You Am I Tapping in...

You Am I Present The Majesty Of Tap
Factory Theatre
7/4/2018

Eleven. Hello Cleveland. None more black. Sexist, not sexy. Stonehenge…

As in-jokes that have seeped into the mainstream consciousness, quotes from This Is Spinal Tap are probably up there with old Monty Python gags and Simpsons’ references.

A lot of bands have probably thought about honouring the Tap musically – likely after ingesting a few beverages, or perhaps less commercially available substances. But kudos to You Am I, for they would be one of the very few who’d remember the conversation the next day - and what’s more, actually follow through. But they’re in a fairly freewheelin’ mood at the moment: a couple of winery picnic gigs with the Gurus here, playing backing band to ‘60s icon PP Arnold there.

A couple of wheezes from the smoke machines, and they were amongst us. “Hello, er…Sydney!” Tonight We’re Gonna Rock You Tonight a natural overture. And later reappeared to close the night – these are the traditions, people. The whole conceit would have probably worn off far quicker if the songs of the Tap catalogue weren’t so terrifically constructed bits of music - as pastiche or homage to a bunch of styles. As Tim Rogers put it as they went through a couple of songs that very obviously ‘honoured’ The Kinks of the mid-1960s: “Ray Davies probably should have sued them as quickly as (Tap co-creator) Harry Shearer is gonna sue us...”

Thing is, The You Am I’s tribute came with affection, and they fit the roles maybe a little too well - right down to the eye makeup. Rogers’ big gesture theatricality has more than a dollop of St Hubbins’ sprawling ego. Davey Lane really is a music geek who finds something to love in just about any era of the rock music. There’s probably a Nigel Tufnel amplifier than goes to 11 in his lounge-room next to that mandolin and very fetching leopard skin vest/shirt that he’s sporting. As “…the lukewarm water between the fire and ice”, Andy Kent’s taciturn nature channels Derek Smalls neatly. And perched behind a perfectly grandiose drum kit - disappointingly lacking double kick-drums, but with Chinese gong I don’t recall actually being used – Rusty Hopkinson was all those skinsmen The Tap used up, right down to suffering an obligatory ‘bizarre lighting accident’ toward the end.

Yes, this truly is The Majesty Of Rock. Kind of. There are bits of comic by-play as they ‘restore’ the reputation of the band. “That band - not this band,” Rogers clarified, repeatedly. This band in fact managing to go from the near-skiffle of Gimme Some Money, through the cod-metal of Rock And Roll Nightmare, Rock And Roll Creation, and Heavy Duty Rock And Roll (sensing a theme, customers?), to “The perfect mix of making love…and agriculture” Sex Farm, and obvious crowd favourite, Big Bottom. That our boys manage these stylistic shifts straight up and live is actually just a bit impressive. Although you’re probably too busy cackling as a ‘correctly’ proportioned nine-inch Stonehenge was lowered to the stage, with suitable reverence.       

So, was the joke stretched out too long? Yeah, probably. But everyone’s gone home laughing, so you can’t really begrudge it. The patron saint of quality footwear would have blessed this gathering. Or, as Timmy closed the evening: “You’ve been great, good night Adelaide!”.
Of course he did.

 

Spencer P. Jones: The heart, and soul (and liver), of The Beast.

His own musical history, whether under his own name, in bands such as The Johnnys and Hell To Pay, or as sometime sideman to the likes of Paul Kelly and Chris Bailey all make Spencer P. Jones a name to be respected.

He’s also one of only two – the other being the inimitable Tex Perkins – to make it through the 30 years and three distinct lineups of ragged glory that is The Beasts Of Bourbon. This also means he gets to do the triple shift as the band run through their checkered history and personnel over consecutive nights, but he’s typically laconic and matter-of-fact about making it this far.“Of course you never thought that far ahead. But I don’t see why we can’t keep doing it - as long as we’re all still alive, and sort of well,” Mr Jones deadpans down the line. Thing is, the ‘still alive’ element might only be half joking. The Beasts have always gone in hard, and there’s been some burn outs and lineup implosions through their history.

When presented with the facts, the guitarist lets out a coughing laugh: “Yeah, it is a fucking miracle really, isn’t it?,” before getting a bit of perspective:  “There is a lot of bullshit about this band. Gossip, rumour - and somewhere along the line that becomes fact."

Spencer illustration courtesy Paul Rebec.

“But OK, there’s a bit of notoriety, maybe rightly. And sure, one of our members has spent some time in jail, but that’s his issue. And I reckon we’re not the only band where that’s the case.” There’s a knowing chuckle. “But looking back, The Beasts is probably one of the few things in most of our lives that’s turned out pretty much effortless, and we can just keep coming back to it. It’s the old hot rod thing - it’s in the garage, we take it out for a run every few years. Maybe take some things off or bolt on some new ones, give it a bit of a polish, and off we go. You just turn over the V8 every so often.”

The flipside of the entanglements is that things sometimes just crumble into place for this band. Performances of the various eras of Beasts have come together lately through a mixture of accident and design. The most unlikely revival - that of the original 1983 ensemble featuring Kim Salmon, fellow then-Scientist Boris Sujdovic, and a man of many myths and stories in his own right, James Baker on drums – put back together for The Drones-curated All Tomorrow Parties event.

By coincidence, Jones and Baker were putting together what would become The Nothing Butts record with Gareth Liddiard and Fiona Kitschin, but weren’t the first to know about it. “Gareth never said anything to me or James about that idea. The ATP people went to Kim first before anybody else - and offered him a very princely sum which made him happy,” Jones explains with a smirk. “It was like a focus from a whole different side, and it worked out. Possibly the only person who might have been offended was (later Beast) Charlie (Owen), but he was cool about it – I think he quite liked the idea of seeing that version too.”

“That was meant to be a one-off - and then we got offered the Iggy Pop tour, and Charlie couldn’t do one of the shows – he was off with Jimmy Barnes opening for Bruce Springsteen, as you do. Not the sort of gig you can knock back,” he adds drily. “So we asked Charlie if it was OK to get Kim in for that. He was OK with it – well, relieved he was off the hook.”

 

Jones continues to conclusion: “These shows, we’ve just decided to be a bit more organised. It’s not like Tex and I got together and fiendishly conjured something up. It's all been too complicated to be a plan.” But it does come down to Spencer and Perkins doing triple duty, covering the whole Beasts catalogue of sodden blues with occasional outbreaks of romance, drug smuggling, and blood. “Ah, you gotta pay the troll if you want to rock and roll,” he philosophises. And admits there’s a different dynamic for him in each of the band’s formations. “Oh yeah, each ‘band’ does feel a little different – whether that’s me just playing slide on some songs some nights, or some things in the way Charlie and I work, which is different to the way I play off Kim and the way he does things – and even they’ve changed a bit over the years.”    

He discusses and corrects with himself: “Have I got a favourite child among the lineups? I don’t think so. Wait, maybe – sometimes. I’ve played on a lot of records over the years,” he understates.  “I still think (Beasts’ debut) The Axeman’s Jazz is a great record, The Low Road is a great record. And I think Gone and Little Animals are pretty good records – the last one could have been a bit longer. But I’m just second guessing,” he admits.

Even after 30 years, there’s still something that keeps them coming back: “Absolutely – we can still find something in these songs. Maybe because it’s always been that part-time, ‘other thing’ most of us do, sometimes.”

Mr Jones’ has more in the diary once this Beasts excursion is done. There’s a solo record done where he plays just about everything on it, as well as producing “a real pop record” for Ally Spazzy that “just needs a couple more songs”, and…“I’m doing another Escape Committee record – that’s really my main band now. But some of them are a bit upset that Western Australian couple (Liddiard and Kitschin) horned in and took some the songs they never got the chance to record. I might have to do some peacemaking.”

 

(Bob) Mouldings of Copper & Silver.

As he sets about celebrating two career highlights from two decades apart, Bob Mould is musing on a couple of years which have raised his already respected standing to new levels. “It has got kind of crazy,” he admits, before getting a little more philosophical. “Just the fact I've survived might be a big part of it – and the book certainly galvanised people to delve back into what's gone before.”

Said book, See A Little Light, has become almost as revered as his musical history, as it unblinkingly covers not only Mould's music and the messy and drug-wracked implosion of Hüsker Dü, but also his struggle and eventual acceptance of his sexuality, among other things.

Did the book set out to be as candid and revealing? The answer is quick and emphatic: “No!”
Then elaborates: “I absolutely did not expect it to go that way. I thought 'Yeah, biography – tell some funny stories, look back, rewrite the bad times a little bit to make yourself look good'. But [co-writer] Michael Azerrad was a great coach, great editor. He saw a different picture, and encouraged and dragged a whole other perspective out of me.” Azerrad, the author also responsible for the definitive Nirvana book, Come As You Are, gave Mould a layer of trust.

The honesty of the book saw it reach beyond his musical audience, and reignited a wider interest through his latest album, Silver Age (an album now often compared with Sugar's classic Copper Blue of the early '90s; itself name-checked by both grunge and rock enthusiasts). These two albums centred his then-current touring. “I love playing those records – they're fun, easy to play.” He adds a kicker, “Then we go deeper into the back catalogue – and it will be loud.”

Mould's answer is less definite and more self-effacing when questioned on whether he recognises his own standing and reputation: “Umm, yeah. Okay, maybe. I'm still a big music fan – so I know that bands like Japandroids and The Men mention me,” he says, sounding genuinely pleased that they know who he is. “But I only really think about it when I have to talk about it. I don't often sit in my yard and look up at my place among the stars,” he chuckles.

“I'm grateful, surprised. A level of recognition always amazes me. Maybe even more that I can be sitting in my neighbourhood having a coffee, someone walks by, does a double take, then comes up to show me they have 20 or 30 of my songs in their iPod. Like, how that does happen? You have to love that – unless you're Morrissey, of course.”

Some other friends were happy to back Bob up when Los Angeles' Disney Concert Hall organised a tribute to the man and his music. He even downplays that a bit. “I'd played a handful of tribute shows at [legendary New York venue] Carnegie Hall – Dylan, REM, The Who. I think the Disney wants to be that for the West Coast. It's a Frank Gehry-designed, perfectly tuned orchestral venue. They gave me gravity, I gave them some credibility. Maybe.”

“They asked, and I just like getting people together to play. Okay, it got a bit bigger than I thought.” Among those at the 'get-together': Dave Grohl, Ryan Adams, and Craig Finn of The Hold Steady. Mr Mould is matter-of-fact: “Well, Dave I've known forever, way back to last century. Craig and I share a guitar teacher. Ryan? We've just run into each other. It probably just comes down to being around long enough to have met about everybody.” May he meet quite a few more.

Neil Finn reveals some secrets, but probably keeps a lot more...

The familiar fringe that flops down over his eyes has some flecks of grey now. Those eyes might have a few more laugh-lines, but still have a sparkle - even when in the midst of one of those conveyor belt days of interviews trying to convince the audience to accept your latest musical tangent.

Neil Finn has been doing this for over 40 years. And still can find the wonder in it. “I’m as fascinated by music as much, maybe more, than I’ve ever been,” he states, but then reality checks “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t dark days where you can’t quite find what you’re trying to achieve.”

Many would name him a master of the craft, the art, the mystery of songwriting. He offers some of the formula: “There’s inspiration, creativity – and some bluff. And maybe a bit of skulduggery,” he adds conspiratorially.It’s probably up to the listener to work out just what proportion of those ingredients are present across Dizzy Heights, the new album under his own name rather than the Crowded House or Pajama Club band guises of his late. Although it’s very much a family affair: wife Sharon, and sons Liam and Elroy centring a band that trooped off to Flaming Lips’ producer Dave Fridmann’s studio in upstate New York. Finn clarifies: “We’d actually did a couple of ‘family band’ gigs at the end of Pajama Club tour. This maybe a step to one day doing an album where we can all write the songs, then play it all together. New Zealand’s Von Trapps? Maybe not,” he muses. “There’s not many truly memorable family groups. OK, maybe The Partridge Family,” he jokes.

The thoughts dovetail: “It’s about finding a balance. Music is the most important thing in the whole world, beside my family. But then you recognise the cosmic significance of a few songs is fairly small. You’ve got to keep both of those thoughts in your head, otherwise you’ll disappear up your own arse. But make it too frivolous, and it’s all too much just a game of getting famous.”

But Neil Finn does have the fame, and a canon of songs that truly affect people. There’s a pride in the work, perhaps tempered with a bit of a self-effacing New Zealand reserve. “I don’t really sit around and think about the ‘legacy’ aspect of it. But I do know I’ve written things that mean a lot to a lot of people”, he admits. “I appreciate that exchange - that’s profound, I’m lucky to be part of that.”

However, a competitive element seems absurd to him. “Comparing and connecting my work to the work of others, it makes no sense. To be honest, I’m bored by the idea of all those lists that seem to be the fashion – particularly when I’m not on one of them. And I just hate being asked ‘So, what’s the favourite song you’ve written?’ – that’s ridiculous to me, an impossible question. I can maybe pick 20 that I’m really happy with, but don’t ask me for three or five.”

He again ponders the mystery, and the tricks of the trade. “Maybe one of the secrets of a successful song is it sounds like your revealing yourself – even when you’re really not. What might start from some personal point would get bogged if you kept just trying to diarise your life – although that does seems to work for Taylor Swift,” he chuckles. “That’s where the skulduggery comes in – to open up doors to possibilities, so people can imagine their own scenarios.”

So, it seem we think we know Neil Finn, but probably don’t. We presume he’s the character in his songs. He then demystifies one of greatest of these supposed confessional moments: “Maybe I’m being disingenuous, but Into Temptation is really from two experiences – neither of which was me having it off with a stranger in a hotel, as much as people might want it to be.”

“Basically, there was a rugby team and a netball team staying at the hotel I was in, I heard what I thought was someone knocking on my door, stuck my head out to find that next door along one of the netball girls was, er, ‘calling on’ one of the rugby boys. It was actually very comical - he saw her, then saw me looking, much embarrassment all round, and I just quickly went back in the room and scribbled down ‘Opened up the door, I couldn’t believe my luck’….” So, now you know.

“And the ‘Knowing full well the earth will rebel…’ is from after one of big earthquakes in LA, one of those hellfire preachers saying that was God’s punishment for America’s sins. But there’s not a person who doesn’t understand the theme - but sometimes banal circumstances can make for a great song.”
What makes Neil Finn different from we mere mortals is not many of us could find that kind of emotion in the banal.

The Triffids: You remind me very much of someone that I used to know...

A Secret In The Shape Of A Song – The Triffids and Friends

The Metro, Sydney

17/01/08

Twenty years ago I sat in London’s Dominion Theatre as a lanky, slightly frayed young man folded himself into a rickety bentwood chair and sang from deep inside himself. It made me want to come home.

This night – to paraphrase one of David McComb’s lyrics – despite a patent lack of him, the band and those songs were still present and often utterly moving. Secret… became a mix of reunion, celebration, tribute, and maybe the wake The Triffids themselves never got to have.

To find the band’s tour manager/wardrobe director, the spindly Handsome Steve Miller, a tuxedo’ed mix of greeter and theatre usher made things surreal enough. He then provided a suitably declamatory introduction for the band to appear. I told myself I’d be dispassionate and critical. That lasted until about the third bar of Too Hot To Move.

Graham Lee’s pedal steel drew tears. Alsy MacDonald and Martyn Casey provided a rich and melodic rhythm section. Robert McComb’s cross-currenting guitar was an underrated sound. And there was Jill Birt’s keyboards, and those lead vocals that mixed awkwardness and petulance, and contrast to David’s deeper murmurings of the heart.

The guests of the evening tried to fill out the band’s sound as well as that void where David’s voice should be. Lee pitied the people who’d never heard Chris Abrahams play piano. His rippling solo opening made Mark Snarski’s towering Bury Me Deep In Love even more heartbreaking. Unexpected was an appearance from Abrahams’ musical partner, Melanie Oxley. Her longing Conquer You was a highlight.

Casey’s fellow Bad Seed Mick Harvey is a man who should step forward more often. His desolate run at The Seabirds had all the exhausted agony of the relationship at its core.

Mark Dawson’s drums were a martial counterpoint to MacDonald’s lighter touch. He shone as The Blackeyed Susans celebrated their time as David’s vehicle. The Rob Snarski crooning of Ocean Of You showed McComb’s grasp of the pop traditions.

Having seen Steve Kilbey sleepwalk through some Church gigs lately, I was worried as the opening inhalation of drums announced the majestic need of Wide Open Road. But with the grin of a true fan, he was passionate and aching and better than ever imagined. He maybe even topped that with a visceral howl of Lonely Stretch.

Conversely, Youth Group’s Toby Martin’s sweeter tones were right for the melancholy of Trick Of The Light. The hit that never was, but always should have been.

Such contrasts went through the encores: a scything, almost psychedelic, Field Of Glass  – with Julian Wu’s and Brian Jonestown’s Ricky Maymi meaning five guitars were spiralling over each other – followed by the evening’s perfect full stop of Birt’s gentle questioning Tender Is The Night. That song has a central query of ‘Don’t you want to forget someone too?’ On this night, the answer was a resounding no.