Gareth Sweet
Copywriter
I was drawn to The Tote earlier than usual on Saturday night by the urgent, inexplicable need to get as drunk as possible, as quickly as possible. But as I walked through the door all thoughts of beer momentarily ceased. Right, there in the front bar, jammed up in a corner – four guys, virtually standing on top of one another, were playing screaming, paint peeling garage in a white haze of feedback and energy. That was Deafwish, just four ordinary guys, bleeding for rock and roll and playing their instruments like they fucking hated them. Check them out.
Little Athletics opened things up in the back bar a few hours and several delicious beers later. I was feeling like Jack Kerouac, not because I thought I could write, but just because I was uselessly drunk. The crowd was small, with the majority of people making the most of the fading light in the courtyard. These guys played nice music, at a nice pace, for nice people. Their sound reminded me of a lot of early nineties indie bands – unfortunately this was the sound of me getting no sex. But so it goes.
By the time Kretch came on I was convinced I was Charles Bukowski having just stumbled into Jeffro from 6FtHick and told him that he could take a shit on stage and I’d still think it was the best gig I’d ever seen. Go figure. Luckily, Kretch were fucking awesome - the lead singer looked like the bastard child of Peter Garrett, Ron Peno and Jello Biafra, and the band sounded like the Sex Pistols if they had been good, the Dead Kennedys who were always good and The Jesus Lizard who could plunge small African nations into famine and still be good.
At this point, as I approached Hunter S Thompson in my levels of self abuse, my notes start getting a bit sketchy – words like ‘cum gargling’ and ‘gaping’ appear in strange out of context asides. Luckily I remember enough to know that neither related to Digger and the Pussy Cats, who looked and sounded like Animal from the Muppets if he simultaneously played guitar and drums from two separate sides of the stage. Dirty fat riffs bleeding off the stage in between hilarious banter about cock sucking mums and European backpacking adventures. Great stuff.
Randy asked me how the drummer was standing up and playing the bass drum at the same time – we both agreed it probably had something to do with his cock – I’m not even sure he had a bass drum.
When 6FtHick hit the stage I was completely Enid Blyton’d and since I’d already promised Jeffro a good review, I decided to head for the front of the stage and trade punches and indulge in some good old fashioned music inspired man love, with my good friend Mosscock.
Since every review you’ll ever read about The Hick will talk about spitting two headed cobras, the saviours of rock and roll and the best live rock and roll show you’ll ever see, which are all true, I’ll ignore all that and move on to some random observations and quotes from several strangers standing around me.
The pit in front of the stage was wide-on city, I swear when Gentle Ben took off his shirt at least three girls conceived, hell even as a straight dude I had half a mongrel.
“Moved here from Brisbane 3 weeks ago – two thumbs up” - Tahnee
“6FtHick have cocks that are at least 3 inches longer than you or me” - Randy again
‘Beat Myself’ is the sound of waking up nude, covered in bruises.
They are the exact opposite of Fruit Edge.
And last, but certainly not least “They are the kind of enema/exorcism you didn’t know you needed, but you like anyway” Thankyou Rhonda Rottenbox.
P.S. Jeffro COULD have taken a shit on stage and it would have still been the best live show I’d seen since the last one.
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