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I wasn't going to see You Am I tonight. Last time I saw them was some two years ago, primarily to check out the support act I had heard a few loud whispers about, some upstart New York group whom were brought out to Australia on the back of one EP. "The Modern Age" or something. Anyway, I had decided before this gig that You Am I were a band whose best days were behind them. They looked old and tired. Their Pete Townshend histrionics, which use to kick like a Jack Daniels enema, now looked like going through the motions. And I thought that they had begun to look and sound (worryingly) more and more like The Black Crowes. The spark that the support band showed emphasised this disparity. It wasn't long after this gig that I left Perth (disillusioned with living in the world's most isolated city, but hey that's another story).
Shortly after this gig, someone somewhere decided that "rock'n'roll" (in its Keef and Mick incarnation) was cool again and that bands looked good with vintage t-shirts and designer jeans (flared or otherwise). To my amusement, some hack in the NME decided that Australian bands (so often neglected outside of their own country by the conservative music press) could be used and propped up for a few cheap headlines, at least until the next pre-conceived "movement" came along (I remember some laughably patronising label, "The Ayers Rock" revolution or something). thought, for all the shit flying about, at least You Am I would finally get some recognition. (I'm still waiting).
(Anyway I began to move more and more away from bands whose songs you could sing along to. I figured that the art of the three and a half minute pop song was lost. Pop music, was beginning to mean either some prepackaged product endorsed by a telephone viewer poll and a tabloid newspaper campaign, or a rip-off, throwback con endorsed by a tabloid music press campaign to stay solvent. And it was anything but pure. Give me ten minute squalls of guitar distortion, preferably with a violin and two drummers. And no lyrics, or maybe just unintelligible vocoder ramblings. Or something.)
I went to see You Am I tonight. Like the last time, the band themselves were not my primary focus. Like the band and most of the punters there, I went to pay my last respects to the Raffles Hotel, a famous suburban Perth drinking hole that most nights resemble the treacherous hive of scum and villainy from Star Wars where Luke meets Han Solo. Tonight the other half of the hotel is being used for line-dancing. Seriously. And a biker's conference is upstairs. Possibly. Like the few other pubs of cultural significance in Perth, it has been listed for demolition and to be replaced by riverside apartments. It is also the pub where a young Tim Rogers sat around and listened to stories of family upheaval and sun-soaked idealism, the night that Auntie Jenny won 35 dollars on a horse called "Heavy Heart" and watching the sun set over the river, providing a backdrop to many a bar room brawl straight out of"Blazing Saddles". Probably. This was the Wild West. The last frontier. Literally. The pub that inspired more than a couple of songs. We had both left Perth for our own reasons and tonight found ourselves back.
Tonight I remembered why I loved You Am I. And it didn't take a lot of complicated thinking, either. They play good songs. And some nights they play them bloody well. Like tonight. It's why you take a risk against your better thinking and go to a gig. For the chance that on the night, everything can come together and make sense. It may have been the fact that the band have a new "Best Of" compilation to promote. Or maybe being newly liberated from their major label split, they are ready to embrace impending "indiehood". Nah, I reckon their intentions were simpler. Tonight they were "doing it for the Cash" (recently departed Johnny that is) and for a pub that they personally had a lot of good times in, to share with people who felt the same. And retrace a few favorite songs at the same time.
The songs transcend the influences that the band themselves wear on their sleeves. And whilst bands with the "we don't give a fuck" attitude are as common as a cliche, there are few who can carry off the "we don't give a fuck but come and have a beer with us" attitude without coming across all hippy (aargh). I had made the I hope not-unforgivable mistake of judging them on age against youth, style over substance. Bitterness perhaps because I can't grow sideburns and think that lime collared shirt with the top button missing should be consigned to St Vincent De Paul. The Pete Townshend histrionics were still there, but when Rogers did that windmill thing on his guitar, this time it felt instinctive and not forced. For Fun. Definitely.
(It recalled for me one night at the also soon to be demolished Perth Entertainment Centre where in a support slot, the band pulled out all the stops in front of a bemused 10,000 people who were there to hear that "Wonderwall song". When Noel Gallagher gave them his kudos after his own band were blown away by their opening act night after night on an Australasian tour in the peak of Oasis pomp, it was one endorsement that the monobrow got right.)
Tonight I forgave You Am I. For whatever it was I held against them. Tonight I forgave them for pushing their ex-proteges the Vines (ex-proteges) ahead of their own interests. Tonight I forgave them for indirectly giving us the blandtastic crime against humanity known as Jet. Tonight I forgave them for not giving me another record as perfect as "Hourly Daily" (one of the few records on my shelf that I can play at a summer gathering that isn't at risk of getting thrown onto the barbie, next to the snaggers in the space where the shrimp would be if I knew what the fuck shrimp was. Mental note: A Silver Mt Zion should not soundtrack a game of backyard cricket). Tonight I forgave them for declaring that success for them meant having money for beer and being able to make records and being able to hit the road and perform their records to their friends around the country and see a wee bit of the world. And not global domination.
I wanted to shout out at anyone who had never heard You Am I's "Damage" or "Berlin Chair" or anyone of a number of the songs they played tonight with reckless vigour, this is perfect pop music! It's pop, but it ain't pop(ular). When "Tales from the Australian Underground Volume 2" is reviewed in CarelessTalkCostsLives volume fifteen, issue 10,"Tuesday" will be declared a lost treasure (but why should it be lost until then?).
I wanted to go out and bat for them. To anyone who says that there are enough Antipodean acts getting their fifteen minutes in the British media I'll say sift through that pre-packaged, patronising posturing and look deeper. To anyone who said they saw them supporting some "Band of the Week" Britpop chancers circa 1995 and they were crap, I'll say that the sound was bad. To anyone who says that the tickets to see them at some shithole Oz-themed bar in Shepherd's bush were sold out, I'll say that their (now departed from) record company took the easy option of getting rent money from guaranteed ex-pat punters than converting new followers. To those who say they missed the boat, I'll say I want off too.
But why should I make excuses for them? They don't care if they don't fit in. They never did. Tonight I remembered there was such thing as a vox/guitar/bass/drum rock'n'roll band, who postured because they were having fun and not because of pretense and that could make you want to punch the air (or kick a hole in the sky). Most of all, I felt like sharing them.
Shortly after this gig, someone somewhere decided that "rock'n'roll" (in its Keef and Mick incarnation) was cool again and that bands looked good with vintage t-shirts and designer jeans (flared or otherwise). To my amusement, some hack in the NME decided that Australian bands (so often neglected outside of their own country by the conservative music press) could be used and propped up for a few cheap headlines, at least until the next pre-conceived "movement" came along (I remember some laughably patronising label, "The Ayers Rock" revolution or something). thought, for all the shit flying about, at least You Am I would finally get some recognition. (I'm still waiting).
(Anyway I began to move more and more away from bands whose songs you could sing along to. I figured that the art of the three and a half minute pop song was lost. Pop music, was beginning to mean either some prepackaged product endorsed by a telephone viewer poll and a tabloid newspaper campaign, or a rip-off, throwback con endorsed by a tabloid music press campaign to stay solvent. And it was anything but pure. Give me ten minute squalls of guitar distortion, preferably with a violin and two drummers. And no lyrics, or maybe just unintelligible vocoder ramblings. Or something.)
I went to see You Am I tonight. Like the last time, the band themselves were not my primary focus. Like the band and most of the punters there, I went to pay my last respects to the Raffles Hotel, a famous suburban Perth drinking hole that most nights resemble the treacherous hive of scum and villainy from Star Wars where Luke meets Han Solo. Tonight the other half of the hotel is being used for line-dancing. Seriously. And a biker's conference is upstairs. Possibly. Like the few other pubs of cultural significance in Perth, it has been listed for demolition and to be replaced by riverside apartments. It is also the pub where a young Tim Rogers sat around and listened to stories of family upheaval and sun-soaked idealism, the night that Auntie Jenny won 35 dollars on a horse called "Heavy Heart" and watching the sun set over the river, providing a backdrop to many a bar room brawl straight out of"Blazing Saddles". Probably. This was the Wild West. The last frontier. Literally. The pub that inspired more than a couple of songs. We had both left Perth for our own reasons and tonight found ourselves back.
Tonight I remembered why I loved You Am I. And it didn't take a lot of complicated thinking, either. They play good songs. And some nights they play them bloody well. Like tonight. It's why you take a risk against your better thinking and go to a gig. For the chance that on the night, everything can come together and make sense. It may have been the fact that the band have a new "Best Of" compilation to promote. Or maybe being newly liberated from their major label split, they are ready to embrace impending "indiehood". Nah, I reckon their intentions were simpler. Tonight they were "doing it for the Cash" (recently departed Johnny that is) and for a pub that they personally had a lot of good times in, to share with people who felt the same. And retrace a few favorite songs at the same time.
The songs transcend the influences that the band themselves wear on their sleeves. And whilst bands with the "we don't give a fuck" attitude are as common as a cliche, there are few who can carry off the "we don't give a fuck but come and have a beer with us" attitude without coming across all hippy (aargh). I had made the I hope not-unforgivable mistake of judging them on age against youth, style over substance. Bitterness perhaps because I can't grow sideburns and think that lime collared shirt with the top button missing should be consigned to St Vincent De Paul. The Pete Townshend histrionics were still there, but when Rogers did that windmill thing on his guitar, this time it felt instinctive and not forced. For Fun. Definitely.
(It recalled for me one night at the also soon to be demolished Perth Entertainment Centre where in a support slot, the band pulled out all the stops in front of a bemused 10,000 people who were there to hear that "Wonderwall song". When Noel Gallagher gave them his kudos after his own band were blown away by their opening act night after night on an Australasian tour in the peak of Oasis pomp, it was one endorsement that the monobrow got right.)
Tonight I forgave You Am I. For whatever it was I held against them. Tonight I forgave them for pushing their ex-proteges the Vines (ex-proteges) ahead of their own interests. Tonight I forgave them for indirectly giving us the blandtastic crime against humanity known as Jet. Tonight I forgave them for not giving me another record as perfect as "Hourly Daily" (one of the few records on my shelf that I can play at a summer gathering that isn't at risk of getting thrown onto the barbie, next to the snaggers in the space where the shrimp would be if I knew what the fuck shrimp was. Mental note: A Silver Mt Zion should not soundtrack a game of backyard cricket). Tonight I forgave them for declaring that success for them meant having money for beer and being able to make records and being able to hit the road and perform their records to their friends around the country and see a wee bit of the world. And not global domination.
I wanted to shout out at anyone who had never heard You Am I's "Damage" or "Berlin Chair" or anyone of a number of the songs they played tonight with reckless vigour, this is perfect pop music! It's pop, but it ain't pop(ular). When "Tales from the Australian Underground Volume 2" is reviewed in CarelessTalkCostsLives volume fifteen, issue 10,"Tuesday" will be declared a lost treasure (but why should it be lost until then?).
I wanted to go out and bat for them. To anyone who says that there are enough Antipodean acts getting their fifteen minutes in the British media I'll say sift through that pre-packaged, patronising posturing and look deeper. To anyone who said they saw them supporting some "Band of the Week" Britpop chancers circa 1995 and they were crap, I'll say that the sound was bad. To anyone who says that the tickets to see them at some shithole Oz-themed bar in Shepherd's bush were sold out, I'll say that their (now departed from) record company took the easy option of getting rent money from guaranteed ex-pat punters than converting new followers. To those who say they missed the boat, I'll say I want off too.
But why should I make excuses for them? They don't care if they don't fit in. They never did. Tonight I remembered there was such thing as a vox/guitar/bass/drum rock'n'roll band, who postured because they were having fun and not because of pretense and that could make you want to punch the air (or kick a hole in the sky). Most of all, I felt like sharing them.
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