THE SOUNDTRACK OF OUR LIVES
+ JOHNNY CASINO AND THE SECRETS
+ BOWER BIRDS
+ KAMIKAZE TRIO
Tote Hotel, Melbourne
Friday, December 1, 2006The Tote has outdone itself in the last week. On Tuesday night a weary and weathered James Baker returned to his '80s roots; on Wednesday night Partyline showed that girls with glasses can do anything male punk rockers can do, even pissing on stage with a nominal sense of dignity. Tonight saw the first appearance of The Soundtrack of Our Lives on Australian soil at their Australian sponsor’s favourite haunt. And what an appearance it was.
We arrived in time to hear the last couple of songs from the Bower Birds. It wasn’t long enough to make a lasting judgment, but there was nothing lacking identified in the melodic hard rock sound – definitely worth another more substantial look.
Next is the rambin’ gamblin’ man himself, Johnny Casino, backed by his Secrets. John Spittles has an actute empathy with all things rock’n’roll. The songs are drawn liberally from Spittles’ recent albums with Easy Action, and they’re all on the money. Spittles doesn’t just plagiarise Chuck Berry riffs, he imbues them with a new lease of life and artistic integrity; when he’s playing country it’s as lonesome as a cowboy who’s lost his girl, his house and his livelihood in one fell swoop; and when there’s melody to be done, Spittles whips up a fever that rushes straight up your legs and yanks your hips into dancing mode.
The finale, a 10-minute excursion through MC5’s "Black to Comm", is beyond perfect. We wanted it to go on forever, but we also wanted Soundtrack.We duck upstairs to see the Kamikaze Trio on the usual course of manic rock self-destructions. The cavernous set-up is perfect for the trio, a little bit of subterranean European garage to colour the evening.
And then The Soundtrack of Our Lives.
Within a couple of songs – "Broken Imaginary Time" and "Infra Riot" – it’s clear this is a night to remember. A friend whips out a texta (as you do) and writes ‘Power Flower’ in capital letters on his arm to capture his own personal interpretation of the Soundtrack sound. It’s an astute analysis; there’s psychedelic sonic flora opening up all around us, pounded into our heads by an impregnable industrial strength rock’n’roll groove.
Ebbot Lindberg is a frontman without peer. Prowling the tiny Tote stage in his made-to-order Soundtrack kaftan, Lindberg is a Pagan marriage of Jim Morrison, Brian Wilson and Benny Anderson.
Ian Person, clad in a flashy flashy red diamond-pleeted bomber jacket with The Who emblazened on the back, rests his foot on the foldback monitor delivering a series of volcanic rock riffs. When the band launches into "Dow Jones Syndrome" tears are almost shed; the classic "Instant Repeater 99" is dedicated to the equally dedicated Richie Ramone, and the atmosphere mutates into a multi-layered, multi-dimensional sonic collage.
And when, during an encore that seems to go until the next week, "Galaxy Gramophone" is pulled out, I’m fairly sure my head is going to explode with acid rock excitement. Sometime after that Maybe Ebbot senses the potential for a Scanners-like crowd reaction, maybe there’s been enough excitement for night; he puts the microphone down wearily and parts the crowd without lifting a hand, walking methodically to the band room. The music lingers on for a few minutes and then it’s over.
Given the popular and critical hype The Soundtrack of Our Lives you could have been forgiven approaching tonight’s gig with a degree of trepidation.
Yet by the end of tonight the only problem identified with TSOOL hype is that it doesn’t go far enough. This is a band above all other bands.
