions of ‘Poor Boy and ‘My Mistake’. Sam Hunt’s hippie man in ‘Stranger Than Fiction’ and ‘Under the Wheel’ seemed like a good idea, but could never match Phil Judd’s truly disturbing paranoia. One can’t help wondering why it is Phil never seems to make it to the reunions. Sadly, Tim’s vocie’ was not up to ‘Time for a Change’, but the song’s shear beauty carried it through anyway.

At the time of True Colours, I remember Eddy describing the early Enz music as being a load of pretentious nonsense. Fifteen years later he is clearly more comfortable with the complexity and musicality of the early work. At the same time, he has used the palette of the orchestra to elevate some of Split Enz’s later and most simple ballads into the classics they really are. After what must have been months of work, it was finally Eddy’s night. And in case you are still kicking yourself for not going, don’t worry, there were TV cameras everywhere.

NICK JONES