Backyard Babies
Demolition High-Style
High Society
Saturday, July 28, 2001
@ Metro Theatre, SydneyOkay, I admit it, I've become a camera junkie. Hello, my name is John and I have a problem - I can't go to a gig any more unless I can take a few photos. Faced with the Metro's standard policy of jumping on unauthorised photographers, when the Hellacopters played there I took what seemed the only viable course of action and boycotted the show. Now the Backyard Babies were playing there as well and stuff it, I wasn't going to miss out on them too so, embracing the need to feed my 35mm monkey, I rang the promoter, pointed out what a great supporter of Oz Rock the I-94 Bar is and asked to be allowed in with a camera.
Apparently they were completely unfazed by the contradiction inherent in using an appreciation of Oz Rock to justify photographing a Swedish band in concert, since after due deliberation they agreed. You can bet that I was there almost as soon as the doors opened (as an accredited photographer I was determined to have every second's worth), but I wasn't prepared for the full extent of what getting accredited as a photographer meant. First up (and you may laugh at my innocence on this point), it means free entry. Unfortunately I'd already bought my ticket before I even thought of contacting the promoter. I guess this offers some assurance that my journalistic impartiality and integrity remain intact, even if all my Scottish ancestors are spinning in their graves at the thought of the unnecessary financial outlay.
Second, it means access to the front of the stage, inside the crash barrier which prevents the audience from getting its collective hands on the objects of its obsession. There are seats there! How cool is that? While all the regular fans are working themselves into a frenzy the other side of the barrier, I get to make myself completely comfortable right up the front, all the better to get that perfect shot which unequivocally encapsulates the excitement of the performance. Out of my way you scum, international rock photographer coming through!
Every decent Sydney band should get to play at the Metro at least once in their career. With its fantastic sound system, great stage, tiered audience area and complete absence of pillars or other visual impediments, it is the perfect place both to perform and to bear witness to a performance.
Tonight's opening act was the denim clad High Society. I don't know whether to believe it or not, but there's a rumour going around that Levis think they are such a good advertisement for their product that they've offered them tour support in future. However their reason for being here tonight was music, not fashion. After playing on plenty of cramped hotel stages around Sydney, clearly they'd earned their turn on the Metro stage and they seemed to have little trouble filling up the extra space which the much larger platform provided them, even if a false start early on did betray a touch of nerves.
It is traditional with an overseas act that the audience for the opening Aussie act is very small and reserved, but those who were there were treated to a ferocious display of riffin' white boy hot rod blues, Oz/Detroit style. Their record label calls them "Motor City revivalists" and their sound does have plenty of the rubber burnin' hard rock drive which that tag conjures up, but while it may have been a convenient handle when they were starting out, it now sells them a bit short. Far from mere revivalism, their sound and style looks to the future more than the past, offering a muscular alternative to the sanitized and predigested punk'n'roll favoured by FM radio when it picks its one or two new bands per year.
Some might say that they let themselves down a little towards the end, with drummer Aaron Kennedy throwing his sticks into the air, thanking everybody for their support and heading off stage while guitarist Levi Kennedy was patiently retuning for one last song, leaving bassist Mark Littler stranded, taking off his bass, putting it back on and then standing frozen with it half back off/half back on again. Confusion all round. One more? Are we? Aren't we? Yes, we are! One final blazing number and then it was "goodbye" for good.
Like I said, some might mark them down for that. Me, I don't mind a bit of proof, no matter how unintentional, that what I'm getting is not some slick extravaganza but a heartfelt performance that's running on guts, passion and nervous energy.
After their departure, there were the usual delays for the equipment to be changed over, during which time supplies of drinks were replenished and then everyone made themselves comfortable on the floor. I thought I recognized Chris Baty (also armed with a camera) from Off The Hip magazine, but I didn't get a chance to ask him when the next issue's coming out, since in short time it was show time for Demolition High-Style. Singer Scott Mac opened with a call to "Get up you lazy hippies" as they kicked straight into top gear and didn't let up until their set was over.
Demolition High-Style are a traditional five piece (bass, drums, two guitars and singer) with enough power and force to wear you out just from listening to them. Having been told by someone who claimed to know that they were fairly Hardcore, a style which has never done a lot for me, I'd feared the worst but got a very pleasant surprise. For what they delivered was something that sounded like stoner music as re-interpreted by speed punks - high energy rock urged along at breakneck pace; dense and hard as running into a brick wall in the dark, but devoid of any stoner ponderousness or grandiose heavy metal amateur dramatics, it was a reminder of what punk originally promised before it degenerated into turgid, tuneless shouting.
When it comes to dirty arsed rock'n'roll, the Swedes have got the cards stacked against them because, well let's face it, they all look so clean. Think of Sweden and you immediately think of saunas and wholesome, buxom blondes, ABBA, Bjorn Borg, pine furniture and pornography so well photographed it could almost be from an Ikea catalogue; all that humping and pumping reduced to gynaecological illustrations for an outrÈ medical manual. Perhaps this is why a band like the Hellacopters has to work so hard and so constantly at their rawk personas.
In comparison, the dirty rawk attitood seems to come a little more naturally to the Backyard Babies. Put these pierced and tattooed Vikings behind the wheel of a Volvo and they'd probably drive it over your granny. Where the Hellacopters have retrofitted Kiss sensibilities to an orthodox Detroit sound, in a mixture that tends to dull with bombast what should be sharp edges, while continually threatening to collapse under the weight of its own pretensions, the Backyard Babies have heavily tempered the overblown aural theatrics of Kiss and to a lesser extent AC/DC with the minimalist three chord crunch of the Ramones, a blend which leaves plenty of jab in the pelvis without needing to carry the back breaking weight of a stadium production.
Between sets, I'd noticed that the back third of the Metro was roped off to force the crowd to congregate closer to the stage. It was both a surprise and a pity that this show didn't draw a larger crowd, because from the opening "Made Me Madman" to the closing "Look At You" (both from "Total 13"), they made it clear through slashing guitar riffs over a
powerhouse rhythm section that to them rock isn't just a hairstyle and 24 hour room service. A certain amount of rock star posing was to be expected, after all they'd been brought half way round the world and had their seasons inverted to be here in front of us tonight, so they're allowed to act like it's a big deal - for those in the audience who paid good money to be there, clearly it was a big deal as well! However any posing or prancing was just garnish on the top - underneath the real basis of their show is pure dynamite rock: rhythm, riffs and hooks.
With over 10 years hard slog behind them (but only three albums to their name as far as I know: the apparently unobtainable "Diesel & Power", "Total 13" and the brand new "Making Enemies Is Good"), it's little surprise that they know how to lay down a shitstorm on stage, effortlessly quoting classic punk and garage riffs before incorporating them into the tapestry of their evolving and all encompassing soundscape. The only drawback to being ensconced in the photographer's retreat in front of the stage is that it turns into quite a catchment area for precipitation during a hard set like this - between the sweat raining down off the band and the beer flying over the barrier from the audience, the experience becomes reminiscent of a trip to a rain forest. At the end of the evening, I emerged damp but spiritually refreshed!
Metro? Done that! Next stop Budokan. - John McPharlin
