It was long ago and it was far away...

republished from Butterboxmedia.com

The Suits: The Hopetoun Hotel. Friday 24 September, 2004 - supported by The Cyclones & The Pyramidiacs

Not far below the surface of their ferocious rock delivery, biting Melbourne three-piece The Cyclones come indelibly stamped with a gritty, true-blues DNA. The piston-like beats, thunderously interspersed with a torrential clashing of cymbals, nuzzle together with the rumbling growls of bass that prowl around the bursting shards of splintered glass riffola of a Les Paul Epiphone.

Remove The Cyclones tag from the above two sentences and you’re left with the default (though flowery) critique for any half-talented band that dwells closer in description to garage rock than council car park. And that’s why The Cyclones were so enjoyably yawn-proof. I mean, here’s music that should be played not produced. The least desired thing this concrete structure needs is for some inspired DJ to come along and trick it up as a sonic backdrop for the Chuppa Chup and Glow Stick crowd.

Looking the absolute picture of sassy rock-babe was the bass playin’ Jules. She sang a gorgeously sultry song called “Batteries” and in between numbers feigned straight chick to Jason’s (of the Epiphone) on-cue one-liners, like:

Jason: “This next song highlights the rhythm section”

Jules: “They all do…”

And given that it’s the drummer’s first gig with the band the question begs (to me, anyway): what’ll they sound like in six months time? Well, apparently, copycat fashion crimes in Melbourne were outlawed well before most other unethical infringements, so fortunately there’s little chance of adding to the gathering portents of John Bonhamesque reverbed compression. However, now we’ve acquired a thrilling new Claptonish (the Cream years…) dimension that’s gotta be like, you know, worthy of milking. Therefore, the only proper response would obviously be to drag along to their next gig the first A&R dude to pull a blank cheque from his conjuror’s pocket. In such a long journey there are bound to be occasional deviations from the road, but the course has been set.

Earlier this year at the Hoey I spoke with Bill from The Pyramidiacs while watching The Fauves launch their well conceived album, Celebrate the Failure, which features the sardonic single: “Dogs Are The Best People.” I wasn’t even aware he played bass, let alone played bass for this long standing Sydney group. However, prompted by my own feelings of horizontal awkwardness as I watched a couple of partially vertical (& partially clad) girls seamlessly mingle into what I like to consider my natural habitat, I mentioned to him and, short-sightedly, to the girls how inside every tall person there’s probably a small person dying to get back in. Well, both he and I laughed anyway…

Despite their first release dating back to 1993, and having a healthy following in Spain and France where they’ve toured three times plus sold out a fair sized venue or two, buying a Pyramidiacs album locally represents one of the greater urban challenges. It’s almost like they’re pushing to become the ultimate “cult” act: a band that more people have heard of than actually heard. It’s quite rock ‘n’ roll I suppose, a bit irritating though. This appalling bind is soon to be corrected with an anthologically styled compilation due for release during October 2004 on the Reverberation label.

Irony or not they presented a blistering set that showcased the trademark melodies they’ve cultivated over the years. The tightly focused punch of their power pop comes from an understanding gained by playing together for so long. Its put them right on the heartbeat with harmonies that were distinctly isolated but elevated at the same time. The crunchy and dynamic guitar-drenched sounds of guitarist and vox bloke Owens indicates he’s the kinda guy who’d have more strings to his bow than he lets on. Even more than the vintage twelve string he used for the last song. His contribution is like the fly caught in the shimmering web of sound The Pyramidiacs weave into the rich pop tapestry of acid-tinged barber shop quartets.

The following Sunday, while listening to The Suits debut EP, International School of Dance [Reverberation; 2004] I was walking along the beach towards the Sydney surf spot made famous by Brian Wilson. Not for the first time, I was struck by the heart-on-their-sleeve, nothing-to-hide honesty in the lyrics. They’re all ’80s nostalgia with a raucous and danceable potency. And in a good way. This alkaline attitude suits the snarliness of the guitar and lends the vocals a combination of toughness and vulnerability.

I had a brief conversation with the charismatic guitarist for The Suits, Danna as he was casually undertaking light duties at the Hoey’s merch table. With the same blend of helplessness trimmed of excessive generic phrasing he said he was, “Conserving energy” before the band’s set. It was a 4am wake up call for The Suits that morning, followed by the long drive up from Melbourne for the two show lightning raid on Sydney. Prolonged cabin confinement plus breathing other people’s air had induced a wistfulness in Danna’s response to my question about a future full length album. He replied the band were, “Recording everything they wrote at a basic level to cull sometime in the future.” Mention was also made of the high monetary cost involved in recording, which in one way or another illuminated the pleasures and the pains, the perils and the pitfalls of being in a group whose national profile would just as likely skyrocket under more dependent circumstances.

The drive home to a backward day job has been navigated with a similar refrain by numerous bands who pivot on the dynamics of independent enterprise. At a time when remaining loyal to nonpartisan promoters or simply to one’s own disaffected spirit are made to look increasingly quaint, I wonder how many young bands would place themselves on the chessboard of ‘artist management’ if their own particular vision of a decadent future - complete with a solemn projection of their broader social concern that included, of course, the unfurled subversive flag - were offered? At a time when the unruliness of rock is now aided, abetted and funded by corporations, that is to say, when it’s Hip Hop, where is the cultural form of rock ‘n’ roll headed? How much further can the central fantasy of rebellion be exploited?

Anyway, a set list of eleven songs was opened with “Overcome,” which blanketed those present in a ray of blessed sunshine. Then came “Rug,” which was followed by “Everyday” from the EP, and the song sequence from then onwards seemed crafted to warm up the crowd. The audience clearly appreciated The Suits driving take on weapons grade jangle pop, keeping pace with the awe-inspiring noise by shaking its collective furry paws as testimony. The hooks of Danna’s stomp and soar fret work intensified, and a hip-swiveling throng of international dancers covered the space directly in front of the band. When the first hectic chords of “Strait Line” were played a lone, well-oiled Brit soldier was regaining the warmth of life with a pair of lovelies from the land of the rising sun. He told me later on (but not that much later on) that they had said he was, “All sweaty…”

“Last Plane” followed, and the cheerful mix of industry insiders, small label big guys and members of other bands were pumped by The Suits hard, loud and contagious energy. While they played a passionate set, i’ve heard them sounding much better at The Hoey. Although, I suspect the overtones resulted from being located directly in front of the band, which usually eliminates many of the nuances of sound I generally enjoy. But they tapped into that attractive, vicious cynicism without a hint of menace, glam or meat market.

They finished their plush set with “Duet,” accompanied by turbulent shouts from the encouraging crowd. I heard one pissed guy making censorious comments suggesting approval would be disloyal to an intractable musical make-up he supposedly had. If so, surely he was persecuting the wrong person. This new youth pop is rootless and raceless and all the better for it.

- Peter Thornton September, 2004