LIVE

Rip It Up, Issue 236, 1 April 1997, Page 33

LIVE

MARILYN MANSON, GO ASK ALICE Powerstation, Auckland, March 19. When I woke up on this morning I was in a bed somewhere near heaven (y’know the scene: birds, bees, sun, fluffy duvet); the only thing that got me out of there and on the road back to Auckland city was the prospect of seeing Marilyn Manson shock rock the Powerstation in around 13 hours time. The juxtaposition of scenarios almost did my ticker in, I kid you not. On entry to the venue, it took mere seconds for me to fathom something was very rotten in Denmark — these weren’t the Kids, but a nastier, spikier mutation of that precious theme. As I watched a guy being relieved of a rather mighty semi-Cenobite helmet at the door, I wondered if I should have come armed. Full credit is due to Go Ask Alice for facing this sell-out crowd with nary a quiver in their leaping or jauntily rock possied legs. Butthen, we’ve known front man Myles Van Urk was no chicken since we saw him in the same shot as one in that great old Tegel ad. Their set of wellexecuted rock styling seemed to be benefiting from a punk enema which much must have been inserted a little too close to show time to kick in straight away, but had definitely been absorbed come set’s end. Despite the funereal appear- . ance of the majority present, and the palpable sense of aggression in the air, squeals aplenty broke

out when the lights cut prior to the Manson family’s entrance. The next thing anyone clapped eyes on was a rock monster looking a lot less responsible than he had on Holmes a couple of hours earlier. A trashed dressing room discovered post-show would verify this stage image to any of the disillusioned who noticed the bottle Manson ground into his chest mid-show was pure and simply candy glass.

Oops, I guess that's a little like telling you Santa was your dad in a pair of red long johns all along. So, lest I inspire the’ wrath of those deeply loyal living dead present any further, I’ll let you know how things came across without the' benefit of either foresight or hindsight (and I’m afraid that means telling you how his set-piece involving the American flag and his ass looked like nothing but button pushing to me — — it sure turned the audience on).

For starters, the band’s namesake — looking decked out for one of his own video shoots — is not the only scary, looking mother on board. Guitarist Twiggy Ramirez was another one to keep your eyes on — if only to ensure he didn’t disappear en route to where you were standing. He was all my rag doll nightmares rolled into one, finished off with a wild topknot sprouting from a prothetically made-up split head. On second guitar, Zim Zum brought to mind that stony faced Cramps queen, Poison Ivy — his variation on the theme

being an ability to deliver the finger and the riffs without once breaking his mesmer-stare. Madonna Wayne Gacy looked like an Edwardian version of Satan, banging away chirpily on one of those strap-on organ jobs only industrial bands have ever managed to make look cool, and a second percussion unit later. His mood altered perceptibly, however, when he was hit by a flying bottle from stage left, which he promptly missiled back stage right. The crowd helped out on vocals for everything from the hits down, and had their reverent take on ‘Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)’ (which many seemed to mistake for the actual Eurythmics rendition) smashed back in their faces before the first chorus was completed. Manson mocked their every move, from the tick-tocking of his head, to his repeated requests that they expurgate anything troubling their lungs all over him. He only had his limelight stolen once, by

a glorious sight involving one worthy and literally well-bal-anced follower who had himself lifted crucifixion style onto someone’s shoulders, where he bathed in the foreground of this crazy scene like the kind of fan who should have his own.

The highlight of this visual and sonic onslaught was ‘The Beautiful People’ by a limb or two. With an ironically Fascistic looking flag for a backdrop, this song could only be as apt before this bunch of consciously looking uglies, who probably gave

their mums and dads double hernias when they walked out of the bathroom tonight. But their folks could have been proud of them, for the show on stage put a firm fist on top of the kind of extracurricular behaviour which usually results in many pass-outs (despite the ever stringent ‘no pass outs’ policy) needing to be stepped over. Bless their pierced tongues and Fudged mohawks — these kids just wanted to rock.

BRONWYN TRUDGEON

BRESSA GREETING CAKE, PROPELLER Papa Jacks, Auckland, March 6. At the top of the stairs at Papa Jacks, my pal and I are greeted by the perpetually smiling dial of Propeller’s manager, Stuart Broughton; “I suppose you guys want the super-cunt discount, 100 percent.” Nice one, Stu. Over the duration of the previous six years, you may have loved or loathed them as Semi Lemon Kola, now, under-the

terms of a well overdue name change, the Auckland quartet are to be known as Propeller — tonight was their debut show. “Have you come to see the revolution?,” a friend joked, referring to the band’s recent marketing campaign that announced their new moniker with the slogan, ‘There Shall Be Revolution Soon’. Who knows? SLK never once lit my fire, though perhaps a new title may coincide with the emergence of a fresh musical approach. Um... no. A few min-

| utes have expired since Propeller |' waltzed on stage and plugged in, I add we’re undoubtedly up for a l dose of repetition. Everything’s there; the powerful, bright guitar chords, complex meaty rhythms, and wrung-out vocals, heavy on the angst, all combining to produce an aggressive pop/rock ■ sound that doesn’t quite hit . home. They do their latest single' (‘Play Dumb’) and their classiest new number (a compelling, anxious one called ‘Refrain’) in quick ■ succession. It’s dead obvious Propeller have done the hard graft on these new songs; each , is studiously arranged and bears the stamp of excellent musicianship — but that’s why they, bore me. Every tune shifts in heavy, structured blocks from verse to chorus to verse to bridge to chorus, and becomes familiar and predictable until you can-map them out — here’s the chorus . which moves into the slow bit that builds up to the noisy crescendo part, end. The uniformity is quickly tiresome, and • there’s barely a/ hummable melody. I voice this view to a friend nearby; “But you have to give them a good review, they’re nice guys,” he replies, missing the point by miles. Bressa Greeting Cake have a full dancefloor to contend with, an uncommon sight on a band night at Papa Jacks. Their ranks have swelled by one, with the addition of a bassist to flesh out

the Nun trio’s live sound, which has shades of the kookiness of They Might Be Giants about it, but mostly recalls early Split Enz, when Phil Judd and Tim Finn were the backbone — so much so, I expect vocalist/guitarist Edmund Cake to step to the microphone and sing, ‘I was born in Te Awamutu, twenty-fifth of May 1954,12 pounds of boy.’ Of course he doesn’t, instead they drop a raunchy, storming version of ‘Papa People’ that rocks totally, but also results in them peaking mid-set. The new bass player is a bit of a goose, to say the least. He’s more than a tad overwrought, and attempts to hog the centre stage limelight at every opportunity — this is easily achieved, as often second vocalist Geoff Greeting is unable to be spotted behind his bricklike keyboards. Song titles escape me, but BSC’s tunes, being part goofy pop, part psychedelic, and part orchestral flavoured, can tend to wander aimlessly, before drifting to a halt. Live, this surrounds them in a- sleepy vibe, that after eight or so songs ebbs into flatness; and aside from ‘Papa People’, the bulk of their set droned on, absent of the highs and lows necessary to hold attention spans. I’m sure Bressa GreetingCake are nice guys too, but this ain’t a dating service.

JOHN RUSSELL

PET ROCKS, SMOOTHIE Sub Station, Auckland, March 15. ‘Don’t call me sexist because I like your arse.’ I am humbled. I am truly in the presence of lyrical genius. I am having a good laugh. I am watching Smoothie, who are the perfect compliment to the Sub Station’s re-creation of the ‘rumpus room’ look, so popular in 1976. Dominic Blaazar, also the crushed velveteen keyboardist from the Hitlist, sings ahd guitars for this three-piece, who deliver a slightly camp, tongue-in-cheek set which is fun and entertaining. One song — featuring the immortal line ‘l’m still happy to be with you’ — has to be started three times, but the crowd are oh Smoothie’s side and deliver a hearty cheer when they eventually nail it. A generally pleasant performance, I only wish I’d heard his cool antique delay unit in action. Whether the Pet Rocks have a great gig or a crap one, they always have style. Were not guitarist/vocalist Simon Sampson’s pants-splitting antics at the 96 Big Day Out some of the most kick-arse moments in your otherwise dreary life? They certainly were for this reviewer. Tonight the band rocks, and so does their fancy sign. The first song sounds like the one Oasis do about being a rock ’n’ roll star, and shows off

Sampson’s Edge-from-U2 moustache, and his awesome moves, which are unfortunately confined by the non-existent stage. Oh, and he plays the guitar pretty good too, especially on their Dylan cover, but his vocals are a little quiet in the mix. Another track starts off with a Stones-ish riff and bassist Steven Shaw donning a pair of shades — bugger me if he doesn’t look a whole lot more like Bill Wyman all of a sudden; I almost yell at them to cover ‘Je Suis Un Rock Star’. No time for that though, they’ve moved on to renditions of the highly recognisable ‘Hair Trigger’ and ‘Everyone’s a Suspect’, which are just two examples of the good things the band can do with melodic pop. The Pet Rocks put on a great show in this relaxed setting, and this in spite of them breaking in a new drummer. Looking forward to next time.

JUSTIN REDDING

BALANCE, Sommerset, Boy Wonder, Ghidrah, Sky City Filth Grey Lynn Community Centre, Auckland, March 15.

Yep, this is an all-ages punk show for sure — there’s more kids swaggering and drunk outside, than inside the venue watching bands. And that picture will always draw the cops quicker than shit attracts flies. But

never fear, we’re in peace-loving Grey Lynn, where gentle hippie folk like Chris Knox reside, and the casual violence always present at Ponsonby Community Centre gigs in the late 80s hasn’t shifted to this sleepy, unspoiled paradise. Once through the doors, all I can spy is a bunch of punks — of the mohawked and studded leather jacket variety — bouncing rigorously at the lip of the stage. At the centre of their attention is Sky City Filth, who knock out one 20-second song before departing to their right. Oi! I’m late. Hamilton trio Ghidrah aren’t big on melody, but who’s counting? Tonight they were easily the most exciting band on offer, and their punchy, vocally abrasive, grinding sound-bites were a treat. Ghidrah belt out ‘lron Man’ by Black Sabbath, and Black Flag’s ‘Nervous Breakdown’, embellishing them with the same swinging growl and pace of their own numbers, and exit leaving mouths open and ears assaulted. Boy Wonder popped up next. Pierced and tattooed in all the fashionable places, they quite comprehensively sucked. Saying they were a Green Day rip-off would be insulting Billie Joe and his puppets even more than they deserve; this was standard issue, three-chord bubble gum punk rock at its most deplorable. Unfamiliarity with their instru-

ments never deterred the Sex Pistols, but Boy Wonder should take a long hard look at themselves, and then get jobs pasting fuzz on tennis balls. To make matters worse, a version of Snuff’s wicked rendition of ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’ is tortured to death by BW’s new singer, whose voice reminds me of the recording I own of a cat being pulled out of a cow’s ass. I spend the remainder of Boy Wonder’s set looking around outside, noticing one thing; for a genre of music that prides itself on non-conformity and DIY independence from ‘the man’, a big majority of the young followers of the local hardcore scene are total fashion victims. Almost without exception, the kids are cloned in their brands of shoes and clothes, and sport identical piercings and styles of tats; it seems as though the scene is more about a look than about music. And although some members of the bands pretend otherwise, there’s certainly nothing underground or subversive going on here — the display of parental wealth both on and off the stage fucks that idea. Enter Sommerset, whose Marshall stacks ensure they have the sharpest, gruntiest sound of the night, and they also enjoy the largest number of fans. “Upper class hardcore,” summarised a pal who’s seen them many times before, but can’t say what that

sounds like. Sommerset spat out a brief, polished set of angular, noisy tunes, with no shortage of speed or pop. It’s generic as hell, and utterly inoffensive, but

boasts an energy that provokes the kids to jump and get sweaty, and this evening that’s a big achievement.

Balance are a group you can usually depend on to deliver a top show. The owners of more than a handful of raw, melodic, hard-edged songs, tonight they lack the vigour and vibe of past gigs, and things do get a bit messy. It can’t have helped their spirits when over half the crowd drifted home to keep midnight curfews, and perhaps as a result, it all appears half-hearted and loose — this ain’t the dynamic Balance I. revere. As they strike up another tune, the Police cruise by, then disappear. It’s fairly obvious, if you remove Ghidrah from the equation, there’s nothing dangerous happening in Grey Lynn tonight. JOHN RUSSELL EVERYTHING BUT THE GIRL Bruce Mason Centre, Auckland, March 21. Last month in RipltUp, Everything But the Girl’s Ben Watt was quoted saying, ‘Before we changed we were playing to a very contemplative, respectful audience, who loved lyrics, sonic clarity, and who loved to come to gigs which were more recitals than concerts. I’m not going to bad-mouth those people, as they have a perfect right to listen to

music in that way, but the point is, I wasn’t enjoying playing it to them.’ So, you can imagine my surprise on arriving at the Bruce Mason Centre in Takapuna to find it surrounded by so many of the ‘them’ I thought would have been mortally offended by that statement, I wondered if I was even in the right place. I was distracted enough by the strange concept of having the featured band’s music playing through the Muzak system to almost completely miss Ben Watt’s solo DJ stint. The tail-end showed me the crowd were loving it in the same kind of way my mother loves her Jive Bunny album — you gotta bless her for the unique way in which she shakes her tail feather, but you sure wouldn’t want to spend a night under the hot lights with several hundred of her.

Having been a card carrying member of both the ‘them’ and (what for clarity’s sake I will describe as) ‘us’ factions, it came as no surprise to find Everything But the Girl’s set jobbing up the back beats on many of their older numbers — with the help of a percussion/samples player, Watt on keyboards, and a mix of bass and guitar from him, Tracey Thorn, and a fourth band member. The effect of this saw the new and old numbers springing from one another as if organically — but, yawn, I didn’t need to see them recreated on stage to know that, and it got boring bloody fast. ‘The Night I Heard Caruso Sing’ and ‘2sth of December’ were the obvious incongruous exceptions to the

night’s norm, but this reverent Watt-led pair always did stick out from the back catalogue. Such palls in the proceeding of the beats didn’t bother the audience, however. They all chattered away incessantly enough to render Thorn’s way-too-low vocals (which should have made her queen of this gentle jungle) but another murmur in the rhubarb anyway, making me wonder if they’d even mind if she had the spotlight taken permanently off her, or left the stage for good (as lengthy and frequent doses of both suggested she may have). Props to ‘our friends from Bristol’ introduced ‘Better Things’, and made it clear what the people in the cheap seats (read dancefloor) had come to hear — but it was scarier than the corporate crowd at the Massive Attack concert to see some of the people who actually put this kind of stuff overground. ‘Missing’ got the biggest reception, until it was time to wrap with ‘Wrong’. I have to admit, when they said this was going to be their last number, I didn’t stick around to see if they were kidding. I’ve had better nights in front of the stereo listening to Everything But the Girl, and I was afraid witnessing the last ditch attempts of every lonely heart present at finding paradise by the dancefloor lights (which, insipidly, reminded me of the set of Playschool) might ruin even that precious pleasure for me.

BRONWYN TRUDGEON