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.
