Top Night

Top night. Top, top night.

Kasabian havin’ it at the Enmore.  Massive tunes, pounding rhythms, shout-along vocals and so much swagger someone’s gonna put a hip out; everyone’s sticking out their chests, dusting off their best sneer and bouncing around… havin’ it basically. Every time I open my mouth to speak I sound like a prize chav, I swear I can’t help it, it’s the music making me do it…

That and all the British blokes around me.

It’s a great crew – Tim, who looks like he should be in the band (yeah, he IS Serge, although he’s toned down his impression since the last time we saw ‘em), creaming his pants and screaming every word, and his missus Celeste, who shares her beer with me after a half hour mission to get to the bar. There’s Sarah, who used to work with the band, made them everything they are today… she says Tom’s got ADHD and she ain’t wrong. Sunnies on. Sunnies off.  Bouncing around like a ritalin-starved bunny. Arms outstretched like the second coming of Christ. Who does he think he is, Ian Brown or something?  Where’s Jez? Ah yeah… apparently he’s dancing; not bad for a Kiwi who DOES NOT DANCE. Alright? Alright.  A few Kevin Keegan-era England shirts around, nice touch there.  Marz is side-of-stage – she’s the band’s publicist, and she LOVES it. Mind you, last time these boys were in town, I watched the show from side-of-stage, blagged it somehow, and it wasn’t too shabby, no sir.

Even more of the aforementioned swagger, so much posturing, not surprising from the self-proclaimed ‘band with the big hairy bollocks’ from Leicester.  Can’t remember when they said that, but I know I read it somewhere. I used to play in a band with a guy from Leicester; he was the singer, and gave these lads a run for their money in the charisma stakes. Had bags more charm too.  We had some quality tunes; if only we hadn’t split up… ‘musical differences’, you know?

A classic set that keeps everyone happy – Shoot The Runner, Processed Beats, Vlad The Impaler, Fire, Club Foot, and the immortal LSF to close proceedings, complete with obligatory singalong.  Everyone’s still yelling the part in question when the lights go up. ‘We’re on the terraces,’ hoots Tim, more grin than a Cheshire cat. It’s a beautiful moment… and perhaps a slightly self-conscious reference to the last time the band played here, and the crowd spilled out onto the street after the gig, not wanting to go home, or anywhere else for that matter, all hollering LSF instead. Clearly, a lot of people are back for part two.  It’s another sweaty night in Sydney, my ears are ringing and Tim’s bellowing in my ear, hugging me and kissing me on the cheek like an Italian godfather, you’re on cloud nine, son, you are.

Top night. Top, top night.

What’s In A Name?

As I was reading the umpteenth review of Little Boots this week (STILL the next big thing), I found myself immediately informed, in case I was wondering, that her real name is Victoria Hesketh.  As in “the latest single from Little Boots (real name Victoria Hesketh) is out now…”  And with that dutiful snippet of fact, a dose of rather mundane reality was instantly injected into proceedings with all the subtlety of a wet kipper.  For a split second there, she was the talented musician and performer Little Boots.  But now she’s just plain old Vicky.

Do I really need to know her real name?  Am I unable to draw anything of any worth from the review unless I know her real name?  Is it good reporting and good journalism that dictates this fact-fetish?  Or some compulsive journalistic tick?

Hands up if you knew that Bono’s real name is Paul Hewson, while The Edge’s family know him as Dave Evans.  If you didn’t know, do you really care?  Do these new pearls of wisdom make any difference to your love or loathing for U2 (or indeed your indifference)?  Will this information make all the difference as you read a review of the band’s new album?

Rarely are we told that Slash was christened Saul Hudson, or that Iggy Pop is the alter ego of James Osterberg.  Elton John (real name Reg Dwight) is immune, and not even Lady Gaga gets this much automatic scrutiny in the names department, though to be fair, Gaga’s identity is usually outed soon enough in protracted discussion (Stefani Germanotta if you hadn’t already heard).

So why, every single time Little Boots is mentioned, in even the shortest review, do we have to endure her parenthetical reveal in the very first breath?  As sure as night after day, this compulsive divulging of information belies an obsession with removing any sense of mystery from our musical heroes.  In an entertainment world where Idol rules, we revel in lifting the curtain on the Wizard of Oz, and demand to be shown the trivial, and ultimately tedious, reality behind every theatrical facade. Gone is the willingness to suspend belief and take part in the escapism of entertainment; everything must be anchored in banal reality, stage names included.

Only when an artist reaches a certain level of fame and success do people stop reflexively broadcasting their real name, safe in the knowledge that music fans have heard it a million times already, and allow them the identity that their stage name presents.  P!nk (Alecia Moore) and Santigold (Santi White) can make it through a single review unmasked, while Little Boots still can not.

So, Little Boots (that’s Victoria Hesketh, everybody), apparently you can only reclaim the mystique of your stage name in all its stand alone glory once enough people have been informed of your real name. Can you hurry up already?

It’s All About The Ooooohs

So everyone’s getting in a tizzy about Melbourne band The Temper Trap.  Are they the next big thing or not?  Does debut album Conditions justify the hype in majestic fashion, or is it merely a collection of half-baked ideas and rock cliches with a couple of good tunes poking their noses out of the detritus?  Maybe, maybe not… does finding the definitive answer even matter?

What IS important right now is just how great a song ‘Fader’ is.  Appointed as the latest Temper Trap single, this 3 minute extravaganza ticks all the boxes required of an ‘infectious singalong anthem,’ as it should hereafter be tagged, with all the necessary clichés present and correct (yes please!).

Naturally, we start with The Quiet Bits – a restrained keyboard chord progression that builds tension little by little, as drums and bass rumble along, driving the song towards the inevitable orgasmic explosion of a chorus, it’s what we’re all waiting for, and oh my god here it comes….  The Loud Bits – a glorious cacophony of crunchy guitars, with a soaring, angelic bunch of oooooh oooooh ooh-oohs for a chorus that burrows deep into your head, like a malfunctioning iPod that’s trying to play Blur’s ‘Song 2’ and the New Radicals’ ‘You Give What You Get’ simultaneously on constant repeat.

That chord progression, it’s not too shabby at all, a well worn V-VI-IV affair, resolving now and then on the I, with a juicy inversion second up that gives the melodies a tinge of melancholy and nostalgia, to send all the girls weak at the knees and have the boys coming over all sensitive… hold on, why on earth am I analysing the chord progression, who cares what’s going on, when are those oooooh oooooh ooh-oohs coming back? Ah there they are, NICE ONE!

Excuse me, I need to go and lie down.