NIAGARA & THE HITMEN
+ THE COOL CHARMERS
+ HAZEL EYES THE DEVIL
Gaelic Club, Sydney
April 17, 2010Words: ROBERT BROKENMOUTH
Photos: RICHARD HIGGINSShareThere are some bands worth travelling to see, and if we'd had the dosh to do so, we would've gone to every Hitmen show on this short tour.
Okay, we all have short memories. Here's an old one:
The first time I saw the Hitmen they were backing Rob Younger as the New Christs, supporting Iggy Pop in Melbourne in June 1983. Having stood right in front of (among other musicians) Ron Asheton in Adelaide when New Race came through, I thought I'd seen a tight, awe-inspiring rock'n'roll band. At the front of the stage, there is no escape; I had my mouth open until Rob Younger shut it for me by plunging off the stage straight on top of me. He grabbed me, hauled me about, shook me, and demanded; "Why aren't you dancing?!" Rather amazed, I had to ask him to repeat the question, and after he (very patiently did) I could only come up with a feeble (but true) "You're too good."
Look, some bands you just can't dance to 'cause you're too busy watching them with your jaw on the floor. Although these days there are those who turn up anywhere just to mosh, rarely noticing the people on the stage, for me it's always, always, always what goes on onstage. Moshing and all that just bores me. If I want to do that, get all sweaty and touch men in a rough-rider kinda way I'd join a fuckin' rugby club. If I was so inclined, I'd be able to stick me fingers up me mates' arses too. Whaddaya reckon? I bet that happens in the moshpit all the time.
So. It's not that you'll be able to impress your mates by saying you saw the Hitmen (although if there were any justice that's exactly what would happen), they're not gonna sell shit-loads of CDs (unfortunately) and you can't impress the gurls by saying you went to see them like you can say you went to see AC/DC or the Red Hot Chili Peppers, either. The Hitmen are fun, in kilometre-high blazing neon letters; full-tilt, high-octane rock'n'roll; and bloody infectious with it.
The Hitmen were one of several bands who were part of the 'Australian Hard-Rock Explosion' best remembered from the early 8ts, but which had its roots in the early 7ts with the likes of (cue hushed voice) Radio Birdman. The lead singer, Johnny Kannis sang backing vocals on Birdman's first LP, 'Radios Appear'. The only tattoo Johnny has (as far as I know) is the Birdman symbol; 30 years on it's rather faded and blurred now. Can you find The Hitmen on Wikipedia? I've never seen cobwebs on a Wikipedia page before, so - don't go looking. At least not until I tell you it's okay to take a peek.
What made the Hitmen so damn good back then was that they were down to earth and toured endlessly. No venue was too small or too big, they weren't afraid to get amongst it, had a killer rhythm section and big, noisy duelling guitars. They toured (hold on to your balls or ovaries here) THE SUBURBS - and liked it. They owned the fuckin' suburbs.
Another thing: the Hitmen open rock'n'roll's dirtbox from a different perspective from all the dead-serious 'we are artists' folks. The Hitmen
focus on the excitement and thrill of it all. They work hard but you don't notice it that much, you're too busy bouncing up and down like a dickhead. Not that their songs are trivial, by the way, they're memorable in that hummable, recitable way that all good music is.So, context. The Gaelic Club is revamping itself, so it's stuffy and plaster-marked. The stairs and balcony are beautiful (and they're working on the upstairs bar). The band before, Thye Cool Charmers, are okay, but I thought the drummer lets them down (not much attack). Good songs though.
Now here's a thing: The Hitmen are dead-set legends in Australia. They've held thousands of people in the palm of their hands, delighted. Now, returning a few years later and not just anywhere, but to their old stomping ground and...the crowd is respectable but don't fill the place.
We came up from Adelaide to see this, we'd worked bloody hard and needed a break.
The break isn't long. The band walk out, conscious of
the OK attendance but apparently uncaring. They're booked to play. You get the feeling if no-one had turned up except the fuckin' bar staff they'd've walked out just the same way, play the same full-bolting show, and have the bopping bar staff shower them with free drinks (or lovely water for Chris).They fire up and I can't remember another two-and-a-half hours passing so quickly and wanting time to stand still. Johnny dances out, feet shimmying in a twisted sort've Elvis/ Jagger/ James Brown thing, confronting the crowd, demanding from them what he wants to give them. Impossible not to respond; few performers are this good. I can't keep up, I really can't.
So I'll talk about the frontman. Johnny is as unconscious of his stardom as he craves it (or at least a reasonable facsimile), effortlessly mixing with the crowd, connecting with everyone he can get hold of, singing to them, hugging them, kissing them. This is natural for him, he was doing this years before stage diving, slamming (or moshing) and crowd-surfing became popular. The man has a big heart, but what else do you expect from an Australian Greek with Elvis Presley, Iggy Pop and Handsome Dick Manitoba fixations?
He dashes at the crowd, invades them, becomes them. Then he dashes backstage while the band bang on.
One thing: if anyone else walked onstage wore gear like that I'd think they were dressed really badly. Uncool is not the word. But again, it's natural for the man, he inhabits a world of his own making so completely that he simply can't be criticised. This ain't art, it's what he is. There's no bullshit on this stage, no cool poseurs.
And the others are the same. Take the guitarist on the right, Chris Masuak. He comes out in a fucking three-piece suit, rose-tinted glassed, bristles and ... an old pair of steel-capped workboots. Cue hushed voice again: Chris is still a member of Radio Birdman, ex-Screaming Tribesmen and quite a few others. Superb guitarist, gets on with it and smiles as he does. Cheerfully pours water over Johnny. Quite right too.
Now take the guitarist on the left, Tony Jukic. Never heard of him? Doesn't matter; he's so good you're going to wonder where he's been hiding his talent. Chris and Tony bounce off each other seamlessly; there's no flash posing, very limited widdly-widdly nonsense and you're dragged off from song to song whether you're ready for it or not.
But the meat of the matter hide their bushels at the back, right up close to each other. Murray Shepherd and Tony Robertson. Murray used to drum with the Lime Spiders and the Screaming Tribesmen, and he's a tough, brawling sort of drummer. Lots of power, lots of actual rhythms and beats (or beast) coming out. If he felt like it, he'd make a damn good jazz drummer. If, that is. Tony matches Murray, or Murray matches Tony (it's hard to tell).
Being in front of this band is a bit like being in an aural brawl, a runaway train constantly coming straight for you. The crowd are, shall we say, 'of an age' and their 20's rush back. After two hours of full-on rock'n'roll, the audience are pretty wiped out. Buggered, in fact. But the band want to keep playing. There's a continual, intense atmosphere of affection swamping the Gaelic.
Then Johnny buggers off and... the band pause, regroup, and rearrange themselves. Nothing as fancy as walking off to take a break, or even swapping guitars. They change position, direction in such a way it's kinda like a different band's on stage.
Niagara is unusual; you either love her or hate her, it seems. Her way of performance is completely different from Johnny and everyone else. She's set herself up as the personification of The Icon, and she dresses that way too. But ... she ain't dignified up there. And since you needed to see the band to figure it out, and you didn't, I ain't telling. If she comes over from the States again, take the time and go.
Some of the songs in Niagara's set come from Dark Carnival, some from Destroy All Monsters and New Order (no - the first band with that name) and a couple of Stooges. A few favourites turn up: "November 22nd, 1963" (a pre-Ron Asheton Destroy All Monsters song, written by Niagara) is one I was particularly looking forward to.
The chaps in the front row seemed rather delirious to be in the presence of The Icon, but by then I'd moved up to the balcony (which is rather fine). Behind The Icon, the band frequently retreated, almost turning their backs on the crowd entirely for several songs at a stretch. They weren't being rude, they were leaving the space to The Icon - and cementing these huge songs in place. Tony R shuffles so close to Murray they're almost touching. Tony J approaches them like a stalking animal, Chris looks gleeful. This set is the most intense, by the way, partly because of this intimacy between the band. I've only seen close-knit camaraderie in quite this way a few times; usually it has the air of a stage-move. Here it was as natural as breathing.
And then The Icon leaves and the band ... change again, they're looser, more marionettish. Johnny bounces out and half a set later, or something, I've completely lost track, and they go off stage. The crowd look completely shellshocked, they're quiet.
They also think that's the end, I think, or they're too tired to bellow for an encore. Murray walks out, glances over and decides. You can see him decide before he turns. He must be buggered. He pays the crowd out. The crowd belatedly realise how rude they've been and start bellowing. Murray stomps back behind his kit and the band hammer on. Brad Shepherd comes out (Murray's brother, it is whispered) and waves what looks like a huge Gibson about. A fabulous, long version of "Suspicious Minds".
The workmen down tools and bow happily to the crowd. We stagger off downstairs for a tissue-restoring gin and tonic. Just remembering all this makes me want another. The crowd thins out. Then... the band trickle out. They sign stuff, shake hands. My partner forces me to embrace these clammy, elated men. She takes photographs and, a little fuzzily, I realise the pictures will show assorted legendary Hitmen alongside what looks like a sunburned gerbil.
So, we enjoyed ourselves, yeah. And, if you'd have gone along, so would you.
HOW DID WE DO?
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