Traveling all the way to the other side of the world only to end up going to see a band from your hometown, may seem a bit mental to some. But when it’s a band as joyous to watch as Franz Ferdinand, you can’t argue. Not to mention the tickets coming all the way from Lapland.
Dissapointingly there was no Scotland/Glesga shout out for us to take advantage of, although the upside of not being in Glasgow was that the crowd about a third of the size it would have been at the SECC. The Palace Theatre in Melbourne (NOT the Palais…lucky someone double checked the address) is in the same ball park as Camden’s KOKO, stretched a bit longways so maybe a tad more capacity, but at the same time managing to feel that smidgin more intimate.
Opening the set with a new song (Bite Hard, according to latest info on Setlist.fm) can often be a bold/arrogant move, but when the album’s been ‘coming soon’ for longer than most can remember, it’s almost a bit of a relief. Most of the new stuff sounds fairly familiar, due to catching them a couple of times at the festivals last year, including the 30-minute piledriver of a surprise set at Glastonbury.
A short way into the set we’re blessed with the enticing drum intro of The Dark of The Matinee, a part of the song which oddly I’d never taken much notice of until that very moment, despite it being a personal favourite. Coincidentally, a few days earlier listening to same song in the car, it occurred to me that 2004’s Franz Ferdinand is just about as solid a debut album as most bands could hope for. Appetite for Destruction or even Definitely Maybe it mightn’t be, but that’s really nothing to be ashamed of, and track-by-track there’s very little to complain about.
At pre-encore time, my mind met with the familiar ‘but there’s so many they haven’t played yet, there’s just not time for all of them’ panic. Kind of like the way you feel after the first song of a White Stripes show. This in turn got me pondering where Franz Ferdinand in fact lie in the grand scheme of things. They have a little bit of everything – the tunes, the charm, the performance – maybe the local connection comes into it somewhere too. Now asking anyone to name a favourite band is madness. Even if there is an answer, it’s still a shitty question. A top three would be a challenge for most. But as Franz restarted the party with Michael, I had a tiny suspicion they’d be in with a shout for the Top Ten. I’m still not sure, ask me again in a few years.
The Cribs – slagged off global warming hippies. Modest Mouse – made the sun come out. Bright Eyes – didn’t slag off John Peel this time. Bloc Party – were as good as their last album. The Fratellis – forgot to switch the speakers on. Arcade Fire – are my new favourite band. Bjork – sang a ballad about a pregnant suicide bomber, but other than that was awesome. Seasick Steve – didn’t shoot his step dad. The Pipettes – are hot. The Long Blondes – have one good song, and yes, they played it last. CSS – … . Paul Weller – made me have weird dreams while I was sleeping in the tent. Noisettes – came on half an hour early and I missed them. Rodrigo y Gabriella – needed seven roadies to fix one guitar and started half an hour late, but it was worth it! Willy Mason – played on a stage about seven miles away from anything else, and then didn’t even play either of my two favourite songs. The Who – didn’t even smash their guitars.
The handy thing about the Pleasure Unit is being able to nip back to the flat between bands and say, check emails, or put a washing on. On average you can catch about two and a half bands without putting too much of a dent in your Wednesday evening. I arrived halfway through a loud and uninspiring set from a band who’s name I can’t remember/couldn’t make out (”…check us out at mumblemumble.co.uk…”).
Following that, it seems we have three young ladies suitably punked up taking to the stage – the lead singer in standard issue Ramones t-shirt. “Of course”, I recall from the poster I passed at the front door, “this must be The Ramonas”. Oh dear another substandard Ramones tribute band. To my surprise, they actually turn out to be pretty good. Secondly, they’re not a tribute band at all – shit, these are actuyally their own songs! The final twist? They’re not called The Ramonas at all, they’re also called mumble mumble.
It all becomes clear when the headline band take to the stage, all brown leather jackets and bowlcuts and keyboard players – crucially though, their singers speaking voice is clear as day. They’re called “For Ramona”. My mistake. But they’re definitely rubbish, time to go hang that washing up.
http://www.myspace.com/thecutoutsband
http://www.pleasureunitbar.com/
You’ve gotta love eBay. A week before the gig, with all the standing tickets sold out, I noticed that the support act was none other than Malcolm Middleton. Maybe worth the effort after all, I thought. Luckily there’s always some poor bugger who cant get rid of his tickets, and has to flog them for half face value. Cha ching!
Malcy’s short set goes down quite well, but without a full band it struggles to carry the same liveliness of Into The Woods. New album sounds good though.
The thing about the Damon Gough live experience™ is his ability to reinvent his songs such that you give that bop of recognition to a new song you’ve never heard before, yet go for a wizz just as he starts playing a ska rendition of your favourite b-side. But the crowd has no such trouble with his solo intermission of Once Around The Block, The Shining and probably my favourite BDB track A Minor Incident. Of course I stand corrected during the encore when the piano breaks into my actual favourite ‘You Were Right’, tonights obituary verse namechecking Steve Irwin and Richard Whiteley.
All in all a superb (and lengthy – 2+ hours!) performance from the badly drawn one, and the best tenner I’ve spent in a long time!
