Cosmic Psychos/Warped
@ the Annandale Hotel
Friday, August 24
Earlier tonight I saw and heard the Cosmic Psychos. Right
now I'm thinking about tornadoes (but I ain't hearing too much at all). Sure,
I'll grant you that tornados seem to be a particularly American phenomenon and
the Cosmic Psychos are a quintessentially Australian phenomenon, but having
seen plenty of TV interviews with poor white trailer trash attempting to come
to grips with the devastating loss of their caravans and mobile homes, I can't
help feeling that what they would have heard, just before God took everything
they'd ever owned and smashed it to smithereens, probably sounded pretty close
to what I heard tonight.
To put it another way: the Cosmic Psychos deliver the big noise. The inestimable Steve Gardner (Noise for Heroes/NKVD Records) once described their style as "3 chords and a cloud of dust", adding that they "sound like distant artillery fire". Well let me tell ya, I was right in the thick of the barrage tonight and it sounded like the Rats were defending Tobruk with everything they'd got!
But
before the Cosmic Psychos was Warped. I raved about these guys late last year
when they supported the Celibate Rifles and tonight they gave me no reason to
take back any of the praise I'd passed their way then (and I'm saying this even
though their guitarist/vocalist came up to me after their set and committed
the unpardonable sin of asking me if I was Glenn A. Baker).
The place was still fairly empty when I arrived, despite the opening act having come and gone (sure I missed 'em, but that's another story). Most people were lining the side wall or lounging against the bar, making it difficult for new arrivals like myself to get a drink, but where there's a will there's a way and there certainly was a will on my part. I'd just managed to get my beer when Warped emerged and got straight down to business (and with them, getting down to business means getting down off the stage and mixing it with the audience).
I have to confess that in spite of being so impressed with their performance last time, I never got around to buying their EP, so I'm still not familiar with their repertoire. Now apparently they have a full album out now, so I'm going to have to get my arse into gear and start making some purchases before I get left too far behind!
Tonight's performance was another all or nothing Oz/Detroit display; all over the stage, alternately up onto the drum riser, on top of the foldback monitors or down onto the dance floor (well, beer stained carpet in front of the stage anyway); on their feet, on their knees, on their backs; and all to the lacerating backing of a slash and burn guitar riding over a relentless rhythm. Magnificent in its own right, but also a harbinger of things to come. In the meantime, another beer was in order.
There's no pretense about the Cosmic Psychos. On stage they look like a team
of builder's labourers who have just turned up to this gig tonight to kill a
few hours while they wait for the concrete foundations they laid earlier in
the day to set hard enough so that they can start putting up the walls. Sonically
though, they're constructing a very different structure, something the size
of the BHP steel works and so solid that it would probably withstand a nuclear
attack.
As
they tuned up, bass player Ross Knight (his guitar strap exhibiting as much
gaffer tape as it did leather) was keen to find out the results of tonight's
Richmond game in Melbourne, but none of this Sydney audience had a clue and
he looked more than a little disappointed. Towards the end of the set, Dave
Thomas (himself recently relocated from Melbourne) was able to help him out
from the audience with the final scores and judging by the look on his face,
the news was very pleasing to his ears. In between he had a few other expressions
as well: amusement, elation, triumph and grim determination amongst them.
For this brief tour, the core trio of Knight, drummer Bill Walsh and guitarist Robbie Watts has been augmented by the return of original guitarist Peter Jones. The extra axe really filled out da noize, which severely buffeted and battered the audience, like one of those tornados alluded to earlier.
I was right down the front and after running out of film at the last couple of shows I've been to, I had made sure that I was packing plenty of film this time. Hence, it was the batteries rather than the film which ran out. Serves me right for buying cheapies after the Died Pretty debacle only a couple of months ago.
Nevertheless, every cloud has a silver lining - I'd only just regretfully packed my camera back into my bag when some fuckwit close behind me decided to wave his full schooner glass above his head. Needless to say, it didn't stay full for long as he showered everyone near him, including half the band, with the amber nectar.
Shortly
after that, something too drunkenly unsteady to be called a mosh, but insufficiently
brutal to be called a ruckus, developed. At first it was near me, then it was
on top of me. Since I no longer had any photographic functions to perform, I
beat a retreat round to the side of the stage, where I'd noticed several other
whimps like myself who'd already abandoned their positions at the front. They
were all looking pretty pleased with themselves and when I got around there
I was pleasantly surprised to find that the sound there was unexpectedly very
good. In fact I could hear the vocals clearer than when I was standing at the
front - must have been coming off the foldback monitors, since they were the
only speakers facing where I was now standing.
One punter was so transported by delight that he leapt on stage and made a
beeline for the nearest microphone. While the roadie didn't look too happy with
this situation, he did let him stay on stage as long as he was getting the words
right. However, the moment he faltered he was dragged off (and didn't seem to
mind, having had his moment of glory on stage with the band).
When the set ended, it left in its wake not silence but an audience with its
blood up, baying for more. By the time they came back for the encore it had
already gone midnight. While these guys certainly are no Cinderellas, it's still
an hour that has a profound effect on a band, for reasons legal rather than
magical. When they then went into a second song, someone raced out from behind
the bar and shouted protestations at the roadie, who resignedly signaled the
band that this had to be the end of it. And so it was; the band even exiting
the stage for the second time as soon as the song was over, without pausing
for their traditional pants down salute to the audience. Even so, it was a night
of rawk so good, so overwhelming, that I ended up feeling like I needed to lie
back and have a cigarette afterwards (and this despite having given up the evil
weed five years ago this week).
With
the show over, all that was left was for me to try to souvenir a copy of the
setlist. It's become a habit (okay, it's more than just a habit: in years to
come when I'm shunted off to some old folks home to eek out my twilight years,
I'll probably need a few concrete reminders, otherwise how will I know where
I've been?), much like buying a programme at the theatre (yeah, I save all of
those as well). Anyone old enough to remember when first run movie releases
used to have souvenir programmes as well? The last one I got was for "El
Cid", back in the days when Charlton Heston was more into swords than assault
rifles; my mother must have bought it for me, because fuck, I'm sure I wasn't
old enough to be going to the flix in town on my own when that movie came out;
but I digress...
Setlists, yeah that's what I was going on about. There's as much luck as timing to it. Sometimes I manage to get one; sometimes I don't. I guess there has to be a first time for everything; tonight was the first time I've ever had someone try to wrestle one off me after I've snared it. It was some dipshit who'd elbowed his way to the front about half way through the Psychos' set (just before I abandonded my spot there) and was still hanging around. Suddenly he's shouting that he's been a fan of the band since 1986 and he deserves the setlist; me, I just kept responding "Fuck off!" over and over until I finally shook him off. If nothing else, at least it probably provided a little impromptu theatre of the absurd to round out the evening for those still left in the bar.- John McPharlin
