Persian
Rugs
International Playboys
Mess Hall
Wednesday December 5, 2001
@ the Annandale
This evening I'm so early it's frightening. Every time I go to the Annandale
I walk past what used to be their beer garden but is now an eatery (the "Nosh
Pit"). This evening, since there's nothing to eat in the fridge (at least,
nothing that I'm game to eat, having learnt a salutary lesson following last
week's reheated chili con carne calamity), I decide to get there early and partake
of what has seemed to be a reasonable range of chow.
Turns out tonight there's no menu; it's just a barbecue for $12.50. Since at
the initial stage it is self serve, but I'm not sure whether it's also "all
you can eat", I make a concerted effort to load up my plate with as much
food as I can carry, just in case I'm not allowed back for a second go. As it
turns out, seconds (and thirds) are not prohibited, so I need not have piled
up my plate in a feat of engineering fit to rival the pyramids, but better safe
than sorry.
While I'm finishing my meal, the couple at the next table takes off with the
remnants of their bottle of wine, telling the waitress that they're going upstairs
to their room. Some time ago the Annandale was advertising a "dirty weekend"
package (bed, beer and guaranteed ticket to the show for $30.00 a head). Strange,
I hadn't realised they were still offering it... and anyway, it's not the weekend.
I hope that couple got down to and all the way through whatever torrid passion
their desires led them to before the International Playboys had finished their
set, because I doubt they would have found the right air of romance while the
Persian Rugs' were playing...
First up though there was Mess Hall, about whom I know absolutely nothing.
Just a duo, electric guitar and drums (extremely limited kit), with some mate
guesting on a lap steel guitar for the last song of the set. It's blues/country
with judicious use of the old bottleneck slide. Let's be clear though, when
I say "country" I don't mean open spaces, cows and wheat fields. No,
I mean "post-industrial country", claustrophobic small towns with
main streets full of empty shops, an abandoned railway station (now that the
trains don't stop there any more), a run down garage where the local mechanic
will patch up your accelerator cable with bailing wire for the price of a couple
of beers and two or three pubs where half the patrons look like they were installed,
along with the other fixtures and fittings, some time well before decimal currency.
Having picked a spot which seemed ideal for a couple of good shots, a girl
dancer then chose to stand and gyrate right in front of me. Thanks very much
darling, but I've already got an extensive photo collection of the backs of
people's heads.
This show was also notable for the return of the passionate perambulator. This
is a bloke who paces/strides/patrols determinedly backwards and forwards immediately
in front of the stage while the band plays. The faster they play, the faster
he marches through the mosh pit. It's been so long since I'd seen him at a show
that I'd begun to suspect either he'd spontaneously combusted or else they'd
got his medication right at last. However, it's somehow reassuring to know that
he's still out there, bobbing and weaving backwards and forwards. After the
International Playboys set, one of the younger guys in the audience walks up
to him, shakes his hand and tells him he's "just great, man"; the
obsessive ambler smiles politely, but doesn't seem completely clear about what
is meant by this or why... Unfortunately it's too crowded during the Persian
Rug's set for much movement at all, let alone a perpetual hike from one side
of the stage to the other. I hope that hasn't discouraged him.
The International Playboys play their usual smooth set, looking ultra smooth
themselves in their red velvet smoking jackets, like a group outing of the Hugh
Heffner appreciation society, either on their way to or just returning from
some serious babe action. Of course old Hugh's not such a major player himself
these days, which I guess leaves the field clear for them and their sinful sensuous
latino voodoo swamp blues boogie bump and grind.
I'm not sure if that description really covers the entire gamut of their musical
range, but it does canvass the main elements at least. There's also a kind of
chill wind that blows through the best of their songs, bringing with it an air
of apprehension and disquiet. If there's ever a Mexican or South American remake
of "Last Year At Marienbad" they'd be ideal to write and record the
soundtrack.
When
the Persian Rugs take to the stage, they admit to envying the Playboys for their
stylish garb. This time the Rugs have dispensed with their skivvies and sunglasses,
choosing instead matching short sleeve shirts, which certainly have the appearance
of genuine bri-nylon. This gives them the look of clean cut college kids, ready
to take Frankie Avalon's place beside Annette at the beach or be photographed
for the cover of the next Steve Barri/Terry Melcher/Gary Usher project (at least
until their fathers sit them down and give them some serious counseling about
their futures and why this flirtation with rock'n'roll is so futile, while a
qualification in accountancy or dentistry will always stand them in good stead).
Despite a few fuck ups with players missing their intros or coming in too early
(at one point Dave Faulkner turned out to have lost his place in the set list
and took off on the wrong song completely), they are much more relaxed than
at the Hoey a couple of months ago. Perhaps this is due to them now having complete
confidence that they aren't making fools of themselves or that old Gurus fans
won't accept it.
The set seems to flow better and the songs have an extra layer of polish, notwithstanding
that they haven't been played for a couple of months due to Brad's involvement
with the Monarchs and everyone's participation in rehearsals for that "other
band" thing - a reference, which everyone in the audience clearly gets,
to the Hoodoo Gurus official one off reformation this coming Saturday and the
recent secret warm up gigs for it (and the secret warm up gigs for the secret
warm up gigs - these guys don't like to do things by half).
Of course they don't have that lean and hungry edge that you get with a bunch
of amateur musicians who know that they might be taking their one and only shot
at fame and fortune; that desperate drive to achieve something despite all the
constraints of youth, inexperience and lack of resources. They certainly don't
have to worry about being penniless and out on the streets if they don't make
a success of this particular venture. They also play a lot better than a young
band that's going into some skid row studio, after just playing at local dances
for a year or so, to lay down a few demos for the first time, probably with
some former used car salesman cum manager/producer who's promised them the world,
but is only in it for what he get out of it in the short term...
Speaking of recording, they say there'll be an EP out pretty soon in the new
year (possibly with their "Go With A Groovy Thing" as the title track).
Meanwhile, this is live, they're here and they're real gone! They open with
the Moops theme tune, "Mooping Around", only now it's "Moochin'
Around", since they are no longer the Moops. Thereafter we are taken on
a magical mystery tour of musical genres, with particular reference to the '60ss
and '70s. Mr Faulkner sure knows his categories and we get a little of almost
everything, mercifully skipping disco if not bubble gum ("Turkish Delight",
which welds itself to your brain and is as hard to shake off as that sticky
wad of Wrigley's your fingers always manage to find on the side of the banister
you've lightly rested your hand on as you walk downstairs).
The
main difference between what the Persian Rugs are doing and what a band like
the Pyramidiacs is doing, is that while the Pyramidiacs are synthesizing their
influences into something new, blending genres as they go, the Persian Rugs
seem to be content to produce pastiches, with most songs identifiable against
individual genres.
Brad breaks something on "I Can't Take Anymore" and has to change
guitars, swapping his white strat for a wood grain veneered Gibson. He assures
us that it's not a string ("Stratocasters don't break strings"), though
Dave mishears him and thinks it is a string and makes an appropriate disparaging
comment. They then repeat the last verse and chorus with the Gibson.
At another point they have to shuffle the set, skipping over "Mr Tripper"
to jump to "Here She Comes", as Dave has left his maracas in the dressing
room and they have to buy time while someone races off to get them. They can
have all the time they want as far as I'm concerned, since "Here She Comes"
is a real rockin' fret shredder - if that was available from the merchandise
stand after the show, but only on 7" vinyl, I still would have bought a
copy then and there, even though my turntable hasn't worked in months.
"Mr Tripper" gets a workout once the maracas materialise. Towards
the end of the set there's a rush to finish the last three songs when they realise
they're running out of time. When they do finish, they don't have an encore
planned and there's no time left on the clock anyway, but that doesn't stop
the audience calling for more. However they're not coming back and the roadie
gives a signal to the sound/lighting guys, who don't help matters by taking
quite a while to react. The audience continues to call for more, but eventually
the lights come up and then after a further short hiatus recorded music starts
coming over the PA and everyone finally accepts that it's done and dusted for
sure. The Gurus are dead, long live the Rugs!
Addition/correction to the last Moops/Persian Rugs review: Dave Faulkner's
organ is a Farfisa after all - I spotted a label down towards the bottom of
the "modesty panel" underneath the keyboard.
- John McPharlin
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