Amplifier, Perth, Australia, 25th November 2006.

wooooooooooooooooo-oooooooooooooo-ooooo-oooo. That's the noise blurring through my ears now. Luke, who knows a lot more about speaker stacks than I do, warned me this was going to be a Spinal Tap "one louder". Amplifier is a fairly small showcase of largely local fare and by the time the roadie has finished filling the stage with oversized monitors, there's barely any room for the band. Positioned two back from the front in an already effervescent mob that's testing this joint's capacity.

Its predominantly new album but no matter. The hooks are timeless, groove machines - its like I've known them my whole life. Neither is there an ounce of fat. It's lean direct combat. Ruthlessly tight. Like the almost disturbingly lithe, missile-like torsos of the band itself. I once read that the singer is so skinny that he's more comfortable in women's clothes. If he stands side on to us and sticks out his tongue he could do an excellent impersonation of a zip. Neither are their lyrics fathomless beasts that take a whole night of wrestling with to just catch a hint of their subtext. They've probably spent half their lives listening to If You Want Blood, You've Got it. Nothing wrong with that I can see.

But nevermind the sonic assault, this is one of the livelier moshpits I've been jammed in. There's an insidious amount of position jockeying. I'm happy to concede and conquer in equal quantities, until about the halfway stage where it appears my adversaries have concluded that battling my whirligig limbs is not in their best interests. Luke too has defended his spot, long black locks flailing in mid-bang. Its a freestyle moshing I'm quite partial to. No pantomime horns going out, its all rollicking goons out for japes.

MF from Hell features a churning, cement mixer guitar riff, that were I in more intimate circumstances, would evoke the most remorseless pelvic grinding. But I really don't want to give anyone the wrong idea. It all rushes towards an impeccably paced climax of that has satisfaction stamped all over its face; Harmonic Generator; each lick, line and beat riding each other, perfectly balanced, exquisitely timed; delivered as God intended. All in all its pretty much straight up dance music. Dumb? Derivative? There's a quote from Lux Interior of The Cramps along the lines that rock n roll in its purest form is beyond any formal reproach. Damn straight. Like a motherfucker from Hell.

Transcribed by G.

PS: Yeah, this is a shorter review than normal, but what are you going to do about it. Its the end of the year. I'm not familiar with most of the songs, maybe I should have got Luke to write this, still a little deaf, those static waves of ocean still rolling back and forth, I've picked up a repetitive pogo-ing strain in my right foot (that's the price you pay for favoring one side so you can stick your fist in the air above everything else) and I'm off to Costa Rica in less than a week. I promise to return with more energy, more backbone, more fortitude. Tremble before me.

PPS: Moshpit photography is not one of my specialties.