LIVE

Rip It Up, Issue 243, 1 November 1997, Page 35

LIVE

REEF, DEAD FLOWERS Powerstation, Auckland, October 7. In recent times, Dead Flowers have not exactly set the world on fire with their live performances. Tonight, they use up two songs to find their swing, and with a wild version of 'I Wanna Know’ — a supreme pop song by anyone’s standards — the Flowers look something close to driven. In contrast, the majority of the small crowd that have arrived in time to see the support band, all but ignore them. The drums sounded like a big stick hitting wet cardboard, but nonetheless, Dead Flowers belted out a spirited set, including ‘Home’ from Sweetfish, and ’Plastic’ off Skin Of a Stone. New tracks peppered throughout were infused with extra vigour, and ‘Ain’t it the Truth’ finally invokes a reaction from the 96.1 listeners within the rapidly growing audience. On come Reef, boldly opening with ‘Place Your Hands’, and sending the great unwashed jammed in downstairs into spasms. Vocalist Gary Stringer ditches . his mic stand halfway through the second tune, and bobs and bounces the width of the stage during the blues/boogie workouts, 'I Would Have Left You’, from Glow, and Replenish’s ‘Feed Me’, and ‘44’. When Reef were jamming on the good groove, their greasy, rockin’, white-boy R&B was not a million miles from the Southern schtick of the Black Crowes, except Stringer’s youthful

exuberance cancelled out that group’s overtly retrogressive tendencies. To their discredit, Reef also unleashed slices of turgid, jock radio fodder, namely the cheesy .ballads ‘Consideration’ and ‘Mellow’, and the bogan rock of ‘Yer Old’, but redeemed themselves in spades before waving goodbye. “We’re gonna play a track off our first album,” announced Stringer at encore time. ‘Choose to Live’ was transformed into a magnificent psychedelic symphony, courtesy of an impenetrable wall of squallish guitar feedback, a keyboardist who smacked his organ as though he was hitting bongos, and a bassist who struck and held a note every 15 seconds. Stretched out to eight or so minutes, this already superb album track carried Reef into another musical realm, and suggested this was their answer to the detractors who tag them as unimaginative 60s copyists. Some people, when you tell them you’re off- to a Reef show, try to make . you feel like a leper. But tonight, against all expectations, Reef proved you can’t judge a band bytheirvideos. JOHNRUSSELL WEEN, CHRIS KNOX Powerstation. . „ Auckland, October 3. "You don’t have to sit on the floor, this isn’t fuckin’ Dunedin,” sneers Chris Knox, briefly reverting to his old audience bashing ways, just as

his new album Yes! affirms he’s back at the height of his entertaining creativity. : With the white, Ukrainian province-shaped guitar, and amidst the usual stage muddle of drum machine, pedals, jandals, and cables,' Knox teeters: between . song _ ‘n’ dance man and solo artiste... and there’s a fine line between them. That, along with a set of offbeat 10-fi elegance, makes him the ideal opening act for Ween, who are also as serious as they are light-hearted. Earlier in the day, Ween were live on ■ bFM, drunk. Really, really drunk, and you had to wonder if they’d taken the sea shanty, yo-ho-ho, nautical theme of The Mollusk a little to heart. But on stage they’ve sobered up enough for hangovers to be kicking in, necessitating the bumming of painkillers from audience members. Dean and Gene Ween are backed by musicians who are a little too tunedin to be your regular session types, for two and a half hours plus, running through the hits and the shit from Pod, Chocolate and Cheese, 12 Country Greats, and The Mollusk, with barely a moment when the phrase, ‘endurance test,’ comes to mind. Student radio staples ‘Push Th’ Little Daisies’ and ‘Can’t Put My Finger On It’, and the country-swing of ‘Mr Richard Smoker’, are dealt with early on, and once the paracetamol takes action, Ween ambitiously approach an epic ‘Freedom Of 76’, and extend the rockin’ lounge boogie ‘Voodoo Lady’ unindulgently. Naturally, a big audience reaction is reserved for the faux-redneck Nashville pisstake ‘Piss up a Rope’, the lyrics of which are echoed in their unreleased closing number, although that one leans a little heavier on the word ‘haemorrhoids’ for •laughs. What Knox and Ween really have in common — their utter enjoyment of live performance — is what makes shows like this a pleasure to attend. Hell, I might even buy my own copies of their new albums. ' . TROY FERGUSON VERUCA SALT, PASH Powerstation. , „ Auckland, October 6.. From the start, it was obvious that tonight was a night when R-O-C-K was going to be writ large on proceedings. With an introduction that would’ve done Elvis proud, and between song banter that consisted of “Thankyou, Auckland!", local lads Pash seemed to understand this implicitly. Front-man Steve Simpson may wear his influences on his besequined sleeve, but he wears them well. A power chord here, a high kick there — as keen students of rock, Pash nick the key ingredients from pops glorious past and use them to bake their own brand of melodic, guitar-driven pop. Their sense of irony is firmly intact and with the occasional flash of inspiration bursting through, Pash ripped

through a largely memorable, if ultimately unchallenging, set. Veruca Salt took the stage, and as the plodding cod-metal bravado of opening number ‘Straight’ blasted from the speakers, co-frontwomen Louise Post and Nina Gordon set their heads-a-bangin’. Eeek. I felt as if I was trapped in the ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ scene from Wayne’s World, but slowly the Salt turned things around. ‘Benjamin’, the big power ballad from Eight Arms, was appropriately huge, and ‘Seether’ and ‘Volcano Girls’ delivered a great one-two punch. Louise, riding the wave, indulged in a little crowd surfing as the songs raced by in a pedal-to-the-metal blur. ‘Earthcrosser’, a paean to groupies and life on the road, brought the first stanza to a gripping climax, with Nina singing “Where’s my lip gloss?” as if her very life depended on it. Encore time and things moved from the sublime to the ridiculous to the bizarre. Louise Post strode onstage alone and revealed the details of her break up with Foo Fighter Dave Grohl. Unfortunately, after such an attention-grabbing introduction, Louise’s heart-felt ballad lacked the necessary emotional clout and fell a little flat. Far better was Nina’s ‘The Morning Sad’, that was quite stunning in its beauty and power. But the finale really brought the house down. Having asked the female audience members from the front few rows to join the band on stage, Louise decided more crowd surfing was in order. Handing her guitar to a star struck Veruca wannabie, Louise launched herself audience-ward. But wait! Had she forgotten that all the females in the immediate vicinity were on stage and that she was diving into a sea of testosterone? The look on her face as she clambered back on stage showed she no longer needed reminding. The gig ended in a melee of dancing girls, raucous noise and general mayhem. Sure, sometimes they took it too far, and boy, on occasion, they really couldn’t play guitar. But Veruca Salt unleashed enough big rock moments to satisfy these ears and by set’s end I was grinning like a Cheshire cat. Turning from the bevy of Veruca wannabies massed on stage, towards the exit, I could see I wasn’t alone. MARTIN BELL

FAITH NO MORE, GO ASK ALICE North Shore Events Centre, Auckland, October 17. Faith No. More first played NZ in 1990. Mike Patton, then 22, walked on stage at the Auckland Town Hall clad in a McDonalds uniform. That gig remains in the top five of greatest shows I’ve seen. This evening, FNM damned near topped it — they... were... motherfuckers! But first things first. Cast in the supporting role, spiritually, Go Ask Alice were the local equivalents of Cool For August — totally lacking in any emotional depth, or soul, or heart, or passion, or whatever word best describes the intangible. The Auckland foursome used the opportunity to play infront of 3000 people waiting to see another band to engage in a pompous posefest — tortured anguish a laughable . speciality. Simultaneously, Go Ask Alice aurally abused the indifferent throng with a selection of MOR grunge that Stone Temple Pilots would have rejected as hackneyed five years ago. Be warned kids, hyperactive egos combined with an uncontrollable urge for stardom can have disastrous results. The atmosphere at the Events Centre prior to Faith No More’s arrival on stage was charged .with anticipation. Patton strolled on behind the others, and after his melodica version of the Midnight . Cowboy Theme, the ferocious energy of opener ‘Collision’ set the tone for the evening. Super-powered versions of ‘Mid Life Crisis’ and ‘Last Cup Of Sorrow’ followed, and the mosh pit that had seeped all the way back to the sound desk was in full battle mode. “Pace yourselves, don’t use all your energy up,” advised keyboardist Roddy Bottum, before the band continued at maximum velocity. Drummer Mike Bordin and bassist Billy Gould instantly locked . into each other’s groove song after song, providing the foundation of FNM’s frightening fire power. Patton was no slouch either. His voice has never sounded stronger, especially on a devastating rendition of ‘The Gentle Art of Making Enemies’, when he threatened to combust through overzealousness. The slow grind of ‘Evidence’ gave both crowd

and band a breather, then ‘Epic’ and ‘Closer’ sent the fans mad once more. Patton and new-ish guitarist Jon Hudson began returning stageflung clothing to rightful owners in the pit, with the singer taking particular interest in a long sleeved denim shirt: “Oh my god! Is there any of you guys out there with that haircut that’s long at the back and short on: top. Come on! Who owns this? This is the shit!” Faith No More encored with Deep Purple’s ‘Highway Star’ and old fave, ‘From Out of Nowhere’, leaving an ecstatic audience sated. One vital point. The muddy sound mix that provoked so many complaints dwindled after five songs, and never threatened to overwhelm the band in the slightest. Perhaps' the most classic aspect of Faith No '■ More, is the fact that after years of - gossip regarding their sanity and ■ status, every three they return with an innovative, uncompromising rock album, and a live show that ranks among the very best. JOHN RUSSELL BLUR, DARCY CLAY North Shore Events Centre, Auckland, < \ October 24. You may have heard murmurings from the head-up-arse arbiters of urban style, who’ve decreed that ‘dance’ has slain live music and will henceforth reign supreme. Problem is, the message has not gotten through to ‘the kids,’ who, oblivious of the electronic future, packed the Events Centre to the seams for some vintage guitar pop sounds delivered by Blur with traditional, teen-icon star-power. First though, local prankster Darcy Clay opened with a sozzled solo ‘Candle In The Wind 97’, before he was pranked himself by an inept and under rehearsed backing band attempting to upstage him at every turn. Surprising then, that any of his tunes survived their attempted sabotage, but being in fine voice, his hits sounded like hits, and it was easy to ignore the band(wagoneers). Blur, however, know the focus of their cult of personality, and allow vocalist Damon Albarn to maintain both the spotlight and the audience’s attention. Albarn begins by leading Blur on a casual saunter through ‘Beetlebum’, before they all spring to life with an explosive ‘M.O.R.’, and a revisitation to 1991

with ‘There is no Other Way’. It looked for awhile like they may have peaked too early, as. the slower moments of The Great Escape plod on as the jetlagged Blur go through the motions. But the pace picks up again with any Americanesque rocker from the latest album, or a limey pop gem like .‘Modern Life is Rubbish’. The massive roar that greets the. knowing disco, of ‘Girls And Boys’ seemed to put a swagger back in Albarn’s step, and by the time Blur play the encore, they really mean business. When the ‘ usually irritating ‘Parklife’ sparkles like Babycham, and ‘Song 2’ lifts the roof off, you can feel the electricity in the room, and you know the kids are alright. ’ TROY FERGUSON GREG JOHNSON Sawmill Cafe, Leigh, October 26. Roughly an hour’s drive north of

Auckland, the Leigh Sawmill is a funky, cosy little place; the wooden interior giving it the appearance and ambience of an oversized log cabin — with the stage situated where the fireplace would be. Up on the boards, Greg Johnson is not a jolly man. Four songs into his set, the hum of audience conversation is as loud as the band, and being ignored is winding him up. “I think I’m about to throw a tantrum,” he remarks, while prising the cork out of another bottle of red wine. Inexplicably, the mood lifts on stage midway through the next tune, ‘You Stay Out Of Your Life (And I’ll Stay Out of Mine), Johnson breaking into grins as he repeatedly fluffs the lyrics. His change of heart is quickly imbibed by the audience, and a swag of couples take to the dancefloor in earnest for the bouncy tunes, ‘Liberty’, ‘Vertigo’, and ‘Don’t Wait Another Day’. And equally, full attention is directed stage-ward for the moodier numbers, ‘Suddenly Cold’

‘Drill Small Holes’, and ‘Just a Few Drinks’. Johnson is left solo, for transfixing versions of the softies, ‘Pleasure and Overdose’ and ‘lf I

Swagger’, and upon their completion, he admits to getting progressively drunk. “I think I’m losing the biscuit, has anyone seen a biscuit?” Not all inhibitions are shed though. There’s a sense in which Johnson and band are holding back, physically they look tense, as though their on stage communication could crumble at any moment, and absent is the joyous energy and liveliness that made their Powerstation show last June so memorable. A snappy run through ‘Comet Song’, the new single lifted from Chinese Whispers, is well received, and reinforces how thoroughly the Sawmill crowd has been won over, but off stage later in the evening, Johnson remarks, “it was the worst gig of the tour so far.” The other shows must have been rippers, because although Johnson and band weren’t firing on all cylinders at Leigh, the heart warming moments were enough to make this one a special occasion.

JOHN RUSSELL