Given that this is to be Guttermouth’s last ever Melbourne gig, it’s not surprising the 20 or so tickets remaining on the door have been snapped up early – making it a sell-out show by the time opening support Dixon Cider take the stage.
What is surprising is the number of punters who’ve shown up early enough to catch the hilariously-titled quartet tear through a short-but-sweet set of their trademarked “creep punk”.
With the room already near-heaving, Dixon Cider hold their own through a blistering, though not world-changing set of Dwarves-esque, fist-pumping Oi.
By the time the unisex foursome make way for Take Your Own, the between-band house music is provoking mini mosh pits – and the sight of so many pumped-up punters has clearly oiled up Melbourne’s ten-legged tech punk machine.
Easily the most musically skilled act of the night, Take Your Own’s rapid metallic stabs and shreds would’ve battered the audience into submission if they weren’t already lapping it up.
This is an act who’ve clearly worked hard to develop a complex sound – if they can develop their live show into more of an ‘experience’, they could well fulfill their huge potential.
By complete contrast, following act For Amusement Only forgo technical intricacy to nail the performance aspect.
Confident, entertaining and endearing from the outset, the pop-punk veterans’ vocal-hook-peppered power chord melee inspires the first crowd pogo-ing and mass sing-alongs of the night.
Bouncing confidently through their late ‘90s/early ‘00s glory days, For Amusement Only prove there’s still plenty of mileage in teen angst lyrics, well-timed scissor kicks and witty crowd banter (see: genitalia jokes).
Then things get weird. Really weird. Off go the instruments. On come … props.
Seemingly unaware that the Jackass heyday ended roughly when Johnny Knoxville discovered his first grey hairs, the Misfits Stunt Crew show there’s no stemming the supply of nutcases willing to mangle themselves for laughs. Given that the sound of smashing and yelling isn’t music, per se (dubstep, take note), we’ll move on.
The hour ticks into territory most other bands in town would place somewhere between ‘past curfew’ and ‘ungodly’. But the sense of anticipation amongst tonight’s audience has a touch of nervousness to it.
On one hand, there’s Guttermouth’s reputation for putting on a killer live show that pre-dates half the audience’s birth years.
But on the other is their, let’s call it, ‘controversial’ performance at the Ferntree Gully Hotel earlier this month (see: mystery drugs blamed for bizarre performance that prompted mass walkouts). It’s not entirely clear which of these two Guttermouths will show up tonight.
As it transpires for tonight’s animated, sweaty hordes, it’s a hybrid of the two.
From the moment the SoCal stalwarts race dementedly on stage, it’s carnage. The band take turns jumping into the crowd. The crowd take turns jumping on stage. And the whole thing repeats in mad circles like a Benny Hill episode with mohawks.
Wearing his signature Ronald McDonald ear-to-ear grin, frontman Mark Adkins treats the crowd with loving contempt, paying special attention to the moshpit directly in front of him.
The already brisk pace of Guttermouth’s records pales in comparison to tonight’s set, and at times, speed comes at the expense of the right chords. By the time 1991’s ‘Chicken Box’ rolls around, the loveable reprobates have undoubtedly pried the crown of ‘fastest and most furious’ from Vin Diesel’s ham-like mits.
In a venue this size crammed with so many lunatics, the crowd surfers’ flying boots and arms are like an optical illusion, seemingly two inches from your face at all times (even from the very back). Here’s hoping they make tonight’s gig into a 3D movie.
It’s initially hard to tell if the vocal muddiness is down to sound issues, or slurring issues. Come mid-set however, Adkins has dropped all pretence of singing, being swallowed up entirely by the crowd.
The crowd dutifully help out, with stage invaders hollering out-of tune lyrics to punk classics like ‘Race Track’ down any mic within grabbing distance. Meanwhile, the proclivity for nudity that saw Guttermouth banned from Canada (seriously, look it up) is never far away, though anatomical exhibits are thankfully brief.
But to berate Guttermouth for focusing more on tomfoolery than note perfection is like chastising fish for living in water. That’s just the way things are.
And unlike many of their contemporaries, Guttermouth actually seem to have more energy than they did 15 years ago. Tonight’s crowd can’t get enough – that’s all that matters.
