It’s rare to be given the opportunity to watch an iconic Australian band play in an intimate setting – so to see 1970s Australian punk rockers, The Saints, take over the Corner Hotel on Friday night was a curious, if not an exciting event.
First up for the night was Spencer P Jones and The Escape Committee, a beautifully dark band that was a reassuring step away from Jones’ Beasts of Bourbon past.
The band, channelling the likes of Sonic Youth and Pavement, seemed to start off rather slow but were quick to jump into it. Jones and lead guitarist Michael Hubbard swapped between intricate and lengthy solos throughout their entire set, which gave them an interesting diversity and depth.
Kingswood were up next and, like their reputation that precedes them, were nothing short of damn cool. They delightedly shocked the audience with their instant leap into chest thumping rock and roll.
They claimed that they had never played at the Corner – but owned the stage, and the audience, with natural finesse and tight rhythms – and all the while drummer Justin Debrincat beating the shit out of his drum kit.
Their music is somewhat eclectic for a single band – intertwining a broad spectrum of genres, from a touch of blues to the outrageousness of metal, and successfully brought each genre they channelled to life on stage in one beautiful mess of sound.
There was a stupidly long wait between Kingswood and The Saints, nearly 40 minutes for the band and the stage people to get it together, which dampened the mood, to the utter detriment to the headliners.
The Saints cemented themselves in punk history, certainly that of Australian rock and roll history with their typically fast tempos, buzzsaw guitar tones, and uncontrollable vocals.
Sir Bob Geldof (despite his own, arguably, unpleasant musical adeptness) famously quoted “rock music in the seventies was changed by three bands – The Sex Pistols, The Ramones, and The Saints.”
This, however, had all been but lost on Friday night. Punk, at the very core and soul of its ideology is designed to be sharp, short and swift – ending as abruptly as it started – most especially in its earliest forms.
This has been true of The Saints, a once rough and rugged punk outfit, flying the punk flag loudly and proudly for Australian music, they’ve since allowed time to turn themselves into a mellower rock band.
This of course does not mean that the night was not successful, nor enjoyable.
The only remaining founding member, Chris Bailey kept the audience entertained with wildly random English-accented banter, talking mostly about being upside down, and one time led into a song suggesting it was “kind of like messing with a kid, but not quite Jimmy Saville.”
The music itself, while inconsistent, was smooth and dripping with talent from each of the instrumental elements – and effortlessly rounded off a night of exceptional guitar riffs and solos.
Each track exuded that tough ‘I-don’t-give-a-fuck’ attitude that we have come to expect from good ‘Orstralia-n’ music (pun definitely intended).
Bailey played with a grin on his face the entire night – his enthusiasm and enjoyment melted out across the room infecting each of the audience members as they watched on in awe.
As one punter mentioned, “a lot of these fuckers have lost the punk ideal.. but otherwise it was good,” words that summed up the night perfectly.
